A BOYHOOD AFIELD

(photo courtesy of www.tomjonesbuckeyephotos.com)
FORWARD AND DEDICATION

In the 1950s and 60s I grew up in the small town of Slippery Rock, Pennsylvania. A much simpler time in our country, a boy man could roam the fields, lakes and streams unaccompanied. All my parents were concerned about was that I told them where I was going and when I would be home. We lived in town but the great thing about our house was that it was immediately adjacent to farm fields, an abandoned strip mine, and emergent woodlands. It was perfect cover for a variety of upland game species. There were also various ponds stocked with fish within a 2 to 3 mile bicycle ride away. When I was in my early teen years our family purchased a cabin on the Tionesta Creek, about a two-hour drive to the north. The cabin (“camp” as we called it) was right in the middle of the Allegheny National Forest, on the Allegheny Plateau, and weekends and summers there added a whole new dimension to my outdoor pursuits.

This atmosphere was almost perfect for a young man who loved to hunt and fish. This collection of short stories chronicles many of my experiences afield growing up. My stories of outdoor sports cannot be properly understood without an explanation of how I developed a love for the outdoors. So I begin with details of my relationship with my father, who taught me to shoot and hunt and my older brother, who taught me to fish.

My dad, Wayne Austin Fleeger, grew up dirt poor during the Great Depression in another rural Butler County, Pennsylvania town named Chicora. As was the case with most kids of that time he had it rough. When he was two years old his mother and an older sister both died the same day in the great flu epidemic of 1919. The toddler was then shuffled between relatives until he grew old enough to survive on the family homestead. My grandfather worked in the early Pennsylvania oil fields tending wells. The family lived on the site of one of the oil leases known as the Divener well. Dad always referred to his boyhood home as simply, “The Divener.” There, in the fields and woods surrounding the oil lease, Dad developed an abiding love for hunting. With crude .22 caliber rifles and small gauge shotguns he shot whatever the family could eat. Rabbits and squirrels were the most plentiful and filled the larder most often. Grouse and doves were available but much harder to hit. They became a delicacy at the dinner table. Although whitetail deer and wild turkey are common in this area of the state today, they were not so early in the last century. A shame because several harvested deer or turkey could have fed the poor family for quite some time. While it was important to harvest game for food, Dad dearly loved to shoot and hunt. I believe he enjoyed the days afield for the same peace and tranquility that I do, but also for the escape that it offered from his hard scrabble way of life.

After Dad’s service in the Army during World War II my parents settled in Slippery Rock. Dad began work at JW Cheeseman, Inc., a Chevrolet and Oldsmobile dealership. Dad made the most of a hard-to-find, post-war job and worked hard, long hours to make a name for himself. Over the next 35 years he would work his way through various dealership positions to Sales Manager, General Manager, Partner, and finally Owner. Dad’s success came at a price – quality time at home. What little recreational time he allowed himself was spent on the golf course in the summer and hunting in the fall and winter. On more than one occasion I recall Dad coming home at lunchtime on Saturday (the dealership was only open until noon) and donning his hunting vest and field pants over his dress clothes. After an afternoon afield he was back to the dealership to deliver a car to a customer who couldn’t come during working hours.

Dad’s purchase of a cabin in northern Pennsylvania in the early 1960s provided him with much more quality time in the woods. During weekends and summertime weeks away from the business he could really enjoy outdoor sports.

In Pennsylvania a boy had to be 12 years old to hunt but younger boys could tag along. As I recall my older brother began to hunt with my dad at about the age of 14 or so and I started to accompany them both when I was 12. I didn’t get my first hunting license until I was 14. I guess Dad determined that 14 and not 12 was the appropriate age in the Fleeger family.

Dad quit hunting when he began to spend his winters in Florida. He died of Alzheimer’s at the age of 89 but not before he actually took up fishing when he lived on Pine Island Sound. I have such fond memories of hunting with my dad. These were quality times to share your heart while waiting for a deer to walk by or resting on a log after slogging through thick brush.

The last time I visited Dad before he died I asked if he remembered any of our hunting excursions. (He rarely knew what happened recently but could often recall childhood events.) I was saddened that he couldn’t recall getting up at 5 AM in below zero temperatures to head for the deer stand, or waiting on a stump for a turkey to come by amidst beautiful fall leaves. One of the reasons I have put pen to paper on these stories is to preserve some of these experiences for posterity.

My brother, Wayne Robert Fleeger, was four years my senior. In our family his nickname was Johnny and we never called him anything else until we were both a lot older. He garnered many other nicknames growing up – Rollo, Roll, Wally, The Jew, Jujo, Lolo, and Ralph, to name a few. He called me Tiny and I looked up to him as I guess most younger brothers do. I had more time with him than I did with Dad and it seemed he could do just about anything that I wanted to do. Examples were playing football or baseball, ice skating, bowling, riding a bike, shooting a gun, driving a car, you name it. Perhaps the greatest thing he taught me was how to fish. He was much more of a fisherman than a hunter. I think he quit hunting after college but never lost his desire to wet a line. My brother was a genius. He had one of the highest IQs I’ve ever heard of and yet he was brilliant in simple ways as well. He knew how to catch night crawlers without spooking them with your flashlight. He knew how to tie special knots in fishing line so that they wouldn’t break under the weight of the fish. He carried his rod backward through heavy brush so it wouldn’t get snagged. He easily could catch crayfish, knowing that they always shot backwards when spooked. He always seemed to know just where the fish would be and what they would bite on.

About the only thing he enjoyed more than fishing was reading. It seemed he always had a book in his hand and he read about absolutely everything. As strange as it might seem he loved trains, military hardware, heavy equipment and big trucks. He knew everything about them and when he traveled he would converse with truckers on the CB radio about their rigs.

Wayne would graduate at the top of his high school class, attend the local Slippery Rock State College, and receive both Masters and PhD degrees in English Literature from Duke University. He moved through the ranks of public school teacher through vice-principal to principal of Richard Montgomery High School in Rockville, Maryland. He was a prominent administrator in the Montgomery County School System and taught courses at both Hood College and Bowie State University. Later in life fishing took a backseat to softball as his passion. He died suddenly at age 57 after playing a double-header. I miss him terribly, especially when I’m on the water.

These stories should really have been written by my brother. He was the consummate writer in the family. I believe it was his humility that kept him from writing more than just the odd letter or humorous piece. All of his friends and family encouraged him to publish something but he never did. I wonder if he had lived until his retirement years if he would have. We’ll never know but I dedicate my own meager attempts to him.