My father and my grandfather were both hunters and fishermen, as well as, hunting partners. Whenever my dad would find a new place to hunt, his first call was to my grandfather, the second to me. They showed me the love of hunting and the respect you must have for the woods and for other hunters. I remember being about six and sitting in my dad’s lap with his strong arms around me holding me steady while I pulled the trigger on an old 20 gauge shotgun. Dad talked me through it with a quiet patient voice as I hesitated because I was afraid of the kick. (I wasn’t disappointed, that stung!)
My grandfather died in 1981 and every time I work a dog, or grab a shotgun (he was a big quail hunter) I miss him. Dad doesn’t hunt anymore, his age and illness have almost brought him to a standstill.
At fifty-one (man, where did all that time go!) I spend time hunting with my daughter (until she discovers boys) and sometimes by myself. Finding a good friend that hunts is harder than it used to be, with the changing times. It’s those times alone that I find myself wishing Dad was healthy and my grandfather was by my side. I guess no matter how old you get, there’s a little kid in you that misses being surrounded by loving arms and a patient heart.
