Post by tuketu on Mar 29, 2022 11:49:14 GMT -4
Remember When
Another spring is upon us … It will be my 62nd. As I stare out my upstairs window at Clark Park, I find myself waiting as, Anne Murray would say, "The unborn grass lays waiting for its gold to turn to green". Where has the time gone? Years seem like days, passing all too quickly. I now know what they mean by "In the blink of an eye". As time hastens by, my memory wanes and only snippets of my childhood remain.
Growing up in rural Nova Scotia as a lad, the woods were a second home. Building forts and exploring the stands and thickets were just a part of growing up. Fourteen was a special birthday; I could now go hunting for real, although we were restricted to being in the company of an adult over 18 years of age, which really sucked. When 16 came it was a whole new world! I could now head to the woods unsupervised with my new CIL model 401, 16 gauge single shot shotgun: a gun that sits in my cabinet to this day. It's still in remarkably good shape but finding 16 gauge shells nowadays is another story. A lot of bb's were punched thru that barrel, many of which fell well short of their mark , which I must confess was not the fault of the shells.
Those were different times. We couldn't wait for October 15th, the first day of ruffed grouse (partridge) season; it was number two on the special days list, with Christmas and Birthday being a tie for first …. It's the old math ! Home from school by 3:30 pm we flew out the bus, grabbed our guns and bolted out the door. Our favorite spot for partridge was down behind Armstrong's Slaughterhouse and required a walk thru Town, that being the shortest and quickest route. Back then we'd strut down Main Street; hand on the barrel with the stalk cracked over the shoulder. The old fellas would drive by and smile or give their honk of approval. My, my, my how things have changed.
We did manage to bring a few home, and it was a big boost of pride, thinking you were providing for the family, cause that's what a man of the family was supposed to do. Not that we ever went hungry, far from it, but a feed of grouse was a real treat and never went to waste. I couldn't begin to count the number of times those little buggers scared the Bejesus out of me, waiting until I passed by before they flew. Our kill ratio was well into the 0.0 something percentile. I smile when I think of those days, young, innocent (sorta) and full of piss and vinegar. The miles of woods we covered, yes sir, there were no quads in those days and the trikes were in their infancy, boy the miles and toil we put those old Kodiak boots through.
Those days are far behind me now, although I'm still quite able to get around through the woods, my heart has softened. The appetite to kill has been replaced with a reverence for life and all things wild. I no longer have the urge to hunt grouse, but I relish the opportunity of being able to catch a glimpse, or if I’m lucky, a photo of one in the wild. What I do know is that every October 15th the young hunter in me flashes back to a simpler and happier time., as I "Remember When".
Spruce Grouse
tuk
Another spring is upon us … It will be my 62nd. As I stare out my upstairs window at Clark Park, I find myself waiting as, Anne Murray would say, "The unborn grass lays waiting for its gold to turn to green". Where has the time gone? Years seem like days, passing all too quickly. I now know what they mean by "In the blink of an eye". As time hastens by, my memory wanes and only snippets of my childhood remain.
Growing up in rural Nova Scotia as a lad, the woods were a second home. Building forts and exploring the stands and thickets were just a part of growing up. Fourteen was a special birthday; I could now go hunting for real, although we were restricted to being in the company of an adult over 18 years of age, which really sucked. When 16 came it was a whole new world! I could now head to the woods unsupervised with my new CIL model 401, 16 gauge single shot shotgun: a gun that sits in my cabinet to this day. It's still in remarkably good shape but finding 16 gauge shells nowadays is another story. A lot of bb's were punched thru that barrel, many of which fell well short of their mark , which I must confess was not the fault of the shells.
Those were different times. We couldn't wait for October 15th, the first day of ruffed grouse (partridge) season; it was number two on the special days list, with Christmas and Birthday being a tie for first …. It's the old math ! Home from school by 3:30 pm we flew out the bus, grabbed our guns and bolted out the door. Our favorite spot for partridge was down behind Armstrong's Slaughterhouse and required a walk thru Town, that being the shortest and quickest route. Back then we'd strut down Main Street; hand on the barrel with the stalk cracked over the shoulder. The old fellas would drive by and smile or give their honk of approval. My, my, my how things have changed.
We did manage to bring a few home, and it was a big boost of pride, thinking you were providing for the family, cause that's what a man of the family was supposed to do. Not that we ever went hungry, far from it, but a feed of grouse was a real treat and never went to waste. I couldn't begin to count the number of times those little buggers scared the Bejesus out of me, waiting until I passed by before they flew. Our kill ratio was well into the 0.0 something percentile. I smile when I think of those days, young, innocent (sorta) and full of piss and vinegar. The miles of woods we covered, yes sir, there were no quads in those days and the trikes were in their infancy, boy the miles and toil we put those old Kodiak boots through.
Those days are far behind me now, although I'm still quite able to get around through the woods, my heart has softened. The appetite to kill has been replaced with a reverence for life and all things wild. I no longer have the urge to hunt grouse, but I relish the opportunity of being able to catch a glimpse, or if I’m lucky, a photo of one in the wild. What I do know is that every October 15th the young hunter in me flashes back to a simpler and happier time., as I "Remember When".
Spruce Grouse
tuk