MY FATHER THE GOLFER

I suppose my dad was like many businessmen in that he picked up the game of golf because so many of his customers played. I never asked him when and why he took up the game. I wish I had. My first memories of playing golf with him date to the mid sixties when I was in my teens. We would play nine holes on a Saturday afternoon and would normally play Pine Grove in Grove City or either Krendale or Stoughton Acres in Butler. (It’s interesting to note that when we played at Stoughton’s the proprietor’s wife kept her baby on the counter. That little girl now has grown children and may even be a grandmother.) We rarely played Ronland in Slippery Rock. I think it was a little too close to home for Dad. He knew too many of the folks he would run into there. We often played with Don “Pryor” Hilgar (the dealership sales manager), Joe Ligo (the local undertaker) or Sam Wible (whose daughter, Linda, was in my class). Dad had a wry sense of humor and I developed my social skills by watching him interact with his friends on the golf course. If Pryor was lining up a three-foot putt Dad would encourage him to “knock it close.” If Joe found a tree against which to relieve himself Dad would say behind his back, “Hello Mary.” Dad would help Sam look for his ball in the woods and if he found one he’d ask Sam what he was playing. To which Sam would ask, “What’d you find.” “A Topflite,” Dad would answer. “That’s it,” Sam would respond. Messing with Sam, Dad would then say, “Oh, sorry, I see now it’s a Titleist.” To which Sam would respond, “That’s close enough.” Dad’s regular group had a favorite game – Bingo, Bango, Bungo. The person who had the longest drive on a hole had Bingo. The first one on the green was Bango, and the first to get the ball in the hole had Bungo. It made for a fun round.

I know my dad enjoyed the game in those years but I think he enjoyed the fellowship that went with it more. He never played by himself. The older I got the more Dad and I played together. It wasn’t long until it was just the two of us, unless my brother happened to be back home. We probably averaged no more than a round per month together but I always looked forward to them.

Dad had two holes-in-one in his life. One was at Green Meadows (pictured above) and the other was at Ogelbay’s Crispin course with a church outing. I didn’t see the first but I did witness the second. Dad had turned around to pick up his tee as the ball rolled in the hole. He never saw it go in but got excited when we all started yelling.

One of the greatest gifts I ever gave my dad was a couple trips to play the famous Oakmont Country Club. A co-worker’s father was a club employee and he was able to get us on the course when it was closed to members on Mondays. Dad was such an Arnold Palmer fan and he had watched Arnie play Oakmont on TV. Being able to play the same course was a dream come true. To play it for free (as frugal as Dad was) was an added bonus.

Quicksilver Country Club hosted a senior tour event one time and I took my dad down to see it. He enjoyed watching all of his favorite golfers but he couldn’t wait for Arnold to tee off. Like it was yesterday I recall the childlike expression of admiration on Dad’s face when Arnie walked past just on the other side of the ropes. “Go get ‘em, Arnie,” Dad yelled. Arnold (the consummate gentleman that he is) turned and waved at Dad. I thought he was going to cry.

I was invited to the grand opening of an Arnold Palmer signature course at Stonewall Jackson Resort in West Virginia. Dad was living in Florida at the time but I bought Arnie’s autobiography for him and had Arnold autograph it during the event. The book became his favorite.

Dad remained an avid golfer well into his eighties. Even when Alzheimer’s disease clouded his decision-making ability he enjoyed going with Johnny, Lynn and I to the golf course or even just the driving range. He maintained a short back swing and easy follow through that enabled him to still hit a straight ball, although not a long one. Sometimes we had to point him in the right direction but when he hit that sweet shot he got the biggest smile on his face and shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “Nothin’ to it.” As in his earlier years, Dad loved the fellowship on the course much more than the game itself. I have such fond memories of golfing with him. Sharing stories, sharing memories, sharing his life.

GOLF AND THE FLIG'S EARLY YEARS

I can’t recall just how old I was when I became interested in golf. My best guess is my early teens. I think this was the first time that important golf matches were televised. It is a sad commentary that I learned how to swing a golf club by watching television. What is even sadder is that I have never had a lesson in my life (and my current game shows it). My dad played golf but was not what I would term an avid golfer in those years. I don’t think he had the leisure time for the game and he certainly didn’t have the inclination to spend his hard-earned cash on the sport. He may have played once a month or so on a Saturday afternoon (usually with either dealership co-workers or customers). Dad never encouraged me to play but I think he was pleased when I picked the game up on my own. I suppose that he realized golf was an expensive sport and we didn’t have the money it took to play very often. He probably figured I’d be able to play about as often as he did.

I began by using my dad’s clubs in the back yard. He had a Wilson Blue Ridge set that consisted of persimmon driver, 3 and 5 woods, 3, 5, 7, 9 irons, wedge and putter. The woods had a red finish and were very attractive. I don’t know where Dad got the old white canvas bag and fold up pull cart but I doubt he bought them new. Like any kid I wanted my own clubs. (These days most parents take their youngsters down to the local sporting goods store and buy them a new set. Some may go to the extra expense of having a set made for their child – envisioning the next Tiger Woods I suppose.) In those days it was up to me to cobble together a set from any source available. My Uncle Wid had a few clubs and an old beat up bag in his basement he gave to me. I’m not sure where they came from but there were a 5 and 7 iron as well as a putter. I recall the grips were very strange and felt rough in my hands. Dad had an old hickory-shafted 3 iron that a brother of his step-mother had given him. Dad wasn’t real fond of his step-mother but he seemed to have a lot of respect for her brother. I wish I could remember his name. I know he lived in Ashville, NC. Every time Dad mentioned that 3 iron he would say, “That club was owned by one of the finest gentlemen I’ve ever known.” (I still have this club in the attic.)

The balls I used were ones that Dad discarded. Because he was so frugal that meant a ball had to be in pretty bad shape for him to quit playing it. The college students used to hit balls around the campus in different locations and sometimes I’d find one of the balls they left behind. In those days golf ball covers were so soft that they cut easily when miss hit with an iron. We used to call the half-moon-shaped cut “a smile”. Most of the balls I had were smiling back at me. One I had was is such bad shape that my brother said it looked like a dirty marshmallow.

I didn’t have any woods but that was probably a good thing. I practiced hitting wiffle balls with irons in the back yard until the time came when I actually went to a golf course. I wish I could remember at least something about that first course experience but I don’t. I’m sure it was at Ronland, the local 9-hole Slippery Rock course which is now called “Shamrock”. It was a goat path in those days (and hasn’t improved a lot over the years) but it was cheap. It may have been with my friend and close neighbor, Danny Birnley. He was a good golfer. His dad was a greens keeper at a golf course near Butler. Some years they would spend the winters living in Florida while his dad worked a course there. Danny taught me a fair amount about golf etiquette on the course. Things like not dragging your feet on the green so your spikes (I wore tennis shoes) didn’t scratch the grass. Others were not to walk in the path of your opponent’s ball; when you tend the flag don’t let it flap in the wind; don’t ground your club in a hazard (like a sand trap); the person who won the previous hole tees off first (as does the person who is furthest from the hole); replace your divot on the fairway and fix your ball mark on the green (I rarely left a ball mark). Dad would later teach me more golf etiquette, as well as some important social etiquette that just happened to be applicable on the golf course as well.

The older I got, the more embarrassed I became of my poor set (if you could call it that) set of clubs. I began to save my lawn mowing earnings to see if I could purchase at least a new bag. This was before the days when garage and yard sales were popular. Today you can probably pick up a used set of clubs for $10-15 at such a venue. In those days I looked around for a deal anytime we went shopping. In Butler there was a department store called Troutman’s and in the basement they had a small sporting goods department. On one excursion I found a golf bag that was the last of its kind so it was less than half price. It was red plaid with black trim. Although it was really cheaply made (especially by today’s standards) I thought it was great. I was tickled that I had a new bag but it made my meager clubs look even worse. My next quest was to obtain a set of woods. On another trip to Butler I found that Troutman’s had some woods on sale. They were dirt cheap and I didn’t find out why until much later. They were autographed by someone I had never heard of named Jackie Pung. The set I purchased included driver, 3 and 5 woods. They had a shiny black finish and cheap green rubber grips. I was fortunate that nobody else I ever played with had heard of Mr. Pung. I’m not sure when it was that I leaned Mr. Pung was actually Mrs. Pung. I had been using women’s woods all this time! Jackie Pung was a 235-pound Hawaiian who won the 1957 US Women’s Open, only to be disqualified because she made a mistake on her scorecard (but not one that impacted on her winning score). It seems everyone in attendance felt so bad that they took up a collection of $3,000 for her. The winner’s prize was $1,800 so she made out pretty well.

I guess these cheap ladies woods fit in pretty well with my odd assortment of other clubs and my red plaid bag. In total, my equipment matched my talent level. When I was a little older Dad got a new set of irons and he gave me his Wilson 3, 5, 7, and 9 irons. In combination with my other new stuff I was no longer embarrassed by my clubs. My game was now the most embarrassing part of golf for me.

Once again I cannot recall how I came to get on the Slippery Rock High School golf team. I think I may have had a conversation about golf with the team’s coach, Ray Webster. He had been my seventh grade math teacher and I always liked him. There were no tryouts for the team. I expressed an interested and I was on the team with just four other guys (I guess that’s why there were no tryouts). Dave Thomas (not the Wendy’s hamburger magnet) was our best player and I was always impressed with his long drives. The second echelon of the team consisted of everyone but me – Kirk Jansce, Bob Allison, and Bruce Hovis. I was number five of five. We played our matches and practiced at Lake Arthur Country Club. Number 14 started off over a large lake. You needed to hit the ball at least 150 yards to carry the water and there was no way around it. I could hit the ball 200 yards in those days – unfortunately that was 100 yards straight ahead and another 100 yards to the right. I had a slice that has been described alternately as either a banana or a rainbow. After several practice rounds that never included a shot over the number 14 lake I gave up. I never made it to an actual match.

Perhaps that set the tone for the remainder of my golfing career. I have always shied away from competition. When I was older my good friend, Pat Docherty, would suggest we play for dime skins (the most one could lose in 18 holes was $1.80) but I would refuse. I love to play in a scramble because it is a team event where I feel I can contribute at least once in awhile.

Thereafter I pretty much stuck to playing with my dad and his buddies if they needed a fourth. I rarely played in college and after we had children I didn’t have either the time of money to play often. This pretty much sums up my golfing life until our boys were grown and Lynn took up the game. That’s another chapter.

WHAT'S GOLF GOT TO DO WITH IT?

“Golf” is not just another four-letter word, although one may hear many such words on the golf course. For many of us golf is life (another four-letter word). As in life, one can have a great game one day and shoot a miserable score the next. Like life, there are those we truly enjoy playing with and some – not so much. As is true in life, the more we hurry around, the more we screw things up. When we play the new ball we immediately lose it but can play an old ball forever. I’ve borrowed Tina Turner’s song title and changed it slightly for this series of articles on the game of golf.

I will begin with a history of how I came to take up the game at a relatively early age. Next I will detail some of my most memorable golf games with my father. Over the years I have stored in my limited memory banks a series of golf jokes and humorous sayings that I will record. Reviews of some of my all time favorite golf movies. I’ll detail some of the championship courses I’ve played or tournaments I’ve attended as well as my contact with some of the games leading professionals. Lastly, I will discuss what the game has meant to me over the years and what it means to me now.

FAVORITE TV PROGRAMS

I can’t remember exactly when we got our first TV set. I suppose I was five or six years old. It was a big wooden console model (black and white of course) with a screen perhaps a little bigger than my computer monitor. I recall that the screen was not rectangular but curved on the corners. It took about 3-5 minutes to warm up and our antenna on the roof picked up ABC (WTAE Channel 4), CBS (KDKA Channel 2), and NBC (WIIC Channel 11). Once in awhile we could get WQED and WJAC. I recall endless hours of adjusting the vertical and horizontal hold dials. Since TV was such a “magical” thing – sound and pictures coming out of a box in your living room, the family gathered around the box every chance we got. Since I was in bed early on school nights, Friday and Saturday evenings were the times I remember most. My brother, sister and I usually sat on the floor “Indian” style and my folks sat on the couch. Here are a few of the programs I recall.

Everyone enjoyed the variety shows like Red Skelton, Ed Sullivan, Burns and Allen, and Tennessee Ernie Ford.

Mom was a big mystery fan and loved Perry Mason. I became quite familiar with Perry’s personal secretary, Della Street and his sidekick, private detective Paul Drake. I also learned to dislike Perry’s courtroom adversary, DA Hamilton Burger.

Dad loved Lawrence Welk. I still remember when Rob Hilgar got the first color TV of any of our friends and invited the whole family over to watch this show. We were all amazed! Dad also got a kick out of William Bendix in The Life of Riley.

Everyone enjoyed the antics of the Ricardos and Mertzes on I love Lucy as well as the Kramdens and Nortons on the Honeymooners. My dad was especially fond of Phil Silvers as Sergeant Bilko.

Then there were the all American family shows like Ozzie and Harriet, Leave it to Beaver, Donna Reed, Make Room for Daddy, Bachelor Father, and Father Knows Best.

Lassie, Rin Tin Tin, Fury and My Friend Flicka were some of my favorite animal heroes.

Gunsmoke with Marshall Dillon, Chester, and Miss Kitty was one of those shows nobody wanted to miss. I recall that George Jack, one of the regulars at the bowling alley was nicknamed “Gunsmoke” because he always had to leave in time to get home to watch it. Other westerns we watched with toy guns in hand were Have Gun Will Travel, Wanted Dead or Alive, Bonanza, The Rifleman, Lawman, Rawhide, Sugarfoot, Bat Masterson, Wyatt Earp, Broken Arrow, Wagon Train, and Cheyenne.

One of my favorites was Mike Nelson on Sea Hunt. I loved his underwater feats, especially the fights where he would cut his opponents air hose, forcing him to surface into the hands of the law. He could also tap out a Morse code message on his air tank with his knife.

None of us had ever been on an airplane and we didn’t even know anybody who had flown so Sky King and his plane “Songbird” amazed us. We envied Sky’s student pilot niece and nephew, Penny and Clipper, who got involved in all of the escapades like helping Mitch the sheriff capture criminals. We couldn’t wait for the announcer to start the show with his exclamation, “From out of the clear blue western sky… comes Sky King!” Whirly Birds was another aviation favorite.

We were enthralled by Highway Patrol where Broderick Crawford effortlessly wheeled his huge black and white ’55 Buick while gruffly barking, “10-4” on the radio. I loved Sargeant Joe Friday’s matter-of-fact deadpan on Dragnet – “Just the facts, Ma’am.”

I tuned in with baited breath to see the TV heroes and their trusted sidekicks like The Lone Ranger (and Tonto), Sergeant Preston of the Yukon (and King), Roy Rogers (and Dale Evans, Pat Brady, Bullet and Trigger). I also loved the predictable closing lines like, “Who was that masked man?” Or “Well King, this case is closed.” Or the melodic “Happy Trails to You.”

When I got a little older I enjoyed “hip” shows like 77 Sunset Strip (with Kooky and the gang), Dobie Gillis (with Maynard G. Krebs) and Route 66 (with Buzz and Tod zooming around the country in the early 60s Corvettes). I also got scared to death by Rod Serling on the Twilight Zone.

Other than the network shows we enjoyed local programming like Paul Shannon’s Adventure Time (featuring the Three Stooges), Ricky and Copper, Kinish and Rodney, and Studio Wrestling (with Ringside Rosie, Bruno Sanmartino, and Johnny Valentine).

It is unbelievable how the medium has changed between those early years and today. I wish I could say it’s for the better.

THE MOTORCYCLE AND THE FLIG

In 1974 Lynn and I had been married for three years. We both had good jobs and life seemed pretty stable. We had no children and no real plans for them yet. For some strange reason I became interested in motorcycles. We had a new 1974 Camaro and an older 1971 Camaro. I thought that if I bought a motorcycle I could unload the ’71 and get down to a single car. After all, Lynn and I often rode to work together and we only had a single stall garage. At a Ketzel family reunion I made mention that I was considering a motorcycle and Lynn’s cousin’s husband, Warren Hunt said, “Have I got a deal for you!” He had a 1972 Suzuki 550 with very few miles on it that he wanted rid of. We drove out to their place to see it and I fell in love. It was a brilliant green with gold trim. It was sort of unique in that it had three cylinders, was water-cooled, and had a six-speed transmission (most bikes had only five). The center exhaust split into two, giving it twin exhausts on either side. I also thought it was neat that it had a digital gear indicator between the tach and the speedometer (this was in the day before everything was digital). For a first motorcycle I thought it was “pretty snazzy” (as we used to say back then). Warren and I agreed on a price and he even threw in two helmets (which I repainted metal flake green to match the bike). One of the first things I did after I bought it was to install a smoked plastic fairing from JC Whitney (these were the days before Ebay). This made the ride much more comfortable for Lynn.

We never took the bike on any long trips but we enjoyed riding it around town and the local countryside. We rode it to work and I would drop Lynn off in front of the Social Security Office in Butler, even when she was pregnant with Matt. Eventually she got too big to fit behind me on the seat plus we didn’t want to take a chance on a pothole forcing early labor. I do recall that I used to watch the road ahead and shout “bump” so she could brace herself for small impacts.

I have discussed before what a worrier my mother was. She thought that riding a motorcycle had to be about the most unsafe activity one could undertake. She talked about motorcyclists as though they were all Evel Knievel types. In consideration of this fact I never told my parents that I had made the purchase. Many times on a nice Saturday afternoon in the summertime I would ride the bike to their house in Slippery Rock for a visit. I would park at the parts store (formerly Buckham’s Ford dealership) next door so they wouldn’t see it. On one occasion my mother asked if I would run an errand for her. She had ordered some corn on the cob (“roasting ears” as we referred to them at the time) from a local farmer and asked if I could go pick it up. I gladly agreed. I carried a small backpack on the rear fender of the bike and also had some bungee cords if I needed to strap a bag on the seat behind me. I arrived at the farm and identified myself to the farmer’s wife as Grayce Fleeger’s son. She immediately looked at my bike and said, “How in the world are you going to carry all this corn on that motorcycle?” My response was, “How much corn did she order?” To my dismay her response was six dozen ears. Now a smart person would have admitted defeat and returned home to borrow Mom’s car. I’m sure I could have invented some sort of story of why I needed it (I was pretty devious in those days – some say I still am). That would have been a smart person. I, on the other hand, had the lady help me to contain the corn in paper grocery bags. We put two dozen ears in each bag and then placed another bag over top. I then precariously balanced the three huge bags of corn on the seat behind me and strapped them down the best I could. I figured if I drove slowly and avoided tight curves I’d be ok – it was only about a four-mile trip. As I drove out of the farmer’s driveway I could see his wife shaking her head. I’m sure she figured her quality corn would never arrive at its intended destination.

I was doing pretty well on the way home despite some really strange looks from passing traffic. I suppose I was only going about 45 or so. As I approached town; however, a large truck passed me barreling down a hill and his slipstream caught the lopsided load of corn just right – spreading it over the pavement behind me like a crop duster. I don’t know why I was surprised. I parked the bike on the shoulder and gathered up as many ears of corn as I could salvage, stuffing them into the now-torn paper bags and remounting what must have been the remaining four-dozen ears. When I pulled into the parts store next door to my parents house Mom was standing outside waiting for me with her hands on her hips, wearing that look I had see all too often in my youth. “Where did you get that motorcycle?” she exclaimed as I began to un-strap the corn from the bike’s seat. It seems as though she had become impatient waiting for me to return. Being the accomplished worrier that she was she knew exactly how long it should take for me to get out to the farm and back. When the time approached twice that length she had called the farmer’s wife to inquire if I had come to pick up the corn. The farmer’s wife’s response was, “Yes, he picked up the corn but I don’t know how he’s going to get it home on that motorcycle.” “MOTORCYCLE!” my mother responded. She just couldn’t imagine any son of hers riding a motorcycle. Where had she gone wrong? As hard as it is to believe I actually coaxed Mom into a ride on the bike a couple years later. I guess we all mellow some with age – even mothers.

The following year, shortly after I learned that I would be working for the Corps of Engineers at Kinzua Dam, Darrel Brown (a friend and county co-worker we had nicknamed Browner) and I decided to use our Veterans’ day holiday for a motorcycle cruise to Kinzua. Lynn had to work that day so I figured it would be no problem to be gone. For mid-November it was a beautiful, sunny day in the high 60s. We got a late start because Browner was typically not ready on time. He had just purchased a Yamaha 400 and this would be its first long trip. We headed from Butler up through Eau Claire and picked up interstate 80 at Emlenton. Exiting 80 at Knox we took routes 66 and the 666 to our camp on the Tionesta Creek. At that point it became obvious that we wouldn’t have time to make it all the way to Kinzua. After a short rest we headed for home, taking another route through Tionesta, Oil City and Franklin. (Lynn and I were due to attend childbirth classes at the Butler hospital that night and I would be in trouble if I missed it.) The November sun went down early behind the northern Pennsylvania mountains and it got cold in a hurry. The fairing on my bike kept me pretty comfortable but Browner didn’t have one and so he slowed down to warm up. In order to keep him up with the pace I knew we needed to make I would trade him bikes for 25 miles or so at a time. It was well after dark by the time we pulled into our garage. I recall that Browner said, “It normally feels cool in this garage but it feels so warm in here tonight.” Lynn was steamed because she didn’t know I was taking the trip that day (one of many misunderstandings between us in those days). We had time to make the class but we would have to hit a fast food restaurant for a quick bite on the way (I had not eaten all day). We grabbed some fish and chips at Long John Silvers and got to the class a few minutes late. Lynn wasn’t real talkative. We were seated in a large room with folding chairs. I wasn’t sure if they had the heat cranked way up or if I was still chilled from the bike ride but it felt really warm in there. Soon they turned out the lights to show slides of new-born babies with all manner of misshapen heads. They said this was normal and the baby would grow out of it but the pictures were starting to make me a little squeamish. I was starting to get lightheaded so I told Lynn I was going outside to get some air. I tried to find my way out of the darkened room, stumbling over the other couples only to find that the aisle on the left side of the room had been eliminated as the room filled up. I must have gotten myself into the next row back and started back to my right. When I wound up right back where I started Lynn grabbed me and pulled me into my seat and said, “Sit down and put your head down.” In a minute I told her I thought I was feeling better and she grabbed my hand and led me out to the car and drove me home. I think she mumbled something about expecting one kid and having to deal with another one. It’s a day I’ll always remember.

In a couple years with a baby in the house and another one planned it was time to sell the motorcycle and get two real cars. Dad told me to bring it down to his car dealership in Slippery Rock and put it on the showroom floor for sale. He asked how much I wanted for it. I told him to ask $800 and take $700 if he got an offer. A couple weeks later he called to tell me he had sold the bike for $900. Dad was the consummate salesman!

FALL TURKEY HUNTING

(photo courtesy of www.tomjonesbuckeyephotos.com) Pennsylvania has two wild turkey seasons each year. One is during the spring mating season when gobblers can be called into a hunter’s stand. The other is during the fall when either hens or gobblers can be taken. In the spring one has to rise early (3-4 AM) and get set up in the field before the turkey get up. You have to do enough scouting to know where the turkeys are and where your stand should be. A spring hunter must completely camouflage himself and be accomplished at “calling a gobbler in.” All these requisites were why my dad never hunted in the spring and why I never became a spring gobbler hunter. Dad simply didn’t have the time. However, when the fall season rolled around it was different. Your chances weren’t as good at actually bagging a bird but it was a gorgeous time to be in Penn’s Woods. In the fall you could pretty much just get out for a leisurely walk in the woods at any time of day. You could sit around on a stump and take in the beauty of God’s creation. If you were real lucky a turkey might walk or fly by. If you weren’t real lucky you at least had a great day in the woods and you didn’t have to clean anything afterward.

In the fall Dad liked to get up to camp as many weekends as possible. The whole family enjoyed the crisp, dry air, the colored leaves, and the occasional early snowfall. Turkey season began in late October or early November so the leaves were past their peak and snow was always a possibility. Such was the case on the day in question. We awoke Saturday morning to find in had snowed a couple inches overnight. This would provide both contrast in the woods and the ability to track any turkeys that might be moving around.

Just after dawn Johnny and I walked behind Dad up the old roadway to the top of the mountain. He figured if there were turkeys around they might be up on the flat. As we went Dad suddenly crouched down and lifted his gun (he was carrying his Savage model 110, .270). He looked through the scope at a number of deer he had spotted on the road up ahead. Johnny and I strained our eyes to see where he pointed. One was a buck – a pretty nice 4-point. Dad commented that he wished it had been buck season. We watched the deer mill around for a few minutes and then continued our climb. The road didn’t go all the way to the top so when we got within 100 yards or so we found a deer trail that went straight up. Dad knew how to walk slowly and quietly through the snow without slipping. I, on the other hand, took two steps forward and slid back a few when I stepped on branches hidden by the snow. When we reached the top Dad found an old oil shack that had four pump lines running out to surrounding wells. These were interlocking steel rods that connected the power source to the wells. The operation had created an opening that was slow to overgrow. It would be a good place to have a seat and watch for any signs of turkey. Our plan was that if Dad saw a turkey at some distance he would use his rifle. If we had a close encounter Johnny and I would make an attempt with our shotguns.

Most trios of hunters would have spread out to improve their chances but dad kept us close by. He enjoyed the time with us and we with him. He described how the oil operation worked and we talked quietly about what we saw on the forest floor. Squirrels and birds were active that morning and we enjoyed their antics. Suddenly Dad motioned for quiet. He had heard something but wasn’t sure what it was. To me it sounded a little like the chalk on a blackboard when the teacher was writing out an assignment (not a pleasant sound). It definitely wasn’t a gobble but Dad thought it might be a hen. We all listened intently and the next time it sounded closer. Dad thought it was a hen coming in our direction, maybe several. It seemed like forever between calls and I began to wonder if the turkeys had sensed our presence and gone back where they came from. My dad; however, was a pro at this game. He could sit motionless for longer than anyone I had ever seen. As I watched him he slowly raised his rifle to his shoulder and studied the landscape through the scope. The crack of the .270 and the orange blast for the muzzle came as a shock. We weren’t sure what Dad was shooting at. Neither my brother nor I had seen a turkey. Had our father “lost it” and shot at a squirrel? As was his manner, Dad simply lowered his gun and said, “Let’s go see what we’ve got.”

I know we walked at least 75 yards before we came to a dead hen turkey lying in the snow. We couldn’t figure out how Dad had even seen this bird, let alone shot it right in the neck (spoiling no meat as usual). Always a stickler for the game laws, Dad unloaded his rifle, filled out his tag and attached it to the bird’s leg. Johnny and I admired the bird – the first I had ever seen up close. Dad rarely showed a lot of emotion but we could tell he was excited about shooting his first turkey. From the tracks in the snow it appeared there were at least three turkeys foraging together. The remaining two ran in the direction from which they had come. “Let’s see if we can track them down,” Dad said, as he hoisted the dead turkey over his shoulder. Johnny and I couldn’t keep our eyes off the big bird as its wings spread out over Dad’s back. Dad was intent on the tracks in the snow. He pointed out how far apart the tracks were as the birds ran. In about fifty yards it seemed they slowed down a little and then Dad showed us two perfect wing imprints in the snow where one had taken off. Then a few feet away the other lifted off. Dad’s gaze scanned the trees for as far as he could see to determine if they had gone to roost. He doubted they would and figured they would be in the valley someplace by now.

“Let’s get this bird back to camp,” Dad said, as he led us down over the crest of the hill. As we got close to the road we saw Ed Downing out behind his camp cutting some firewood. Dad hailed him and Ed said, “So that was you I head shooting back over the top. That .270 has an unmistakable crack. Who shot the turkey?” Johnny and I blurted out that Dad had made a great shot. Dad asked Ed if he had ever cleaned a turkey before, as this was his first one. I knew Ed would be all over this. “Why sure, I’ve dressed out dozens of ‘em. Here’s what you do….” Ed went into great detail and then gave us a hand with the bird. We saved several tail feathers to show our friends and proudly displayed some on the mantle at the camp. Mom refused to cook the turkey at camp as she didn’t have any of the necessary equipment there. It would have to wait until we got back home. What a great day it had been for me. I was proud of my father and happy for him that he had gotten his first (and only) turkey. I’m still waiting for my first.

THE FUNERAL AND THE FLIG

Now that I’m retired I sleep in late most mornings. Our dog, McDuff, gets me up between 7 and 8 AM to eat and then we both go back to bed. I don’t know why but it seems the dreams I have thereafter are more vivid than the ones I have during the night. Recently I had one such dream the details of which I particularly remember. I dreamed that I died in my sleep and awoke in Heaven. I am not sure what prompted this dream but I’m guessing it had something to do with folks at our church. The Pastor was discouraged because one of our members had died and not many other members had gotten to know her. Also another member of our church had been shot in a robbery and was in critical condition. I suppose such things make one think of their own mortality.

I don’t recall any details about what Heaven looked like – no clouds or streets of gold. The first thing I remember was Jesus running to me and giving me a big bear hug, like the kind you get from a close friend or relative you haven’t seen for a long time. This was not the solemn Jesus from all the artwork you see. I’ll never forget the smile on His face. He was definitely happy to see me. Jesus said, “Come on in, we’ve all been waiting for you.” As He swept His arm in a welcoming gesture I saw all of my loved ones who have gone on before me. My brother said, “Missed you, Bro!” My mom said, “I’ve been worried about you.” Dad was by her side and said, “Can’t wait to show you around, son.” There behind them were grandparents, aunts, and uncles, Lynn’s dad and nephew, cousins, and old friends. I even caught a glimpse of a guy in a white Goodwrench racing suit with a mustache and sunglasses giving me a thumbs up. It was a scene not unlike the opening of a football game when the players form two lines and the starters run down between them giving everyone a high (or low) five as they go. It seemed that the surroundings weren’t going to be that important here but it was all going to be about relationships.

Then a strange thing happened. The group all turned as one to look down at an ongoing event on Earth – my funeral. It was not a typical funeral - in a funeral home with a casket. It was a memorial service at our church. I heard the band playing some of my favorite hymns and worship songs and someone commented that the saxophone sounded “heavenly”. I was surprised at some of the folks I saw there, people I didn’t think would take the time out of their busy schedule to come. I was also surprised at people that I thought might come but were absent. (I remembered how I had opined at my retirement ceremony that the next time people would gather to say nice things about me would be at my funeral.) I heard comments like, “He’s in a better place now.” (Boy, if they only knew.) “He had a great sense of humor.” (PC speak for I won’t miss his dumb jokes in the middle of Sunday School.) “Tom had a nickname for everyone but we could never think of one for him.” (She didn’t know about “The Flig.”) They were all trying to comfort Lynn but she said, “I’ll miss him but he always said he was ready to go anytime.” That was true. Lynn and I always talked about the abundant life we had both enjoyed and that Heaven would just be the “icing on the cake.”

I heard someone ask Lynn what she thought she’d do with my ashes. Her response was that she believed she would sprinkle them on the 17th green at Mountain Valley since that’s where I had gotten a hole-in-one. I awoke from my dream with a start. “I’ve never had a hole-in-one,” I thought. I’ve got to get down to the golf course. Today might be the day!

SQUIRREL HUNTING

Before I was in elementary school my mother would substitute teach on rare occasions and I would require a babysitter. I recall several times a good friend of ours from church, Nell Sager would keep me at their farm. I don’t remember a lot about the days there but I do remember that she let me play with the collection of die cast tractors and farm implements that belonged to her son, John. I am sure he came home from school and wondered how his tractors got spread out across the living room floor. Little did I know at the time that John would one day become my brother-in-law. I suppose that the tractors and machinery that I viewed as just toys were more than that to him, as he would one day receive a PhD in Agricultural Engineering from Penn State.

Years later when John was dating my sister, Barbara, he suggested that a small wood lot on the Sager farm held plenty of squirrels if I was looking for a place to hunt. He said he had often had success there in his youth. He didn’t have to say anymore. The next opportunity I got I was out there on a sunny fall Saturday. I had three choices of weaponry – a shotgun, a .22 rifle or a .22 pistol. The shotgun would provide for the least challenge and the best chance for success. The rifle would provide more of a challenge but I wasn’t too concerned about actually bringing home dead squirrels. I was just interested in getting in some shooting. If I took the pistol I’d be traveling more lightly and almost guaranteeing I wouldn’t have to clean any game that day. So that’s what I did.

On most days squirrels are more active in the mornings and evenings. I figured I would get out to the woodlot early to have the best chance of seeing some. I parked by the Sager’s milk house. Theirs was a dairy farm and we used to get our milk there in large glass gallon jars. It was pasteurized but not homogenized so the thick cream rose to the top. I remember Dad used to scoop this cream out for his coffee. But I digress, back to the squirrels. It was a short walk across a recently-cut cornfield to the woodlot. This was probably about two acres of 80 to 100 year-old oaks in the middle of all the cultivated fields. I guessed that the original farmers had left these trees for firewood or perhaps even structural lumber in the past. It reminded of how simple and self-sufficient life used to be in this rural area.

There were lots of stumps to sit on so I found one with a comfortable height and sat down. It was a perfect fall day with sunny skies, low humidity, and a temperature in the low 60s. I pulled out my pipe and settled in for peaceful morning. It didn’t take long before I noticed movement on the floor of the woodlot. It seemed there were birds everywhere. They were fueling up on seeds for an eventual flight south. The squirrels on the other hand would be staying put for the winter. It wasn’t long before they came out of hiding to gather nuts for their larder. I noticed that many were just exiting a nest in the very top of a large oak that looked like a big ball of leaves. I reminded myself that I was going to have to be very careful with the direction of my shots. Even from a pistol, a .22 bullet can travel a long way. I would have to have a solid backstop for any shot I took. My brother (who knew everything about everything) had told me about how the pioneers used to “bark” squirrels. This was a procedure whereby the hunter would shoot a ball from his muzzleloader into the tree immediately adjacent to the squirrel. The squirrel would either die or be knocked unconscious from the flying bark dislodged by the ball. After harvesting the animal the hunter would then use his knife to pry the ball out of the tree for future use. I considered that if I got a close enough shot I might just try this technique. Who was I kidding?

As activity in the squirrel community picked up I began to get more interested in what they were up to than getting a good shot (or a good bark). I noted that most of them were red squirrels. I saw one gray and one fox squirrel as well. Most of the activity was too far away for a shot but close enough to observe what was going on. It was a good year for acorns and the squirrels were really getting busy gathering them. It seemed there were two distinct groups with “headquarters” in two different large oak trees. As I watched I didn’t see any “slackers”. Everyone was involved in the effort. This was not a “union shop”. They would dart around in the leaves, sometimes “tunneling” under a thick pile, I suppose until they had their jaws full of acorns. Then they would dart back up the tree, normally circling around it to the opposite side from my vantage point. I’m not sure if they sensed my presence but they seemed to give me a wide birth. After they had “made their deposit” in the storage area they were back down to the forest floor again. Once in awhile they would take a short break for what appeared to be “play time” – two or three would begin to chase each other around in the piles of leaves. They resembled little kids but I suppose it was more like office workers taking a mid-morning break with banter around the water cooler. The more I watched the less interested I became in killing one of these furry little workers.

As I thought about the squirrels and their corporate effort, I began to consider the Sager farm and what it must have been like at the turn of the century. Everyone worked hard on the farm these days but they had all the modern conveniences and could run to town to buy what they didn’t grow. Not so even fifty years before. Then I began to think of the nearby Amish community and how life there hadn’t changed all that much in the last hundred years. Like the squirrels the Amish were like a large family, working together and taking care of one another for the good of the whole. I suppose they may have had some slackers but I had never seen any in my observations. If they didn’t work I guess they didn’t eat. How unlike our current culture!

After a morning of watching the squirrels lay in their winter food supply I got hungry and decided to head home. When I walked in the door from my “hunt” Mom, as she always did, asked if I got anything. My response was, “Yeah, I got an education.”

FISHING FOR NATIVE BROOK TROUT

Pell Run is one of many spring-fed tributaries of the Tionesta Creek. Others are Duck Eddy, Messenger Run, Mead Run, Thad Shanty Run, Minister Creek, South Branch, and Dodge Run. Pell Run entered the main stream on the opposite bank from our camp approximately a quarter mile upstream. As I have mentioned before a narrow gage railroad used to run beside the stream and the old grade could be used for an easy walk along its banks. There was so much our family enjoyed about this walk. The cool water and abundant shade made for a delightful hike on a hot summer day. The sound the water made as it babbled over the rocks and downed tree limbs was like listening to a relaxing symphony. In the summer when the main creek’s temperature rose, a cool water pool was formed at the confluence of the two streams. The trout in the creek would congregate in this area and frustrate us because they wouldn’t bite on any of our offerings. We tried just about everything. We would cast a delectable-looking night crawler right under the nose of a large trout and let it sit there for an hour to no avail.

Anytime there was no action on the Tionesta we might head up Pell Run to try our hand at catching a native brook trout. The term “native” refers to the fact that the fish was not stocked there. It occurs in the stream naturally. These were the most beautifully colored fish I had ever seen (see photo). They had a wide brilliant orange section along the bottom of their sides and bright white lines along their fins. The remainder of the fish was varying shades of green with small yellow and white spots. Because of the small size of the run the carrying capacity for fish was not great. A six-inch “brookie” would be sizeable in Pell Run and four inches was more of the norm. Between riffles and waterfalls there were small pools. Each was from about 8 to 18 inches deep. I don’t believe I ever found more than one trout per pool but you could normally figure there would be one in each. There was neither enough food nor cover to support more than one fish in a pool. Cover consisted of large rocks, downed tree limbs, or undercut stumps. Food was anything that washed in from upstream or fell in from above – insects (either adults or larvae), worms, salamanders, tadpoles, grubs, etc.

Fishing Pell Run meant everything had to be down-sized. Ultra-light tackle would have been preferred but we could only afford one rod and reel. You needed the smallest hook you could find and you baited it with just a piece of a worm or a small grub you might find under a rock. Because a trip up the run was normally impromptu, the bait usually consisted of whatever you could find around the stream-bank. The technique was pretty simple – keep as low a profile as possible when approaching the target pool. These fish spooked very easily. Next the cast had to be fairly accurate (sometimes you only got one chance). One needed to present the bait directly into the water flow from the riffle above. If you could do that the current would carry the bait right in front of the resident brookie. After a good cast you would immediately watch the water for a shadow or a disturbance that meant you were about to feel a strike. Due to the small size of these fish and their ability to pick the bait right off your hook, the strike wasn’t obvious. If you could set the hook you immediately tried to raise the fish out of the water. There was no room to “play” the fish and the longer they stayed in their natural habitat the less chance you had of landing them. On way too many occasions I would get the fish just clear of the water to see it shake itself violently off the hook. If you were lucky enough to bring one to your hand you needed to admire it quickly, wet your hand so as not to strip off any of the fish’s natural oil or scales, gently remove the hook and return it to its pool.

One hot August afternoon I was by myself on the Tionesta while my brother lazed on the screened porch with a book and my parents were out for a hike. Nothing was biting despite my use of just about every known bait and lure. I decided to head up Pell Run. As was my routine I began to turn over flat rocks on the way up looking for worms or grubs. It had been dry so I wasn’t having a lot of success. As I was bent over looking for bait I heard a voice behind me say, “Whatcha lookin for?” Startled, I turned to see a fellow in his early twenties who had obviously come from upstream on the run. He had a fly rod in his hand as well as all of the typical fly fisherman accouterments (cowboy hat, vest, and hip boots folded down around his knees). “Something to fish with,” I replied. “Not much available,” he continued. “Come with me and I’ll show you something.” Now in this day and age kids are trained to be wary of strangers they meet anywhere, let alone in the woods. I figured, what the heck. I could use a fly fishing lesson.

As we walked together toward the next pool worthy of testing I asked him where he was from. “Name’s Jeff,” he responded, offering his hand. “I’m from around Scranton and I just graduated from Penn State in June, I’m here for the week with my aunt and uncle. They have the fourth camp down below on the left bank.” I thought my parents knew his relatives. I had heard them mention that they were from Zelienople. I asked if he had a job and it turned out he would be going to work for the Hammermill Paper Company in Erie in a couple weeks. He was a forester and would be helping them to manage their timber holdings (I’m ashamed to admit it now but I recall wondering what trees had to do with paper). As we walked up Pell Run I asked him several questions about why he chose to attend Penn State in a field such as forestry. I also asked him all about fly fishing. He said that he loved the outdoors and his chosen career would enable him to spend his work life there. There was just something about this young man that caught my fancy. I appreciated that he had shown an interest in me and was willing to spend a little time with a youngster.

When we got to the first large pool Jeff described how he had briefly hooked a trout here on his way up and decided to let the pool rest for awhile and try again. His first encounter had been on a dry fly so he decided this time to try a “bead-headed nymph.” It was so tiny I could barely see it on the end of his leader. As I had learned to do, he flipped the nymph into the flow as it entered the pool and quickly responded to an almost instantaneous strike. He pulled out one of the nicest natives I had ever seen – my guess was about nine inches. I was a little surprised when Jeff said he was going to keep it – “for supper” he said. “I always put them back,” I responded. He said, “Didn’t you want some bait?” He pulled out his knife and quickly slit the fish open and pulled out the guts. “Here’s your bait,” Jeff said.

For the next hour or so we baited small hooks with pieces of trout entrails and proceeded to catch and release a brook trout from about 50% of the upstream pools. (I should note that this practice is illegal today.) When we got back to the main stream and went our separate ways I thanked Jeff for the lesson. “Sure thing,” he said, “I was young once too.” That sounded strange coming from someone only eight or so years my senior. I remembered Jeff when it came time to choose a career. Like him I took up forestry primarily because of my love of the outdoors. And like Jeff I also enjoy teaching fishing techniques to some younger folks whenever I can.

THE FLIG'S CHRISTMAS LETTER

I can’t recall exactly when I received the first “form” Christmas letter from a friend in lieu of the traditional Christmas card. I suppose it was 20 or 25 years ago. Probably about the time people got computers and life got too hectic to sit down and write personal notes on the cards. For a few years I even took a shot at such letters. It seemed a good way to synopsize a year in your life for those you had lost touch with. (Now I guess FaceBook does that for us.) Writing such a letter always required a lot of thought and some tact to assure that it didn’t come off as bragging too much. Of course you were proud of your kids and wanted your friends to know what they were doing but writing down that, “little Johnny scored the winning goal on his soccer team for the third consecutive game and is already being scouted by Liverpool United,” or “Susie was just voted class president, prom queen, most likely to succeed, and was currently a finalist on American Idol,” seems a bit much. It was always nice to read these letters from our friends and see what they were up to but, unfortunately, they sometimes could be a little nauseating. Have you ever received a letter that painted a picture so rosy (and so sickening) that you were tempted to respond with the antithesis? If so it might look something like this –

Dear Friend,

We just received your humble yet newsy Christmas letter and picture of your beautiful family, all dressed up in their fancy clothes, in front of your great big house, with those expensive cars parked in the driveway. God has certainly blessed you! (Both God and a really good plastic surgeon from what we can see.) It just shows how He will reward one for faithful clean living. Who would have ever thought after bankruptcy, divorce, and that messy business when your son took you to court, that your life would turn out so great.

We just thought we’d respond to your letter and let you know that we have been blessed this past year as well. Your trip around the world sounded great but we too were able to take a fantastic vacation. Every Thursday the local senior center sponsors a bus to the Indian casino in Oklahoma. On our anniversary we decided, what the heck, let’s go for it. We got up early and boarded the bus at 7 AM. Can you believe the bus ride is free (you don’t even tip the driver) all the way to Oklahoma. Now here’s the best part – they give you a coupon for a free lunch and a $5 roll of quarters to play the slot machines with. No, actually here’s the best part – when the casino rep on the bus found out it was our anniversary, he gave us an extra role of quarters! (We decided we’d save those quarters and use them for the senior breakfast at the nearby restaurant on another special occasion.) All the way up and back we gawked out the bus window at the beautiful houses we passed. We tried to imagine who could possibly have enough money to live there. Now we know – somebody like you might live in those mansions. You sure have been blessed!

Of course we love our home too (even though it’s not big and fancy like yours). This year we were able to afford to get the drainage problem fixed so that nasty sewer smell is finally gone. We can hear the train go by on the nearby tracks several times a day. It makes us wonder where all those rich people are going that can afford train travel (folks like you taking vacations I guess). In Texas you get a homestead exemption and a senior discount on property taxes. That means we can afford to turn on the air conditioning anytime it gets over 100 (which it does quite often so we are blessed as well).

We can’t believe you’ve been to all those places you wrote about IN PERSON. Even the Super Bowl, right there at the stadium and all. We used to be able to watch those sorts of games on our TV but we couldn’t afford the converter box when they switched over to digital (darned Al Gore) so now we can get the local teams on radio. We just can’t imagine actually going to the Super Bowl!

You mentioned about your new tennis court in the back yard - well, we play tennis ALL THE TIME ourselves. Last Christmas the kids got us one of those Wii machines and you can use it to play tennis right in your own living room. (It still works on the TV since you don’t have to be hooked up to any antenna.)

Our kids are doing great just like yours. They call us several times a year so we don’t have to incur any long distance phone charges. We don’t have any grandchildren that we’re aware of but our kids don’t tell us much about their personal lives.

Like you, we attend church regularly but we don’t have 4,000 members like your church. They won’t let us tend the nursery ever since my emotional breakdown. It was probably due to the 401K tanking (darned Al Gore).

You mentioned that you were praying that all your friends will have a blessed new year. I guess we will just say that we pray you will get all that you deserve in 2010.

Merry Christmas,

RABBIT HUNTING

At the age of fourteen our church youth group took a trip to the World’s Fair in New York City. This was a huge trip in those days (as the World’s Fair was a huge deal). I recall we made and sold hoagies every other Saturday for months beforehand to raise money. Nobody in that era had a hundred bucks or so laying around the house to give their kid for a trip to New York City. So we took orders during the week and then got up early on Saturday and set up the hoagie assembly line at church. We may have had more fun making the sandwiches than we did on the trip. Once again, you’re asking yourself what could the World’s Fair have to do with rabbit hunting. As we made our way through the Canadian exhibit there in New York City I was looking for a present to bring my mother. I’m not sure why I only bought something for her but I did. For some strange reason a tanned rabbit hide caught my attention (what was I thinking?). I imagine it probably cost about a quarter (this was 1964), which was right in my price range so I pounced on it. It was really soft and a nice mottled tan color. I figured she would love it. Of course you had to know my mom to appreciate her response. “Oh, a rabbit fur,” she exclaimed, “It’s wonderful.” I’ll put it right over here on the coffee table and put Aunt Grace’s doily somewhere else. It’s so soft!” I don’t think Mom ever said a negative word about anything.

Cottontail rabbits were plentiful in Western Pennsylvania. It was the one upland game species that you could always count on getting a shot at in the field. Even when a pheasant or grouse could not be found, it was the rare day that a rabbit wouldn’t cross your path. I guess it is true what they say about rabbits multiplying.

Rabbits were one of my dad’s favorite game species, probably because he grew up hunting them for food. Even though Dad wore glasses his eyesight was keen in the field. He could spot a rabbit’s eye in the brush and take its head off with a well-placed shotgun blast, spoiling none of the meat. Dad was my hero when it came to shooting sports. It seemed there wasn’t anything in that area he wasn’t good at.

Many of my friends had beagles, which, of course, are the classic rabbit hound. Some folks used springer spaniels which were known for hunting both rabbits and birds. We had neither so I, as the youngest in the group, became the “dog” on many occasions. I didn’t mind this unless it meant going through a briar patch. You will recall the story of Br’er Rabbit and how he encouraged Br’er Fox to throw him into the briar patch – because that’s exactly where rabbits are most comfortable. Like Br’er Fox the briar patch was a tough spot for me to get through. The cover we hunted in the Slippery Rock area was pretty diverse but there were plenty of farm fields that had not been cultivated for years. They were in the process of returning to their wild origins and in many cases were covered with thick, tangled underbrush. I recall looking at certain fields and thinking to myself, “Every animal in the county could be in that brush and you’d never see them.” Whether I was too dim-witted to know better or just too anxious to get some shooting, I often would pick my way slowly through such a dense tangle of barbed wire-like vegetation. My dad wore brush pants that were specially designed to protect your legs from briars. I wore blue jeans which provided very little protection (in those days hunting clothes came via hand-me-downs and nobody had outgrown any hunting pants yet). It is interesting to note that years later Dad did hand those pants down to me when he no longer used them. I recall at the time they were huge and there was no way I could wear them. I kept them in Dad’s old Army foot locker in the basement with all my other hunting clothes. I tried them on again in my early fifties and found them to be uncomfortably tight (how could they have shrunk so badly while in that foot locker?). I also found that the cuffs were filled with a variety of dried seeds from his last trip to the field decades before. I got that same feeling as the archeologists who discovered the grape seeds in the ruins of Pompeii and used them to grow a new vineyard 2,000 years later.

Clothed in my minimal protection I would carefully wade into a briar patch intent on spooking a rabbit out into the open. This was always attempted when you were hunting with others as, if you were alone, there is no way you could get a shot off in the middle of a briar patch. Sometimes you could get through by crawling on your hands and knees. This procedure normally meant the overhanging briars picked your hat from your head on numerous occasions. Other times the best option was to grab large stems with gloved hands in an attempt to navigate from bare spot to bare spot. Of course all the while it was necessary to assure you didn’t scratch your shotgun. Dad afforded us great guns to hunt with but also demanded that we treat them with due respect. What you were always looking for was that elusive brush pile or tangle in the middle that might be holding a rabbit or two. Often times after a grueling effort one would be disappointed to find a hole in the middle of the patch into which any self-respecting rabbit you were chasing would have long since exited.

I loved hunting when there was snow on the ground. That enabled you to see the various animal tracks in the snow. Of course it also became very frustrating when you saw all those tracks and no game. The crazy thing about rabbits is that while they love the briar patches and other impenetrable cover, they often can be found hiding in a small patch of grass stubble in the middle of an open field. These are the ones that shock you so badly when they flush, you often miss the shot.

This particular hunt took place on a Saturday morning between Christmas and New Years. It was as they used to say, “the second season.” A couple inches of fresh snow made things much easier. I had drawn the middle position (as always) between Dad on the right and Johnny on the left. It seemed as though the briar patch or crabapple thicket was always dead in front of me. As I carefully worked my way through these, in many cases on hands and knees, I would call out if I heard anything flush ahead of me. In some instances the noise would be followed by a shotgun blast from the left or right. If from Dad’s direction the shot was normally followed by silence. This meant Dad had killed the rabbit. On the other hand, if Johnny shot you could count on either of two responses. Whooping and hollering if he scored or swearing and muttering if he missed. I rarely got a shot off as the rabbit either flushed too far ahead of me or it did so when I was pulling my hat off a briar bush.

On this particular day; however, I did get off a shot – two for that matter. As I entered a particularly dense thicket I could see a ton of fresh tracks in the snow. As it had snowed early that morning I determined they were no more than a couple hours old. I called out to Dad and Johnny that I thought there were rabbits in this tangle. They took up decent shooting positions on the sides as I proceeded through. My target was a blown-down tree near the center of the thick underbrush. Its demise years ago had opened the canopy above, letting enough light reach the ground to encourage the thick vegetative growth. The rotting log looked to be a perfect place for hiding bunnies. I carefully worked my way toward it trying to avoid the briars and still maintain a quasi-shooting position. Every so often I would try my dad’s technique of stopping briefly to make any close-holding game think that I had seen them.

Suddenly from almost underfoot a rabbit took off. I could see its brown form perfectly against the snowy ground. I pulled the over and under to my shoulder and fired almost immediately in the general direction of the rabbit. This was as I used to call it, “a warning shot”. You see the adrenalin rush associated with such an explosive departure of any game from thick cover makes most hunters (and me in particular) pull the trigger way before the bead on the end of the shotgun’s barrel is leveled on the target. I saw a puff of snow rise as the BBs hit the ground not far in front of me and not very close to the rabbit. The good news was that this first shot must have prompted the rabbit to jump. As I finally got the bunny in my sights he was airborne and approaching the top of his arch over the downed log. This time as the shot rang out it was a puff of fur that flew, not snow. Dad and Johnny, not used to hearing shots from the center of the thicket, immediately called out in unison, asking if I had hit the mark. I shouted back that I thought so but it would take a few minutes to make my way to the point where the rabbit crossed the tree. I moved more quickly now with great anticipation through the briars. I was just hoping that there wasn’t a groundhog hole on the other side of the log. There wasn’t. On the other side lay the dead rabbit silhouetted against the white snow. “I got him!” I shouted. “Now all I have to do is find my way out of here.”

I picked the rabbit up by the back legs and felt its weight. It was a nice sized bunny. I laid my shotgun down against the log and struggled to slide the rabbit into the game pouch of my hunting vest. Hunters who shot game often got good at this maneuver but I didn’t fall into that category. I wound up taking the vest off to get it in. I crawled out of the briar patch and met Dad and Johnny on the other side. As always I described the shot in exacting detail. They congratulated me on connecting with the airborne rabbit. Then Dad added, “Just because the shotgun has two barrels doesn’t mean you have to use both whenever something flushes.” In other words, “Take your time with the first shot next time and you won’t need the second.”

After another mile or so of slogging through heavy brush we arrived back at the car with four rabbits between the three of us. When we arrived home Mom greeted us the same way she always did – “Did you get anything?” She would enjoy cooking the rabbits for supper that night after Dad had skinned and cleaned them. The one thing that he never did though was tan the rabbit hides. I guess you could only get a rabbit fur from the New York Worlds Fair.

THE FIRST DAY OF TROUT SEASON

The opening day of trout season in Pennsylvania is almost as big as deer season. Like many deer hunters, a substantial number of fisherman only fish one day a year. The opening day is an excuse to get together with a bunch of friends, drink some beer, cook some food over an open fire, and perhaps pitch a tent and haul the sleeping bag out of mothballs. Later in life I avoided streams on this day like the plague but I admit when I was a boy I got caught up in the excitement. Unless you were an ice fisherman, this mid-April event meant the first chance of the year to pick up a rod and reel – so what if you might have to stand elbow-to-elbow with a bunch of drunken stumblebums. The Pennsylvania Fish Commission stocked trout from their hatcheries pretty much the same way that the Game Commission stocked pheasants. Any stocked stream would be jammed with subsistence fishermen the first day. There was no place to escape.

Since my dad was not a fisherman he didn’t care much for the crowds that surrounded our camp on the opening day but he was always glad for an excuse to spend a weekend there. As with deer season the trip to camp on Friday evening saw roads crowded with fishermen. Also like deer season, preparations began long in advance. On a late-winter shopping trip to Butler with my mother I would stop by Kirkpatrick’s Sporting Goods. Unlike Meyers’ Hardware this place had a ton of tackle. I looked around the store in awe of the new rods and reels, waders, creels, nets, lures, and line. “Who in the world could afford these amenities just to catch fish?” I wondered. Old man Kirkpatrick was glad to advise a novice trout fisherman of all the necessary tools of the trade. I couldn’t afford the Mepps spinner set (“The Trouter”) that he recommended. I had some old spinners and daredevils that I had found snagged under rocks while swimming in the creek the summer before. I did need a small jar of salmon eggs though. I had never caught a fish on a salmon egg but it seemed everyone used them early in the season. Mr. Kirkpatrick said he had best success with orange. Both yellow and red looked like they would attract fish as well but I went with his advice. Next he said I would need gold hooks so the trout would not notice the black hook embedded in the orange egg. I had never heard of gold hooks before and it sounded like they would be too expensive for my budget. I hemmed and hawed while he extolled their virtues. I decided on the smallest package they had (5) as well as a sleeve of Eagle Claw snelled hooks for use with night-crawlers. I suppose my bill came to all of a couple dollars.

Johnny and I shared a small, blue, metal tackle box. When you opened it two compartmentalized plastic shelves popped up. These were mostly filled with lures that we had found or inherited from relatives. In the top bin there were my favorites like the flatfish, hula popper, rapala, and jitterbug. There were also some little-used lures like the diamond jim, lazy ike, and crazy crawler. The next bin down held a variety of spinners, small crank-baits, and a couple plastic worms. We didn’t have a clue how to present plastic worms in those days and I doubt we ever caught anything on them. We kept sundry items like bobbers, hooks, sinkers, swivel-snaps, a stringer, and the like in the open space in the bottom of the box. I looked with envy on the pros who kept all their fishing supplies in a vest. They had stuff clipped onto the vest like small clippers and forceps. Their many pockets contained small plastic boxes, well organized with flies, spinners, split-shot, etc. At the time I thought you could spot a real professional by the flies and lures they had hooked into their hats. Now I realize that these guys are actually poseurs. It takes way too long to un-snag a hook out of your hat. Boxes that fit in vest pockets are the way to carry your gear.

That year we arrived at camp to find all the surrounding camps full of fishermen. We were really dismayed to find that a group of 6 to 8 people had pitched a tent right on the banks of the creek below the camp. It was illegal to do so in the National Forest but we knew that nobody was about to tell the occupants that. It figured to be a crowded creek the next morning. The creek was swollen by rain and snow-melt. It wouldn’t be easy to fish. Johnny and I were up before Mom and Dad and grabbed a bowl of cereal before heading for the creek. As we surveyed the situation from the top of the hill we knew that all of our favorite haunts were already surrounded. We would have to look for a more remote stretch of the creek if we were going to have any chance of fishing without crossing lines with the “interlopers”. We decided our best chance would be to go upstream, cross the swinging bridge and work our way further upstream on the opposite bank. We figured that the steepness of the stream-bank on that side would be unattractive to the casual fishermen. We were right. The upstream pool was too deep to wade completely across and we were able to perch ourselves precariously on the steep bank to have a section of water to ourselves. A couple of fellows on the opposite side called over to ask how we got there but we feigned deafness and didn’t answer.

I baited my line with an orange salmon egg, a gold hook, and two split shots. Johnny started with a gold Mepps spinner. I told him that I had great confidence in my choice (based on old man Kirkpatrick’s advice) and that I would share my eggs with him. He ignored me and kept casting the spinner to the same rock. He would cast upstream and beyond the rock and then drag the spinner through the current in the rock’s lee downstream. I was impatient if I didn’t get a strike on the first several casts but Johnny seemed determined that he had the right technique and kept it up. After a dozen or so casts he got a strike but didn’t set the hook quickly enough. I thought he may have gotten snagged on the rock. He kept it up and after a few more casts he hooked the first trout of the day. Between the cold water and the hatchery-reared fish it wasn’t much of a fight. He quickly brought it to his hand and we admired the brown trout of about 9 inches. Six inches was legal but neither of us really enjoyed eating fish so he tossed it back. The catch had created lots of interest on the other side of the creek and it seemed they were horrified that anyone would throw back a legal fish. We noticed one of this group had caught a 12-incher and was actually wearing it on his belt. “What a loser,” we thought.

After his success Johnny continued his technique. Also after his success I tied on a gold spinner. I looked for a rock that made a similar dent in the current. I found one but it was another 10 to 15 feet out and a little downstream. The shoreline in this area rose even more steeply from the water. I was able to hook my foot into a tree root for some semblance of stability and I began to cast toward the rock for all I was worth. I knew I would have similar success if I could just duplicate my brother’s technique. My first cast fell woefully short of the target. The next was a little closer but I knew that something was going to have to change if I was going to make the perfect cast. I grabbed an overhanging tree limb with my left hand for support and cast the spinner with all my might. All my might was just enough momentum to pivot me on the limb right out into the creek. It seemed at the moment I had a choice whether to hold onto the limb or my rod. I chose the rod and plopped into about six feet of water. The current carried me quickly to the mouth of Pell Run where a sand bar made it easy to exit the creek with as much dignity as I could muster, which is to say not very much.

The water temperature was about 35 and the air temperature about 45. I recall feeling more embarrassed than cold. I had put on quite a show for the louts on the opposite bank. A quick glance over my shoulder proved that even the loser with the trout on his belt was laughing. Johnny covered the steep terrain between us quickly and was on the bank as I struggled out of the creek. He took off his coat and put it on me, he grabbed my rod and we were off for camp as fast as we could go. Crossing the bridge with wet shoes, soaked clothing and shivering hands was a challenge. When we burst in the door of the camp my mother took one look and went immediately into panic mode. Everyone helped me get my wet clothes off and Mom wrapped me in a blanket. Dad put a couple small dry logs on the fire and I stood right in front of the fireplace to warm up and dry out. Man, it felt good! After a while I was ready to go back out. My mother wasn’t. “You’re not going back out there and fall into that creek again,” she said. “Take a lesson from your older brother,” she motioned toward Johnny who was sitting on the couch, reading a book and eating cookies. My first day of trout season had ended early. I asked Johnny if he had picked up my jar of salmon eggs before he pulled me out.

PHEASANT HUNTING

My earliest recollection of pheasant hunting was when our bird dog, Lucky, was still alive. As I have mentioned previously, Lucky was a great bird dog. He was a brown and white English Setter and he loved to hunt more than anything else. I’m not sure how old he was in the early 60s but I suppose he was over ten years old. Lucky had been bred to a female setter and my dad was given the pick of the litter in return. The puppy was black and white and my grandmother gave it the name “Pup” (a classic of understatement). At that time my Uncle Wid and Grandma lived next door to us. Uncle Wid took a liking to Pup and Dad was glad to give him the dog. While Pup never became the hunter that his father was he was a more loving pet. At that time in my uncle’s life he really needed a dog, and especially one like Pup. Wid had never been married and didn’t have any close friends to my knowledge. He took care of Grandma and was close with our family but I never knew him to interact with anyone else. He had been injured on a construction job and was permanently disabled. I am sure he suffered from depression but nobody talked about such things in those days. My uncle enjoyed getting out in the woods with the dog and we hunted together occasionally but he was by no means an avid hunter. He would accompany me on after-school hunting trips when I was too young to hunt by myself. He would let me use his old Fox 16 gage double-barrel before I was big enough to handle Dad’s 12 gage. Uncle Wid was good to me and I have fond memories of him. Whenever you saw Wid, Pup would be close at hand.

The common, Chinese or ring-necked pheasant is not native to Pennsylvania. I am not sure when it was introduced there but I’m glad someone had the idea. The cold winters and snow of the area are certainly not ideal for the species and in severe winters the bids cannot survive. The Pennsylvania Game Commission raised pheasants at several facilities around the state and conducted a stocking program each fall. Next to deer season the pheasant season was the most anticipated in my youth. There were always rumors circulating as to where and when birds would be stocked. The best places to get this “skinny” (as they used to say in the Navy) were Bill Matthew’s barber shop, Fred Meyers’ hardware store, Isaly’s, the gas station, or my dad’s car dealership. Beginning about a month before the season these rumors would start to circulate. These days I believe that the stocking schedule is actually published on the Commission’s website. Obviously these were the days before computers or, for that matter, government’s desire to share much information with the taxpayers.

One Friday night Dad came home from the dealership with a gleam in his eye. He had heard from his friend, Joe Ligo (the local undertaker whom Dad had nicknamed “Digger”), that the Game Commission had just stocked some pheasants on the Culhane farm (not their real name). I’m sure that Ligo hadn’t provided this intel out of the goodness of his heart. If he could have hunted the next morning he would have been out there, not us. He probably had a funeral to attend to and figured he owed my dad a favor. In a small town with two funeral parlors there was great competition for dead bodies. Both funeral directors bought cars from Dad. They must have figured he was going to die before the Ford dealer did. They were wrong as the Ford dealer died before he was 60.

Now I had never met any of the Culhanes but I was aware of their reputation as one of those families that seemed a blight on the community. A rough clan that could turn a nice clean homestead into a junkyard seemingly overnight. I am not sure whether the piles of junk that surrounded their house were self-generated or not. I can’t imagine that any one family, no matter how large, could come by the wrecked cars, rusting appliances, and piles of non-descript garbage that populated their farm. Surely they must have had a network of other loathsome hillbillies that brought in garbage by the truckload. There were also various farm animals that wondered around in the garbage – goats, chickens, pigs, and an occasional donkey. The Culhanes moved around often - each time after a mysterious fire. In those days it was common for the neighbors to get together and “burn-out” families like the Culhanes who were bringing down the community. Strangely the authorities never suspected nor investigated arson in the wake of such fires.

At any rate, early on Saturday Dad, Johnny, Uncle Wid and I loaded Lucky and Pup into the trunk of our green and white Eighty Eight Olds and headed for the Culhane place. I should note that in those days very few landowners posted their land to keep hunters out. It was a common practice to either ask the landowner’s permission to hunt beforehand or to stop by and share the kill with them afterwards. I was guessing when hunting the Culhane farm we wouldn’t be soliciting permission in advance.

I was more excited than normal this day. We all had a good feeling there would be birds in the vicinity after the leaked stocking reports. The hunting day began at seven AM and it was just about that time when we approached a pull-off along side of the county road on the Culhane farm. As Dad eased the Olds off the road a ring-neck rooster walked across the road and into the brush in front of the car. This was going to be a good day! Johnny and I got all excited and both began to jump out of the car at the same time. Dad cautioned to take it easy. The bird would not go far once it got into the cover. Besides the dogs would track it down wherever it went. We all climbed out and got our vests on and loaded our shotguns. Dad called the order of the hunt with himself on the left and Uncle Wid on the right. As usual Johnny and I would be in the middle. We wanted to be all set before Dad opened the trunk. Once he did both dogs bolted out like it was a prison break. Both noses hit the ground on the fresh scent and they were off. Within 20 yards Lucky froze solid. Not on point but in a crouch that meant the bird was close at hand. Unfortunately, Pup had not yet learned this technique. He clamored ahead and must have run right over the bird. The ringneck rose straight into the air cackling that pheasant rooster call that was music to our ears – “coc, coc, coc, coc.” (Since only roosters and not hens could be taken one always listened for the male bird’s distinctive crow.) Johnny and I both trained our guns toward the rising bird and he beat me to the punch. I was just about to pull the trigger when I heard the report of his gun and saw the ring-neck plummet to earth. Johnny whooped and hollered as he ran toward the downed bird. We both got there about the same time as the dogs. Lucky sniffed the carcass while Pup tried to grab it. I don’t think he would have eaten it but we didn’t take any chances. Johnny scooped it up, holding it upside down by the legs with wings fanned out to each side. When Dad and Wid arrived they congratulated Johnny and we all examined the kill. Dad pointed out that it was a stocked, not native bird, based on the short tail feathers and short claw on the back of the legs. Still it was a nice sized bird and Johnny was rightfully proud. This was the first ring-neck I had seen up close and I admired the beautiful iridescent green head, red patches around the eyes, and distinctive namesake white neck band. I helped him get it into his game pouch. I told him he better let the rest of us shoot at the next one or he’d be weighed down with two in there.

It was such a good feeling for members of the family to score so early. It was only 7:15 and we already had a kill. I just knew it was going to be a great day. Dad outlined the direction we would take from there, moving through the damp bottoms we were in and toward the cornfields in the distance. I loved to watch the dogs work as we moved deliberately out of the bottoms. It was easy to see the difference between the well-trained father and the untrained pup. Lucky wasted no motion as he worked the scent back and forth. When it cooled he immediately sped up to find it again. I could see that Pup enjoyed sticking close to Wid. He would range out a ways with Lucky but then quickly get back within sight of his master.

Before long Lucky began to slow down not far in front of Johnny and me. I called out to Dad that I thought there must be a bird close by. Before he could answer Lucky froze into a point that you could have taken a picture of for a hunting calendar. Pup was over with Wid and wasn’t about to spoil Lucky’s work this time. I spoke softly to him as I had heard Dad do – “OK, Lucky, hold him,” I whispered as I moved carefully behind him. Johnny was close enough to see what was going on and he was drawn to the action. I was afraid his movement was going to flush the bird before I released Lucky so I raised my voice a little and said, “Go ahead, boy.” Lucky took two more careful steps and the bird exploded from the dense wetland cover with a buzzing sound coming from its wings. As I pulled my gun to my shoulder I noticed there was no cackle from this bird. Also there were no noticeable tail feathers. A hen, I thought, just as I heard Johnny shoot and saw a puff of feathers in the air. Was he nuts, shooting a hen? It turns out that he was caught up in the moment, squeezing the trigger before thinking about the gender of the pheasant. His second off-hand shot was just as true as the first had been. As Dad approached to see what had transpired Johnny began to shout incessantly, “Bury it quick, bury it quick!” Now I don’t ever recall an encounter with a game warden in all my hunting days but as youth we were scared to death that one would show up immediately if we violated any game law. Johnny was eager to cover up the evidence of his transgression by giving the female bird a proper (and immediate) burial.

In Dad’s typical manner he said, “Now calm down and let’s see what he have here.” (Johnny was still muttering, “Bury it quick,” under his breath.) As Dad approached the dead bird in the weeds he said, “It’s OK, it’s a woodcock.” “Can you shoot them, I mean legally?” Johnny asked. “I think they’re in season now”, Dad answered, “but let’s check the book to be sure.” He always carried the small hunting rules and regulations guide inside his license holder. He had Johnny pull it out from the back of his vest and look up the answer. “Yep,” Johnny noted with a sigh of relief, “woodcock season runs concurrently with pheasant season.” “Looks like you’re two for two”, Dad said, pulling Johnny’s cap down over his face. “Now let’s see if anybody else can kill something.”

I know now but didn’t at the time that we were hunting very typical woodcock habitat. Their preferred diet of earthworms makes them gravitate toward wetlands and poorly-drained upland soils. While we never went hunting specifically for woodcock, we encountered them on the rare future occasion while hunting for pheasant or grouse. From that day forward in our family the woodcock would be known as the “buryitquick”.

We worked our way up to the medium height grasslands that surrounded the cornfields without additional fanfare. I was anxious to get close to the corn because I knew that the pheasants would be feeding on the corn and using the adjacent fields for cover. As always, Dad had a plan of the best way to work the cornfield boundaries. He would be on the very edge of the standing corn. Johnny and I would fan out in the tall grass, and Uncle Wid would take the far edge, adjacent to the woods. The plan seemed perfect. If the birds were in the corn the dogs would bring them out. If they were in the tall grass they should hold tight. If they were in the woods, once again the dogs would find them. Dad cautioned us to be extra careful as we approached the end of the field. If a bird was running ahead of us it would stop there and flush when we got close. Sure enough, when we reached the first corner Johnny kicked out a rooster that angled toward Dad. It was a privilege to watch my dad wield a shotgun (whether in the field or on a trap range). The bird wasn’t airborne long before he was on it and dropped it with an efficient shot. There was no puff of feathers. Dad always strove to hit the bird in the head with a few BBs to keep from spoiling any of the meat. No doubt a throwback to his childhood of subsistence hunting. As always everyone gathered around the dead bird to examine it (including the two dogs). This rooster was different than Johnny’s. Its tail and the barbs on the back of its legs were twice as long. It also seemed like the green head feathers were brighter in the sunlight. A wild bird to be sure, not one from the current stocking. I began to wonder how this rooster had survived last year’s harsh winter. To me it looked like the kind of bird one would have mounted if you did that sort of thing. My dad was not one to “waste” money having an animal mounted. I think he figured that kind of money would be better spent on a new shotgun or pistol.

This day was turning out even better than I had hoped for. We had three birds and it wasn’t 9 o’clock yet. I just knew my turn was coming. We turned the corner of the cornfield and began to work the same pattern down the other side. This time the shots came unexpectedly from my right. Pup had put up a grouse in the edge of the woods and Uncle Wid had brought it down with a couple rounds of his 16-gage. “What would be next”, I thought, “a rabbit.” I could never remember a hunting trip where such varied game species were taken. I must admit though that it was starting to bother me that I had yet to get in a shot. I would have shot at the buryitquick if I had known it was legal. I was determined to participate in this hunt by hook or by crook.

We continued working the edge of the cornfield toward the Culhane farmhouse. Most times I was a little uncomfortable hunting close to a residence but I had a hard time putting the Culhane place into that category. I imagined that any careless shot in that direction would be absorbed by the junk piles in the yard. As we approached the end of the field I remembered what Dad had said and about that wild rooster he had taken at the last corner. I put my thumb on the safety and began to ready myself for a possible shot. No rooster was going to take me unawares at this point. Lucky was working in front of Johnny and Pup was bouncing wildly back and forth between Uncle Wid and I. I wished it had been the opposite. I had much more faith in Lucky’s nose than I did in Pup’s. The end of the cornfield was within 15 yards or so and I was getting anxious. I just knew there had to be a bird holding up ahead and I picked up my pace in anticipation. I was right. A rooster was holding tight right at the very end of the field. I don’t even think Pup smelled it, he just ran over it. It bolted into the air right in front of me and for once the gun was to my shoulder before it got ten feet off the ground. I was on the bird and fired before I realized that Pup had made a leap for the bird as it startled him more than it did me. I heard Pup yelp and saw him bolt for the woods on a dead run. The ring-neck kept on going but nobody made a follow-up shot at it. “Oh no,” I thought, “I’ve shot the dog.” “How could I have been so stupid?” “Why did I shoot so quickly?” Uncle Wid ran after Pup as fast as he could through heavy cover calling for the dog to come back. We all gathered where the bird had gone up to see if we could see any signs of blood. I started to sob and told Dad I was sorry for shooting Pup. Dad put his arms around me and said, “We don’t know what’s happened to Pup yet. He’s running pretty fast for a dog that’s wounded. Maybe he’s just scared. Let’s try to track him down.”

We all took off in the direction Pup went, following Wid’s voice as he called to the dog. We caught up with Wid before too long. He was winded from running through the heavy brush and taking a little breather under a large oak. It looked like he had been crying but I wasn’t sure. I told him I was sorry for the errant shot. Dad asked if he thought the dog was injured or just scared. Wid said he didn’t know but he hadn’t seen any blood in the dog’s tracks. However he wasn’t even sure which way the dog had gone from this point. Dad planned a search pattern for us so we could fan out and find Pup. He kept me close to himself as I think he knew I’d need some serious consoling if we found Pup’s dead body in the woods. We must have spent the next couple hours combing the woods and surrounding fields for the dog – calling and listening for his bark. All to no avail. We tried to get Lucky involved in the search but all he wanted to do was sniff bird trails. It was now about two o’clock and we were all hot and tired. Dad suggested we return to the car and maybe go home and get a bite to eat. Maybe Pup would be out walking the road looking for us. We could come back out later on. Wid said, “You guys go ahead, I’m going to hang out around here for awhile. I’ll be here when you get back.”

I was one forlorn boy when we reached the car with one dog less than we’d started the day with. Dad suggested we drive slowly along the road and watch and listen for signs of the dog. When we passed the driveway to the Culhane’s dad pulled in. “What are you doing?” Johnny and I both asked in unison. “I’m going to see if anyone is home and see if they’d like a couple of these birds,” Dad answered. As Dad weaved the Oldsmobile up the lane around the junk piles Johnny and I resolved to shrink down in the backseat so nobody could see us. When we reached the house he said, “Come on, let’s see if anyone’s home.” It was said in that tone of voice Dad used when there would be no negotiation. As Dad approached the front door with his game vest in hand we toddled behind him like a couple of grade schoolers. Before he could knock on the door a woman emerged from the house. I have no idea how old she was but in my young mind she was a really old woman. She probably looked much older than her years due the hard life a Culhane matriarch must have lived. She had a worn house dress on with a soiled apron covering it. I expected she would be mean and demand to know just who it was that had the nerve to approach her house (almost as though Hansel and Gretel were eating it). To my surprise her voice was pleasant. “Hello, can I help you men,” she said. My father replied, “Ma’am my name is Wayne Fleeger and these are my two boys. We’ve been hunting over there (motioning to the adjacent fields) and shot a few birds. We wondered if you’d like a couple for supper tonight.” “How thoughtful,” she replied, “we love pheasant, I’d be delighted.” Somehow it seemed odd hearing such proper grammar coming from someone named Mrs. Culhane.

As Dad reached into his and Johnny’s game pouch for the two pheasants, Mrs. Culhane asked, “You didn’t have a black and white dog with you did you?” “Yes and he’s missing, have you seen him,” Dad replied. “He’s in the back yard with our dogs. He showed up here about three hours ago and looked scared to death. I thought maybe he had a run-in with a coon or something. I put him inside the fence until I could figure what to do about him. Come on around back and we’ll get him,” she said as she lead us around the side of the house past old cars and appliances. I was overjoyed. I could have kissed this lady who I had always considered lowlife in the past (even though we had never met). I was first to make my way to the backyard where Pup met me nose to nose as he jumped up on the wire fence. I immediately looked for any signs that he’d been shot but he seemed lively enough. I could feel tears running down my cheeks.

“Tommy, you put Pup in the trunk while I say goodbye to Mrs. Culhane,” said Dad as he motioned me toward the car. “Johnny, go get your Uncle Wid. He should be in that stand of trees over there. We’ll pick you up where we parked this morning.” As I opened the driver’s door of the Olds to get the keys Pup jumped in and sat behind the wheel. I guess he figured he wasn’t taking any chances of getting left behind. When Dad saw him he laughed and said he could ride up front as long as he already had his dirty paws on the seats. Pup sat between us as we rode back down the lane. “I guess the Pup was just scared by your shot at that bird over his head. I can’t see any sign he’s been shot,” Dad reasoned. “Being inside the Culhane’s fence explains why he wouldn’t come back. Guess we’ve all learned some lessons today.”

We pulled off the road in the same spot we began the day and waited for Johnny and Wid. When they first came into sight Pup jumped right over me and out the open window of the car (car windows were much larger in those days). Pup ran to greet Wid and I could tell it was a happy reunion for both. Pup joined Lucky in the trunk and we headed for home. Nobody said too much on the way. It was obvious that all were pretty relieved. As we unloaded the car back home I said to my father, “You know, Dad, Mrs. Culhane seems like a pretty nice person, I mean for a Culhane and all.” His answer was classic Wayne Fleeger – “Tommy, most people are nice if you give them half a chance. I suppose that’s all Mrs. Culhane needed was half a chance.” “I guess you’re right, Dad,” I answered as he pulled me close to his side while we walked up the driveway.