Quail Shoot

Hunting with Gramps

Me and Gramps, having milked the cow, headed out to the woods behind the barn for our daily quick morning hunt before he went to work at the coal mine.  I knew when it was time to go back because, even before gramma rang the dinner bell, I could smell the eggs frying.  Isn't that odd?  Not the bacon, but the eggs.  I had the 12 ga. shotgun.  I was 9 or 10.  As we navigated our way through (me) and over (him) the barbed wire fence,  a covey of quail took off.  If you've heard the sound, you know how startling it is. Still half under the barbed wire, I wheeled to take a shot at the birds and only Providence kept me from blowing grampa's head off. While I'd been schooled by him about never pointing a gun at anything I didn't want to kill, there had been no elaboration on how accidents happen.  That was the  elaboration. He knew it, and never said a another word, and I've never ever forgotten it where guns are involved.  My mind winces every time I think about it.   Cool guy my Grampa. Wow, he is getting younger looking every day. Gramps and Gramma (holding her first grandson)