I suppose it all began in September 1965. Mac McLaughlin, one of my dad’s best friends, owned property in south Rankin County around Cato. The rolling pastures, with scattered farm ponds, served well for cattle production. Weed control back in the day was primarily left for the cattle to address instead of expensive herbicides. Goatweed, also known as wooly croton, dotted the landscape as did clumps of horse nettle and bitter sneezeweed. The cattle preferred the tender shoots of bermuda grass and bahia grass thus leaving the aforementioned species. I still recall the pungent aroma of these weeds when one walked through the pastures loosening plant tissue and seeds from the mature fruiting structures the plants had produced. By the unintentional release of croton by the cattle not grazing it, they helped create an oasis for doves. As Paul Harvey always ended his daily commentary, now you know the rest of the story and why my dad made his presence on this farm.
I hopped off bus 85, dashing up the driveway after being released from Mrs. Barker’s first grade class. It’s a good thing mom wasn’t standing by the door, as I nearly knocked it from its hinges. I barely spoke as I took the cafeteria roll out of my dusty pocket and set it upon the counter for mom. If you didn’t already know, we used to get two rolls at lunch in school. I ate one and stuffed the other into my pocket for my mom. Whether it was covered in red sand from the playground or not, she smiled and ate it. This was a tradition I fondly remember from grade school that mom and I shared together. But back to the story.
I quickly changed clothes throwing the grungy blue jeans on the floor for mom to pick up, exchanging them for my one pair of camouflage. Dad had promised to take me to the field to shoot a dove. No wonder I was in a rush. He already had my little Harrington & Richardson .410 stowed on the back seat of the Plymouth Fury. I rubbed the silver receiver before jumping in the car. I still have that wonderful little shotgun that has provided so many fond memories.
The plan was to sit in the weeds by the edge of a stock pond. It had been a dry summer, much like what we have endured this summer. Water had receded from the drought leaving a clean bank for the doves to land and grab a sip of water. There may or may not have been some wheat seed scattered along the edge, but that was long ago. We settled in and waited for the first birds to arrive. Just to clarify, I wasn’t an experienced wing shot yet, so dad thought I had a better chance of “connecting” if I had an opportunity at a bird on the ground instead of a flying target. It didn’t take long.
With a whistling of wings, a pair landed just as we had hoped. I began to make my move. First though, I had to cock the hammer on the single shot scatter gun. It was hard for a lad of my age, and I had to raise the barrel into the air to get enough leverage to pull it back. Doves have keen eyesight and as soon as I moved, they picked me out and took flight. To say I was disappointed was the understatement. We continued the watch, and it wasn’t long before another rush of wings caught our attention. However, this time it was a small flock of Blue-Winged Teal that softly touched down upon the still waters of the pond. Hmm, I wonder if they had found the wheat that may or may not have been scattered around the impoundment? Teal season wasn’t open, but they were just out of reach of my number 9’s anyway. They swam for a few minutes until one of the little birds got nervous, and they, too, took flight. So, the wait continued.
The afternoon waned and it was time to head back to the car. Perhaps another day would bring more opportunities for success. We walked by a pair of post oak trees with a cattle rub tied to them. I still recall the smell of creosote, lindane, diesel, and whatever else may have been poured on the rags. Cattle would rub themselves up and down to aid with fly control. The ground was bare of vegetation where cattle had continuously tromped the ground flat. This area was a preferred hangout for doves and from time to time we would flush them from the trees. As we neared the small grove of oaks, dad saw three doves headed our way. Their flight path would offer a passing shot for me to try and harvest the first dove of my young hunting career. There was time for dad to cock my little scattergun and hand it to me. The moment of truth was quickly approaching.
The birds were in a single line trailing each other. In hindsight, this may have been a gift. If you’re an avid bird hunter, then I don’t need to explain the need for a “lead” on a moving target. I’m pretty sure I was aiming at the middle bird when the firing pin struck the primer and ignited the gunpowder. It happened in an instant and somehow, to my astonishment, the gray speedster folded with a puff of feathers drifting with the breeze. I don’t remember handing the shotgun to my dad, but I’m pretty sure I was standing by my prize as soon as it hit the ground. I looked behind for pop, and he was taking methodical strides towards me, embracing the moment that we would reminisce over for decades to come.
I held the bird in my lap on the way home. I was the first one in the house holding my dove gently with both hands as I showed mom. I immediately asked her if she would cook it for me. I still recall her opening the cabinet drawer and bringing out the black iron skillet. I have the same skillet today underneath the stove. I watched every move my dad made as he cleaned my morsel to be. Washed and soaked in brine, he handed it to my mom and with a dusting of flour, salt, and pepper, I watched as she prepared the bird for the table. I did notice to the side of the stove she had another plate of doves ready for the skillet as well. I think this was the plan for dinner anyway, I was just fortunate to be able to add to the bounty for our family. I may have had better tasting doves in my life, but I can’t recall it if I have. A day to remember for sure.
Thirty years after I harvested my first bird, John Hartley harvested his first dove in the same way with the same shotgun that I used that memorable day. I remember his as vividly as I do my own. Since then, there have been hundreds of hunts that have taken place with memories made on each hunt. Depending on when this article lands at your doorstep, another season will have opened or will soon open. Jimmye sent me an email regarding some changes in press dates, but I’ll know soon. Regardless, the timing of the article will be close enough. There will be “firsts” all across our state. Mostly, it will come in the form of young boys and girls taking their first bird. In some instances, there will be adults that have never indulged into our hunting tradition, and they too, may harvest their first bird. No matter the circumstance, you’ll know when it happens if you’re so fortunate to be standing amid dry sunflowers when the abrupt hoops and hollers burst from the field signaling that a star has been born. Then, at the end of the hunt, the story will be told and re-told over and over as everyone intently listens in detail to how it all unfolded. There’s nothing like it, for sure!
Do you remember your first dove? Do you remember your first dove hunt and all it entailed? Do you look forward to the season year after year? If you’re like me, I’m sure you live for this day. It all begins now. The good times, the fellowship, the hugs, and handshakes from those we haven’t seen since this time last year will all be part of the journey. I suppose the best description of what is about to take place came from Tucker Miller years ago after a long hot summer in the cotton field. He said, and I quote,” I’m ready to smell some perfume, some gunpowder, and some Jack Daniel’s whiskey.” Alan Grittman and I fell out laughing. Yep, that pretty much summed it up, for the good times are upon us. I hope your opening day is safe, fun, and memorable. Let me know how it goes. Until next time enjoy our woods and waters and remember, let’s leave it better than we found it.
