Rich Anderson
09-11-2016, 01:18 PM
The late October sun was already high in the sky as he made his way through the end of the aspen stand that bordered Wilson's Creek. The only sound was that of Stubbs's bell, the ground still wet from last nights rain. At the end of the Aspen stand was the remnants of an old home stead and that was a good place to take a break. The morning had produced one grouse, a bird heard but not seen as it flushed from the top of a Hemlock tree.
The parcel of land was 1600 acres that was inherited....sort of...in that it was state land and as much his as anyone else's. He thought of the people before him that had the foresight to set this land and other tracts of land aside to insure against developers and give the every day man a place to go to get away from the rat race for a while.
An apple was produced from his hunting coat along with a sandwich and a bottle of water. He cut the apple and the sandwich with a Marbles knife and shared them with Stubby. The knife was of World War two vintage and it had belonged to his Grandfather. Grandpa Jim was a bird hunter and a trap shooter of some note back in the day but had died before he was born. His Mom would tell him stories about how he went to the Upper peninsula of Michigan every fall for a month to hunt grouse then in the winter he went south for Quail and in between he hunted ducks and geese. In those days just getting to the Upper Peninsula was an adventure because there was no bridge then and sometimes weather delayed the ferry. Gramps like double guns and shot trap with a Parker. His Mom knew the different guns by the wood in the stocks and she always said the Parkers had the nicest wood and were his favorites.
When he died his wife sold all the guns to help make ends meet so there were few material things to remember his Grandfather by. A trophy from a trap shoot in 1936 , a Zippo lighter, the knife and a Smith & Wesson five screw M10 38 Special. This was given to him buy his parents as a birthday gift almost 40 years ago. It's rapped in an oily rag on the shelf of the gun safe. It was bought by his parents from his Mom's cousin who got it when her dad passed away. The story goes that his Grandfather lost it to her dad in a poker game over a half century ago. The greatest inheritance from his Grandfather however was the love of the hunt, a fine gun and a good dog.
He might ever had become a hunter however if it wasn't for his parents. His dad didn't hunt and wouldn't have known a Parker from a Fox. His Mom knew the gleam in a young boys eye though and they had friends who knew guns and the outdoors and were willing to help a young boy along. Men like Wid McCready who taught him to shoot skeet and the importance of follow through keeping the gun moving and Vic Calderone who took him deer hunting and showed him how to find a run or a scrape line and how to make a blind. Both men and others always stressed the importance of safety and what was behind the target. Lessons he took to heart and never forgot.
His Dad has been gone almost two years now and he was surprised by the number of people who came up to him and shook his hand offering their condolences but would interject that comment "Oh your the hunter, your dad has told us so much about you" or "your the gun guy we've heard a lot about you from your dad". It brought a smile and tear at the same time as he knew his Dad was proud of him.
He carried a Parker on that hunt as well as most hunts and this one was a favorite for him. It was no "collector" gun and he bought it almost five decades ago. For his first double gun true to his Grandfather he wanted a Parker. He squirrelled away whatever monies he could and worked at anything that would pay him so one day he could buy a real gun, a Parker. It was at a gun show while he was in college that he saw it. It was well used but not to abused and was a 16ga VHE. Now the receiver was well worn the case colors had disappeared long ago, the barrel blue was non existent along the forearm and the checkering was just a faint reminder of what was once there. The dog's head butplate had been replaced with a Hawkins pad that was as hard as the rock he was sitting on. The right ejector hadn't worked in at least 20 years but it didn't matter as he never left hulls on the ground anyway. He could afford to have sent out and refurbished but then it would lose it's history, it's soul. The gun carried stories in the dents and scratches either real or perceived that would be lost to the next caretaker if it was redone. It would lose it's inheritance like the small dent in the right barrel. It's been there for years decades really it was there when he bought the gun. How did it get there? Was it dropped, maybe it was leaning along a stone wall in a New England grouse cover and slipped, or perhaps the owners swing was stopped by a popple tree on a fast left to right crossing grouse. His finger ran across the dent on the right side of the butt stock and he remembered that one as it was one of his. Two years ago he slipped on a moss covered rock and fell face down with gun between him and the ground. He cut his head and had a big bruise on his left arm from that one.
As he and Stubby enjoyed their lunch he wondered how this land had become his land, state land. It was obviously homesteaded at some point. Was the crumbling remains of the chimney he leaned against the Wilson homestead? Is that how the creek got it's name? What happened to the family that tried to make a living here, were they victims of the Great Depression or had war taken the bread winner and they had to abandon the family farm. Did it go back to the state for taxes? The land will tell you stories if you take the time to look for them. The state had made a series of logging efforts which benefitted the grouse and the deer. The also had the foresight to gate the roads off and berm them to limit mechanized entry. He was glad there would be no housing developments or shopping malls here, it was quiet and peaceful.
He must have dozed off for awhile what with all that peacefulness
because now the sun was working on it's western arc. Stubby was asleep in a patch of sunlight like a flashlight beam of warmth from the heavens. He was a little chilled and as he buttoned the brown and tan wool shirt he thought of his little brother. Joe was a budding hunter and he got his first grouse at 15, his first deer at 16 and a year later his first buck. It was Joe's shirt he was wearing. He had big plans for Joe on hunts they would take and the passing of his guns along to him when the time was right but it didn't work out that way as Joe was called home early.
He called Stubby and they had just enough time to work an 80 acre clear cut that was done 20 years ago follow Wilson's creek to the two track and back to the truck before it was dark. He slipped two Peters paper shells in to the Parker and continued on his way enjoying all of his inheritance's. He was and is a rich man.
The parcel of land was 1600 acres that was inherited....sort of...in that it was state land and as much his as anyone else's. He thought of the people before him that had the foresight to set this land and other tracts of land aside to insure against developers and give the every day man a place to go to get away from the rat race for a while.
An apple was produced from his hunting coat along with a sandwich and a bottle of water. He cut the apple and the sandwich with a Marbles knife and shared them with Stubby. The knife was of World War two vintage and it had belonged to his Grandfather. Grandpa Jim was a bird hunter and a trap shooter of some note back in the day but had died before he was born. His Mom would tell him stories about how he went to the Upper peninsula of Michigan every fall for a month to hunt grouse then in the winter he went south for Quail and in between he hunted ducks and geese. In those days just getting to the Upper Peninsula was an adventure because there was no bridge then and sometimes weather delayed the ferry. Gramps like double guns and shot trap with a Parker. His Mom knew the different guns by the wood in the stocks and she always said the Parkers had the nicest wood and were his favorites.
When he died his wife sold all the guns to help make ends meet so there were few material things to remember his Grandfather by. A trophy from a trap shoot in 1936 , a Zippo lighter, the knife and a Smith & Wesson five screw M10 38 Special. This was given to him buy his parents as a birthday gift almost 40 years ago. It's rapped in an oily rag on the shelf of the gun safe. It was bought by his parents from his Mom's cousin who got it when her dad passed away. The story goes that his Grandfather lost it to her dad in a poker game over a half century ago. The greatest inheritance from his Grandfather however was the love of the hunt, a fine gun and a good dog.
He might ever had become a hunter however if it wasn't for his parents. His dad didn't hunt and wouldn't have known a Parker from a Fox. His Mom knew the gleam in a young boys eye though and they had friends who knew guns and the outdoors and were willing to help a young boy along. Men like Wid McCready who taught him to shoot skeet and the importance of follow through keeping the gun moving and Vic Calderone who took him deer hunting and showed him how to find a run or a scrape line and how to make a blind. Both men and others always stressed the importance of safety and what was behind the target. Lessons he took to heart and never forgot.
His Dad has been gone almost two years now and he was surprised by the number of people who came up to him and shook his hand offering their condolences but would interject that comment "Oh your the hunter, your dad has told us so much about you" or "your the gun guy we've heard a lot about you from your dad". It brought a smile and tear at the same time as he knew his Dad was proud of him.
He carried a Parker on that hunt as well as most hunts and this one was a favorite for him. It was no "collector" gun and he bought it almost five decades ago. For his first double gun true to his Grandfather he wanted a Parker. He squirrelled away whatever monies he could and worked at anything that would pay him so one day he could buy a real gun, a Parker. It was at a gun show while he was in college that he saw it. It was well used but not to abused and was a 16ga VHE. Now the receiver was well worn the case colors had disappeared long ago, the barrel blue was non existent along the forearm and the checkering was just a faint reminder of what was once there. The dog's head butplate had been replaced with a Hawkins pad that was as hard as the rock he was sitting on. The right ejector hadn't worked in at least 20 years but it didn't matter as he never left hulls on the ground anyway. He could afford to have sent out and refurbished but then it would lose it's history, it's soul. The gun carried stories in the dents and scratches either real or perceived that would be lost to the next caretaker if it was redone. It would lose it's inheritance like the small dent in the right barrel. It's been there for years decades really it was there when he bought the gun. How did it get there? Was it dropped, maybe it was leaning along a stone wall in a New England grouse cover and slipped, or perhaps the owners swing was stopped by a popple tree on a fast left to right crossing grouse. His finger ran across the dent on the right side of the butt stock and he remembered that one as it was one of his. Two years ago he slipped on a moss covered rock and fell face down with gun between him and the ground. He cut his head and had a big bruise on his left arm from that one.
As he and Stubby enjoyed their lunch he wondered how this land had become his land, state land. It was obviously homesteaded at some point. Was the crumbling remains of the chimney he leaned against the Wilson homestead? Is that how the creek got it's name? What happened to the family that tried to make a living here, were they victims of the Great Depression or had war taken the bread winner and they had to abandon the family farm. Did it go back to the state for taxes? The land will tell you stories if you take the time to look for them. The state had made a series of logging efforts which benefitted the grouse and the deer. The also had the foresight to gate the roads off and berm them to limit mechanized entry. He was glad there would be no housing developments or shopping malls here, it was quiet and peaceful.
He must have dozed off for awhile what with all that peacefulness
because now the sun was working on it's western arc. Stubby was asleep in a patch of sunlight like a flashlight beam of warmth from the heavens. He was a little chilled and as he buttoned the brown and tan wool shirt he thought of his little brother. Joe was a budding hunter and he got his first grouse at 15, his first deer at 16 and a year later his first buck. It was Joe's shirt he was wearing. He had big plans for Joe on hunts they would take and the passing of his guns along to him when the time was right but it didn't work out that way as Joe was called home early.
He called Stubby and they had just enough time to work an 80 acre clear cut that was done 20 years ago follow Wilson's creek to the two track and back to the truck before it was dark. He slipped two Peters paper shells in to the Parker and continued on his way enjoying all of his inheritance's. He was and is a rich man.