A 12-gauge Single Barrel Shotgun
Daddy said I could go hunting with him when I was 13 and how I looked forward to that date. For years, I had watched in awe as Daddy came home from his hunts and emptied his coat of quail and rabbits. I sat beside him as he cleaned them and admired his skill in dressing his kill.
Then, one day, he said that I may be able to go hunting sooner if I learned how to clean quail by myself before I turned 13. It was a brilliant move on his part because I quickly mastered the art of skinning birds, removing their heads and legs, cleaning out the insides and picking shot from the breasts. Daddy would come home from a hunt, put the birds on the floor of the basement and leave me to my duties while he and Mom got dressed and ready to go out to the Country Club and dance. Bird cleaning duties were now mine alone.
“Okay,” he finally said as I was able to neatly pick and clean the quail. “Your 13th birthday is November 30, but you can go hunting with me in October when squirrel season comes in.”
What precious words filled my ears. It was similar, I think, to when Noah’s boys said, “Hey, Dad, I see land ahead.”
It had been determined that when I began hunting, I would use the old single barrel 12-gauge shotgun in the closet. Daddy shot it when he was a boy, and it may have even been used by his father. It was old, I knew that. There had once been some etching on the side of the barrel which was now worn away with time. Still, it was a real gun, and I would get to go hunting with my dad in October.
The day arrived and I had hardly slept the night before, but we were up before dawn to a breakfast of bacon, eggs and toast. There was frost on the windshield as we headed for a nearby stand of oaks. Daddy positioned me at a strategic place, but I didn’t see a single squirrel the entire morning. There were likely two reasons. First, there weren’t all that many squirrels in West Virginia in those days, and second, I had fidgeted all morning and wary squirrels don’t tolerate a lot of fidgeting.
As we met later that morning, Daddy had shot a couple of squirrels and suggested we at least try out the shotgun I was shouldering. He sat up a can, marked off 20 paces and told me to fire when ready.
I aimed, drew back the hammer and squeezed the trigger.
Ka-boom!!
I was not prepared for the violent kick of the old shotgun as it nearly knocked me on my behind. It hurt like the dickens, but I dared not let on for fear I would lose my future hunting privileges. So, I suffered in silence. The reaction to the kick of this beast of a gun left a huge circle of black and blue on my shoulder and I had only shot once.
But still, I was now hunting with my Dad, and had a real gun of my own. I will never forget that old shotgun, even though time had forever erased its name.
