The year 2015 has bit the dust, while 2016 has become a must. The bells that rang out when the New Year arrived have been quieted by snowstorms making it harder to drive. If you read these lines carefully, you’ll think I’m a poet. But I’m not in the mood, at this moment to show it. I one time liked snow; it was here to enjoy. But let’s face the facts; I’m no longer a boy.
It’s a fact, you can’t roll back time, but you can bring memories forward. I love the changing seasons, but as my mobility falters, I have grown to dislike winter, but this was not always so.
During my double digit preteen and early teen years, I spent my free time during daylight hours roaming the hedgerows of the country. This happened only on weekends, as I had a couple of Jersey cows to hand milk, before school and after, during the dark lantern lit mornings and evenings of winter.
When snow was deep, I was usually on homemade cross-country skis or on bargain-bought snowshoes. I suspect they were traded for the equivalent cost of about 10 dozen eggs on our each-week Thursday egg route. They showed up one year as a gift for the family at Christmas.
These were fun times for me, as I carried with me a small-sized 22-calibre rifle. The unique shape of its hand-carved stock fit well when shoved down in the side of your knee-high rubber boot. It was conveniently placed there if your hands carried shot game such as pheasant, partridge or rabbit.
As a bonus, while hidden out of sight there, you could (my mother’s quote) “run like hell” if you thought that the game warden was following you. Sunday hunting was taboo back then, and carrying a gun while not yet 16 was known as a gun confiscation reason.
Each time I went, I would take both our dogs with me; they enjoyed the romp and I enjoyed their company. One of the dogs, “Sandy,” was a Scotch and wire-haired terrier cross while the other, “Spot,” though a crossbreed, too, had the stance of a full-blood greyhound.
Along the hedgerows, I would walk out at the snowbank tips while the dogs, not leashed, loved to romp up and over the deep banks of snow chasing each other. They soon learned how to work together. Sandy sniffed out the game hidden out of the wind in the alcoves of brush and snow, while Spot, who hunted by sight only, would easily catch them with her one, two, perhaps three, 20-foot leaps. Gentle mouthed, she killed with a single shake and would bring them to me and lay them at my feet. A stroke of my hand on her head was her only request.
Often, having never fired a single shot, I went home with a cottontail or jackrabbit, but never more than two, as we were taught to respect nature and never over hunt a given area.
The pheasant or partridge usually skyrocketed in a flurry up into the trees, quite often several at a time, and while stretching their necks, watching the excited antics of the dogs attempting to climb after them, a head shot left a clean undamaged carcass for the stew pot.
Remembered well, by more than I, is the pleasant aroma that drifted from the giant, old stewing pot that permanently simmered on the back of the old cast-iron woodstove.
The proud feeling of having helped fill it could be felt when a congratulatory hand of a family member was placed on your shoulder.
From the oven, came steaming hot loaves of homemade bread, to be liberally smeared with Jersey cream butter. Yum, yum and yum!
Take care, ‘cause we care.
barrie@barriehopkins.ca
519-986-4105