MY UNCLE WAS SIX-FOUR AND THE
GREATEST QUAIL HUNTER
I EVER KNEW...
*********************
It was May 1, 2015 and the awful allergy-
causing fruitless mulberry pollen had finally
fallen from a high of 2968 to 111.
I went upstairs to spring-clean my attic a bit...
and open the window for some fresh air.
Bobby Joe is coming over for a visit soon
and I wanted things to be ...nice! I checked
my NEHI grapes, BARQ's big orange drinks,
and my stock of Beanie Weenies. Bob likes
those.
As I sat on the edge of my GI surplus 3/4 size
bed, I sipped on my last Delaware Punch,
imported from old Mexico @ $2.00 per.
My eyes, as usual, checked-out my "awesome
attic," (alliteration intended)---literally seeing
my life pass by---as noted in dozens of old
pieces of equipment (fishing, hunting, photos,
books, etc.) This often happened when I went
upstairs to read, write, think, or doze.
(BE often says: "You need to downsize---get
rid of some of your stuff up there!" What? And
give away pieces and chapters of my life? No
way!)
Today, sitting and drinking my expensive
Delaware Punch, and looking around the
cozy upstairs room, with the slanted roof,
my eyes settled on an old soiled, wrinkled,
faded-tan, now-too-small---hunting coat---
hanging over in the corner on a sixteen
penny nail. (The suave name today for such
a jacket...is "barn coat.")
I lovingly took it down off the nail. Alas, it
was assuming the "hanging nail shape" with
its stiffness. It felt a little heavy---imagine
how my heart skipped a beat to haul out
of the right pocket two high-brass green
Remington 12's...still in good shape...
7 1/2's.
Wow! They made good ammo! I wonder
what hunt those shells were left over from.
Though this coat was acquired late in life,
at age 27---(I had been chasing quail all
over Texas for years by then)---it took me
back in a hurry to my exciting beginnings
as a young teen-age hunter with my dad
and Uncle Howard.
I liked to remember Uncle Howard, a West
Texas cotton farmer his whole life. At a full
6 feet, four inches, or more--- tall---he was
one of the most imposing and toughest of men.
Born in 1912, all he ever knew was hard
work. He was a "depression kid" and went
off to fight WWII at a remote place called
New Guinea. I thought he resembled the
actor, Robert Ryan.
After the war, and by the time I was fifteen,
Dad had given me his old 16 gauge Stevens
double barrel shotgun and got himself one
of those new ITHACA pump shotguns.
(At fifteen I was a wispy 150 pounds and
6' 3" tall and that Stevens 16 kicked like a
mule. After a good day of hunting, my right
shoulder was blue for a week. It's true.)
The old timers say that Uncle Howard and
I made quite a pair, he at 6' 4" and I at 6' 3"
when we were doing the "tall guys' run,"
leaning forward and sort of loping along,
after those fast blue quail. Dad was shorter
and a bit more deliberate in his gait.
Now it must be said that Uncle H. was not a
city-dude-hunter by any stretch. No sir.
No Abercrombie and Fitch or L.L. Bean
hunting ensemble for him---no marvelous
waterproof Red Wing boots. He was a
farm boy. He made do.
When he hunted, he wore his plowing
Levi's, work shirt; it was usually cold and
he wore his striped-coveralls over
those---and his old Sears and Roebuck
low-top work shoes.
His costume didn't matter to a fifteen
year old--anticipating a day's splendid
quail hunting...when…Uncle H. opened
the trunk of his car, brought out his
scarred pump shotgun (they say: "Real
Texans prefer pumps!"), worked the action
(with that majestic heart-thrilling,
click-clack sound) to check for empty---
then he would open a box of twelve gauge
shells, grab a handful for each coverall
pocket, and off we'd go--- my blood
pressure up, with excitement.
"Pop," my grandad, usually went along in
the back seat, as an observer. He was a bit
older and had walked enough miles plowing
behind mules. He'd rather sit...than hunt.
We covered a lot of territory in those years
of the forties, when much of Dawson and
Gaines Counties were covered by wildlife-
friendly mesquite pastures, with giant mesquite
bushes, cacti, "bear grass," and all manner of
small trees and vegetation.
Lunch was many times enjoyed at a rural store
crossroads, with a post office, and a school
building...there were a good many little
communities like that in those days.
We'd go into these interesting stores and buy
cheese, crackers, onion, potato chips, pork 'n
beans, and baloney...with a big orange drink,
maybe. Yum yum...and ah, such fun!
In those times, with all the natural cover, there
were plenty of quail everywhere. They loved
to shelter (safe from hawks and predators)
under big cacti, huge mesquites...around old
deserted farm barns and buildings, and near
windmills, for water.
When a hunt was over by usually mid-afternoon,
we'd head over to Uncle H.'s garage….a place used
more for storage or work it seemed, than
parking cars.
The men would light up good cigars, talk a bit,
and have those birds cleaned and ready for a
fried quail supper, with mashed potatoes, biscuits,
and gravy...and maybe some fried okra out of
the freezer...as only those farm women could
cook!
Over the years I hunted all over Texas and
New Mexico...I remember hunting bob whites
with dogs around Childress, Texas...
Wading through nests of rattlesnakes northwest
of Melrose to find quail (and amazingly on a
sunny November 1 day!)
Chasing blues up the mesas around Maljamar
and Loco Hills...they were fast!
In the early years there were quail everywhere
south of Portales...and on down around Elida
and Dora...on the ranches...
But I reckon, as is true with many things in life,
hunting never got any better (I went many
times---later in life) ... than hunting with Uncle
Howard and Dad down there in West Texas---
TEXANS: Good people... good place...hard-working
folks who were proud to be Americans...they had
their own "politically correct" rules: "Don't Mess
Around With Me" ---"Mind Your Own Damn
Business!"
-----------------
"Time and chance" happened, as it says in
Ecclesiastes, and the tides carried me back
to N.M. where we have been for fifty-four
years.
The last time Uncle H. and I quail-hunted was in
1960, New Year's Day. Headed down to
Lamesa from north Texas, for a hunt the next
day, we hit a heavy fog north of Lubbock and
could drive only about twenty mph. We finally
made it okay.
Dad came down and we had a good hunt.
What better can be said? I got a shot of
them cleaning the birds.
Yawn...just remembering those strenuous
hunts makes me sleepy. My attic is cozy.
Would you mind if I left you and dozed
off a bit?
Uncle Howard and Dad
*******************MIL'S PLACE
BY MIL
May 3, 2015
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