June 1, 1952, my room is dark, and I’ve been awake half an hour when Dad comes in and needlessly asks “Ready?”
It was our first time he and I went squirrel hunting together.
We drive two miles east of town to where the road parallels Coal Creek before pulling off.
The first hint of daylight peeks through trees when an owl gives its final chorus of a deep-throated lament. Without a hint of breeze, the creek’s water, dark as its name, has no movement. A fish, probably a carp, rises to snatch something from the surface.
Dad leads the way along a well-worn path. He has me sit against an old sycamore, 20 yards from a cluster of small mulberry trees, their fruit just starting to ripen. He knows a squirrel or two will arrive soon to breakfast on the fruit.
I cradle a .410 single shot, an early 9th birthday present meant just for this safari. Aware of its powerful recoil — evidenced by a lingering bruise — I put the pain a distant second to the excitement of the hunt.
Dad warns me to “Be careful. Move slowly. Aim well.”
Within minutes the sky brightens and images hidden in the predawn take on form. Tree trunks turn from black to brown; shadowy masses at their tops become leafy green canopies.
Then, a squirrel’s chatter alerts me that one is nearby. “That’s what they sound like when they bark,” Dad had described it.
Moving my head ever so slightly I catch a glimpse of a moving tree branch. Then, a patch of burnt red. Tail twitching, a squirrel stops at the end of a limb, measures the distance and leaps to another branch.
My pulse quickens. I can hear my heart beating. Even though it’s relatively cool for late spring, I feel sweat inch its way down my forehead. If I were deer hunting, as I would years later, it would be called buck fever. I tell myself to get control.
The squirrel stops and I sense he’s spotted me. Yes, he’s sizing me up.
After a few seconds that seem much longer, the squirrel moves on and with one final leap reaches its destination.
Grabbing a mulberry, it sits up and begins to eat. I slowly raise the gun, pull back the hammer and …
NOT SO MANY people hunt squirrels these days. We ate them often when I was young. Deep-fried and served with gravy, they make a fine meal.
