It was Nov. 11, 1956. I was 12 years old, soon to be 13, and it was the opening of hunting season in West Virginia. In 1956, there were more albino armadillos in West Virginia than deer, so hunting season to me meant quail and rabbits.
I had my own shotgun, a single barrel .410 and I was going hunting. November 11, Veteran’s Day, meant that my Dad would take the day off. He and Melvin Crantz left early that morning with all our bird dogs secured in the trunk.
Unfortunately, schools were open that day and I impatiently watched the school clocks tick their way from 8:45 to 3:45, and then I was off. Like a cannon shot, I sped home, slipped into my hunting clothes, stuffed a dozen shells in my pocket and grabbed my shotgun as I hustled out the door.
I had little chance for shooting a quail, hunting as I was without a bird dog, but maybe a rabbit might come my way. I walked to the end of the block on Court Street, squeezed beneath the two lowest strands of barbed wire and worked my way across a grown up pasture field. To be out hunting, by myself, with my own gun, sent a rush of emotions through my veins that I had never before experienced. I was on the top of the world.
I had barely walked a hundred yards when a rabbit jumped up in front of me. I quickly put the gun to my shoulder, cocked the hammer and fired. I didn’t know if I had shot the rabbit or not, but I couldn’t see him running anymore, so there was hope. Some fifteen yards down the path, there he was. My first rabbit. I was beyond thrilled. I circled the rabbit to make sure he was dead, and then I picked him up, reached behind my back and slipped him into my hunting coat. He was warm and heavy at the same time and I was on top of the world. I couldn’t wait until Daddy came home and I could tell him all about it.
It was still early, plenty of daylight left, so I continued down the same trail. Just a few steps later, a second rabbit shot out almost from between my legs. I shouldered the gun again and dropped him in his tracks.
Holy Moly! I had not been hunting fifteen minutes and had killed two rabbits. I stuffed the second bunny in my coat, but by now I was so excited I literally ran back home to tell Mom. She was happy for me, of course, but I wanted to tell Daddy. He would understand my great accomplishment. I waited and waited as it grew dark and no Daddy. I suspected he and Melvin had hunted in Union, about forty-five minutes away, and they likely hunted until sunset.
Finally, the car pulled in our driveway and I raced out to greet Daddy to tell him what happened. The recount of my hunt, which I practiced in my mind for several hours, was spilled in a matter of seconds. Daddy came in, saw my two rabbits and admired them for their size.
I don’t know what would excite a 12-year old boy today, but November 11, 1956 is a day that will be forever etched in my book of great memories.