The day I took two doves that all the others had missed

Just about the only pleasant activity I got to engage in with my Dad growing up was hunting.  One should keep in mind that this was the 1950s and 60s, and people had not developed some of the attitudes about hunting they have today.  The game was there for the taking in those days, too.  In this simpler time, hunting was an activity imbued with tradition, and it provided a good way for the men of the house to “get out from underfoot” and have some fun together.  We ate everything we killed, too, and those feasts were culinary high points to be treasured.

My Dad always was in a good mood on these occasions–something that could not be said on a general basis.  We usually went with a gang of guys from his work.  Sometimes we’d get up really early and drive to south Georgia in November to hunt quail.  Other times we’d just head out to some rural area around Atlanta for some September afternoon dove hunting.

I was typically the only boy along.  I was left to infer that this might be because my Dad wanted to spend time with me.  I also inferred that I was little enough trouble to have along.  Of course, even at an early age I also inferred that he didn’t want to spend time with only me, but OK, I could deal with that.  In an odd way, his reticence worked to my advantage.  While I never got to hear him say he liked spending time with me, I never had to hear him say he wasn’t interested in spending time with me alone.

See, I had a conflicted relationship with my Dad–nothing too unusual about that, but I wonder sometimes whether it went too far in that direction for anyone’s good.  He was very old-school, an only child of a domineering mother who actually dressed him as a girl for the first few years of his life.  He went on to become a tank commander in World War II, so apparently his mother wasn’t able to feminize him completely.  Still, his austere Scotch-Irish upbringing and his military background left him pretty emotionally bereft.  He was OK with anger, but he regarded most of the rest of the emotions with more than a little suspicion.  Those mushy emotions will weaken a guy, you know, and we can’t be having that.  Also, anything that might take him out of a dominant role with me was out, obviously.

He had a real talent for bonhomie with his friends, though, which came out on these occasions.  I was able to sort of absorb some of the overflow of that bonhomie, and that was enough for me, largely because I knew nothing more would be forthcoming.  I think another reason I got to tag along was that I was a pretty good shot, too.  I had tried shooting skeet in the first grade, and I got seven out of 25, and this with a 12 gauge, pump-action shotgun knocking me around.  I had a BB gun from an early age and could take bumblebees out of the air with fair regularity.  By the time I was middle school age, I could shoot about as well as anyone, but of course, a southern boy must defer and not try to make a big deal out of himself.

In keeping with this deferential mode, we usually took up something less than the prime locations at the dove fields.  There was plenty for everybody, usually, and my Dad, being a “college boy” from Pennsylvania and Ohio, was always something of an outsider at these events.  And why not?  Most of the rest of the people at the field were relatives or childhood friends.  One simply defers.

But that explains why we were where we were on the particular day I have in mind.  It was far from a prime location.  The field was long and fairly narrow–narrow enough that the shotgun pellets from the other side rained down on us with regularity.  Most of the doves were coming into the field from the other end that day, too.  They had quite a time making it to us down this long narrow field without getting shot.  Most of the ones that did were really moving and good at dodging the shots coming at them.

For anyone who thinks a dove can’t dodge a shot, maybe you have to see it to believe it.  They look right at you, and about the time you take aim on them, they cant their wings a bit and slip sideways just enough to make you miss.  And if you don’t think they’re fast, again, get under a flock in your car and prove it to yourself.  Barely flapping along, they can make 50 miles an hour; get them in a hurry, and it’s more like 70.

So, the “double” I took that day was pretty special to me.  The light was beginning to fail, and the birds passed by behind us instead of out over the field.  They had been shot at several times, and they were at top speed.  Passing left to right, the trailing bird several feet lower than the leader, maybe 20 feet separated them.  I swung my 20 gauge Browning Superposed on the trailing bird, and when I fired, the recoil bumped the shotgun up just enough to swing on the leader.  I dropped them both in about a second, and as the sound of the shot faded, I heard our hunting partner, a much admired coworker of my father’s, howling out a prolonged, congratulatory Rebel yell.

These are the kinds of elements that make a moment elegant, evocative, and memorable, to me, anyway.  The coherent timing of the events; the attractive arrangement of the particular sights and sounds; the economical execution of a simple act; appreciation shown by a respected person; and in this particular case, the approval of a person who, while “close,” might as well have been little more than a significant stranger.

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