Not What You Think

The author’s Winchester Model 12 has been on 58 consecutive opening day dove hunts.

They miss it, do the antis.

Totally and completely. It sails right over their heads. But then, folks believe what they want to believe; no changing it, mostly.

It saddens me though. That they think it’s about a pile of dead birds.

Ever have your best day and your worst day on the same day? That’s opening day of dove season for me. EVERY opening day. I’ll try to explain it to you. And maybe sometime when you’re up against an anti-hunter/gunner/any other type of personal freedom, you’ll pick up a tidbit of argument.

Opening day of dove season is to me what Christmas morning is to a 5-year-old. That’s no exaggeration. A most gracious God has blessed me with such excellent health that I haven’t missed an opening day in the field in 58 years. 

See that Winchester Model 12? Bought for me weeks before I was born. It is the not-fancy-but-functional hard-working pump gun that all other pump guns aspire to be. And yes, I still shoot it on opening day.

Which comes, as set by the feds, the first Saturday in September each year. I could fill this magazine and several more—with opening-day memories of that gun.

And, mostly, Daddy—who bought it for me, taught me the heavy-handed old-school way of using it with supreme safety and utmost courtesy and walked beside me all the way.

That’s best.

Worst? The date of his death is Sept. 8, 1984. They tell me these things get easier with time.

We’ll see.

The first 25 of those opening days were spent with him. The last 32 missing him. 

But don’t for a moment believe that it’s in any way a morbid sense. We had too much fun for that. That’s what I miss. The twinkle in his eye and the wry smile each time that 12 knocked a bird out of the sky.

Or the sly, just-between-you-and-me ribbing when it didn’t. He never believed in making a spectacle of anything. Maybe that’s why the bond was so close.

Of all the memories of the pump, my favorite involved rain, loudmouths, cans and bottles and a shooting contest—that I got roped into!

The story’s in Rabbit Stompin’, so I won’t repeat it here. But I can still see the smile on his face…

There could never be anyone to replace him. But Doyle Dowdy, whom you’ve met here, filled the tremendous void tremendously.

Best friend I ever had even while providing much-needed guidance when Daddy was no longer there. We spent some opening days together, too.

Which brings me to the shells.

Doyle also left way too early, Jan. 29, 2014. He knew he was going, and one of the things he wanted me to have was the camo vest he wore to those shoots. In it rested several loose shells.

Back when I looked through a kid’s eyes, there was only one shotgun shell that existed: Winchester XPERT. That’s what these happened to be. How old?

Old.

As I wistfully rolled them around in my hands on opening morning, it’s as if I could see Doyle’s sparkling eyes looking over his glasses as he poked and prodded, “You big dummy, go use those things to bring home a mess of birds!”

So, I did. The first five rounds dropped five birds. Then I missed. Then I saved the rest and opened a new box…

Maybe you’ve picked up on the fact that there’s a lifetime wrapped up in each opening day of dove season. There’s a lot of looking back. And on the other hand…

Sitting side by side with me—just because I like it that way—was my son Myles. Side by side with him—because they both like it that way—was a very large part of all our hearts named Elizabeth.

A hundred yards across the field sits son Dylan, with his wife Ally and my 5-year-old grandson, Holt.

(A half-century-plus pattern is happily developing here…)

Holt got started even earlier than I did; he’s been coming to the field with us since he was 2. The plan for him and me is to not miss an opening day for the next 53 years, so he can catch up.

So that we can amass a pile of birds? What birds…