My Dad dragged me out pheasant hunting when I was about seven, threatened me when I got ahead of him and the dogs in the field. I imagined the back of his hand whipping me across the face to keep me behind the gun, but it never happened. I learned fast. At twelve, he took me out to our gun club and handed me over to some All Americans like John Dalton and others of his ilk. Dad seldom had to buy my second box of shells, the other shooters taking care of that chore. We always had a house full of setters, even though it was sometimes just one. By the time I was in college, I was the manager of our club and still had setters. Home from the Army in 1969, I still had setters as well as a great pointer, and still shot targets for money as well as a few box pigeons when I could afford them. A few years ago, we closed our eighty some year old club and I was honored as the senior member with the bronze plaque that had adorned the entrance. I continued my Parker addiction that had started when I was fourteen years old and that gravitated into PGCA Life Membership and a trip to Ilion with the PGCA Research Committee, the highlight of my shooting and collecting life. Now, at seventy four, I have to worry about liquidating my collection of guns and paper at an honorable price. Oh well, there is one in the mail, due Tuesday!
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