by Gaila Oliver | May 5, 2017 | Bird Watching, Cooking, Hunting, Robert Hitt Neill, Shooting, sportsmen, Wild Turkey Hunting
Couple of weekends ago, I was struck by how disrespectful some of the younger generation have become these days. Seems like when I was growing up, children were to perhaps be seen but not heard, right? Happened thisaway.
I was carrying on a light conversation with an older, mature adult, though to be honest about it, we were doing so at some distance between us, yet our discourse was extremely friendly. As I was sitting there, here comes this gang – only word that fits here, in this situation – of juveniles, about fifteen of them. They crowded in betwixt me and the other adult, with no regard for manners. I lost sight of the object of my conversation – well, actually, our conversation ceased – as they approached where I sat, milling about and gawking at me, though I certainly didn’t want their attention, and tried to make that plain by totally ignoring them.
You cannot ignore youngsters like those. They kept coming closer and closer, at times breaking into a run, rather like they were competing with each other to see who could best disrupt my pleasant morning. I caught brief glimpses of my former conversant, but was unable to attract his attention, with this gang now strutting about, flexing their muscles as if trying to impress any maidens they might imagine would be looking their way, occasionally breaking into macho posturing amongst themselves. Rudeness personified! What mothers might have raised youngsters as ill-mannered as these?
I cast my gaze down into my lap in an effort to have them bypass me. Oh, don’t misunderstand me here: I was not atall afraid of these juveniles; they didn’t scare me. I just chose not to dignify their conduct by deigning to acknowledge their presence. Sometimes rude youngsters will go off and leave you alone, if you refrain from letting them know that they have succeeded in antagonizing you.
Alas, it was not to be. They crowded even closer. Fifteen of them within fifteen feet of me, milling about, getting in the way, now and again making rude noises while watching intently for any reaction from me.
Okay, my instincts began to say: you want a rumble, I’ll give you one. I had managed to get my hand on my weapon unseen as they approached. Now I eased the safety off and tried to pick out the biggest one, who would probably be the leader. He did it for me, marching right up into my face, coming eyeball to eyeball with me. If it had been raining, we’d have been under the same umbrella – shoot, almost under the same hat brim, if it was a Stetson!
He may have seen my gun, being that close. It should have frightened him, but he didn’t act thataway. He uttered a series of crudities, shook his head uncivilly, and began to stalk away as if he was actually somewhat disgusted with MY behavior!
This was too much. My adult conversant was forgotten as my hand tightened on the gun, safety off, to teach this juvenile a lesson he’d never forget!
Then reason prevailed: there’s a law against that, whether I agreed with it or not! As Betsy has warned me before, “They’ll put you under the jail, if you shoot him!”
I didn’t do it. I let him, I let them all walk away. I endured their uncouth, vulgar display and rose above it, though my trigger finger itched. Still itches, when I think about it. It’s itching now!
Some laws I disagree with, in certain circumstances. In this case, I really think I would have been justified in shooting that gang leader. Used to be, in this country, that the law wasn’t concerned with killing juvenile delinquents like that. The laws protecting these types have been passed relatively recently, and the “He needed killing” defense used to be enough! I say, we ought to go back to those old days.
Besides, those young gobblers taste better than the older birds. Much tenderer.
The young gobblers – “Jakes” or “Blue Johns,” we call them – stayed around me for at least 20 minutes, while the one big gobbler refused to come quite into range, strutting and pirouetting in a clearing about fifty yards away. Wouldn’t have made much difference if he had been forty yards – I couldn’t move to get my gun on him with all those Jakes around me, anyway. And I sure couldn’t call, maybe give him a whine and cluck.
He knew where I was exactly. He sent the youngsters in to check me out, while he remained just out of range. They done it to me again, I thought as I left the woods at noon.
by Gaila Oliver | May 2, 2017 | Bird Watching, Cooking, Hunting, Robert Hitt Neill, Shooting, sportsmen, Wild Turkey Hunting
Heading down for south Mississippi recently, and initially got excited when I glimpsed a flock of large black birds on the side of the road up ahead. It was still turkey season, and I began to think whether I could get to my shotgun without stopping the car. The car just ahead of me was showing no signs of slowing, though, so I reached toward the back seat to get my hand on the gun. At 60 mph, I figured the turkeys to run off the side of the road down by the little creek when the car in front flushed them, and maybe I could pull off, sprint down on my side of the creek, and get a shot.
The birds went for Plan B, instead. I braked and began to pull off, checking the rearview mirror to be sure no one was coming, but the big birds stood their ground until the last moment, then flushed across the road just in front of the leading car, some of them flying. One didn’t make it. The front bumper caught the bird and flung it into the corner of the passenger windshield. At 60 mph, the bird visibly splattered. The car swerved, almost veering into the ditch, before the driver regained control and pulled off the road.
Turkey shooting was forgotten in my concern for the other driver, who burst from the car as I pulled up behind her. It was a lady, and she bent over and threw up right in the road. Close calls do that, sometime. I got out to help, if I could.
GAG!!!! Those big black birds were not wild turkeys; they were buzzards!
Freshly-splattered buzzard is not something you want to sniff up close and personal!
I whipped out my bandana handkerchief for the teary-eyed lady, and gently guided her upwind of the stinking vehicle, then stepped closer (still upwind!) to inspect the damage. One headlight was broken out, and the windshield was cracked pretty good, though it didn’t presently distort the driver-side vision yet. I reported the damage to the lady, who by now had recovered enough to talk.
“If the windshield isn’t cracked all the way across, then what’s that streaked all the way over to the driver’s side?” she asked, pointing.
“Ma’am, that’s the insides of the buzzard you hit,” I declared.
“Buzzards! I thought those were wild turkeys!” she exclaimed.
Well, so had I, but I had an excuse. I’m from the Mississippi Delta, and we ain’t had buzzards to speak of since the cows left the Delta in the late sixties, when all the pasture land went to row crops. You just about have to leave the Delta to see a buzzard. Not that seeing a buzzard, especially close-up and freshly splattered, is something worth your leaving the Delta for, if you want my opinion.
An older friend of mine used to have an expression describing someone who was extremely depressed: “You look like you been whupped with a buzzard gut!” John Allen was a pilot, and claimed he had once experienced a mid-air collision with a buzzard, which ended up in the cockpit, as splattered as the one this lady had collided with. He said he had to sell the plane, because he never got the smell out. He was right on both counts.
The lady was recovered now, and went to get back in the car, which was still sitting on the side of the road with the door open. She got to the door, and gagged, turning away as she slammed it shut. She moved upwind again, fighting for control. I got a fresh whiff and declared, “Ma’am, why don’t you let me drive you home, and send someone to tow your car to where they can wash it for you?” I had seen from her tag that she lived in the county. She shook her head.
“No, I’ll drive it on home. I was in a hurry. My kids are with the babysitter and my husband won’t be home until late this afternoon. Surely, when I get on the road, that smell will dissipate. Thanks for stopping to help. If you’ll give me your name and address, I can mail your handkerchief back after I wash it.” I said she could have it, ‘cause I didn’t want it back. She nodded, and bravely walked to the car. It’s a good thing she still had the bandana. She opened the door, reached in for her purse, jumped back, and bent over to upchuck in the road again. I moved her upwind once more and took the bandana down to the creek to rinse it out. When I returned, she had a plan.
Grimly, she took a bottle of cologne from her purse and sprayed it onto the bandana, then folded it into a bandit-like mask and knotted it behind her neck, pulling it up over her nose and mouth. She looked like Butch Cassidy at the train robbery.
Last I saw her, she was driving over the hill, windshield sprayer and wipers going full-blast. I hope she got home okay. I bet she sold that car!
by Gaila Oliver | Feb 10, 2017 | Cooking, Dogs, Hunting, sportsmen, wildlife
Our oldest daughter lived in Noo Yawk City for fifteen years, only coming back to Brownspur every couple of years for a visit. She called the Opening weekend of Dove Season (which we celebrate as New Year’s Day!) to say she was getting some vacation time, and would be home for a Thanksgiving visit. Betsy naturally asked what she might request to be on the menu while she was at home, figuring that she might be ready for some good ole homestyle grub.
Christie considered only briefly: “Oh, I’d really like to get Adam and Daddy to save me some dove breasts, and have some marinated, wrapped in bacon, and grilled. Then of course I’d like some of them broiled in your sherry sauce, served over rice, okay? Maybe with some boiled new squash and baby butterbeans? And the grilled doves, obviously Daddy will cook mixed sliced zucchini, peppers, and mushrooms on the grill too, with that balsamic vinegar and olive oil baste? And Barbequed Bananas for dessert.”
She continued, “I’d really like one meal of Adam’s fried venison steaks, rice and gravy, and blackeyed peas, if you’d make a pan of cornbread, too. Do y’all have any ‘sogum molasses’ so we could have hot buttered cornbread with ‘lasses for dessert?”
Betsy was nodding, writing all this down. Christie was just getting warmed up.
“What about one night a venison loin, marinated in soy sauce all day and lightly introduced to a hot fire? And of course, I’d want Daddy’s shish-ka-bob duck breasts, with that orange sauce baste he won the cooking contest with. Do y’all have any rabbits, since the last beagle died? I’d really like some rabbit shish-ka-bobs one night, with that mint sauce baste Daddy invented, and saute some mushrooms to go with the rest of the vegetables on the skewers. Maybe with some homemade wholewheat bread and dewberry jelly, unless you’ve made muscadine jelly this year, then I’d like that. Heck, maybe both!”
Now she was getting enthusiastic. “Duck gumbo! You’ve got to make some duck gumbo, with the deer sausage cut up in it, served over wild rice with some real New Orleans (she went to Tulane) French bread for sopping with! Oh, Mom! I can smell it when I walk in the house, after you’ve been cooking on it the whole day!” By this time Betsy had her over the speaker phone, and I was getting hungry myself.
“I know you’ll have on a crock-pot of venison chili when Daddy brings me home from the airport, that goes without saying. Could I maybe try some of those jalapeno goose breasts that Adam said were so good last year? I’ve never had those, but I’d love to try them. And surely you’ll be making a pot of squirrel and dumplings, like we always have around Thanskgiving? Speaking of Thanksgiving, is Daddy going to slow-smoke a wild turkey over sassafrass coals, like he usually does? Gosh, I can’t wait for that! Be sure you’ve got plenty of Jezebel Sauce made up to go with it, and a pan of cornbread dressing. Did you know that these yankees call it ‘stuffing’? I told them that’s what you do with a big buck when you hang the head on the wall!
“And it wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without your Oysters Johnny Reb casserole. Could we have spaghetti squash and some of those baked acorn squash with brown sugar and nutmeg for vegetables? Oh, and one night a big pan of your zucchini lasagna. For breakfast, I’d like your egg, cheese, & sausage casserole, that Tommy Paterson used to call ‘Miss Betsy’s Opening Day Slop,’ every morning, with the homemade wholewheat bread and your strawberry fig preserves!”
Then the crowning feast: “Then, for the last supper before I leave, of course we’ll have fried quail on toast with dewberry jelly, rice and gravy, and lemon meringue pie!”
Betsy was a little sarcastic when she paused. “Okay. Anything else?”
Christie was having no part of it. “Yes’um. Plenty of mint tea, and Daddy’s boiled coffee every morning when I wake up. Can he bring it to me in bed?”
What’s that old saying? “You can take the girl out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the girl!” This one had been Raised Right! Hardly anything she had named could be bought in a grocery store.
But I draw the line at taking her my Famous Boiled Coffee in bed. At least, not every morning!
