I’ve philosophically eaten crow a few times. Once, on a dare, I ate the real thing.
In late summer 1955 I was 12, the magic age by Dad’s decree for me to go hunting without adult supervision. A buddy and I thought we’d pull a Daniel Boone and spend a day in the timber, living off what we could find.
We prepared — just in case, don’t you know — with a clutch of heart-healthy chocolate bars.
Though we planned to be survivalists, there was no sense in tempting fate. Along in tow we also had Dad’s World War IIs Army canteen filled with Dr. Pepper.
Our journey started east of Monarch along the north side of Coal Creek, bulling our way through brambles and tall grass, just like Bring ‘Em Back Alive Frank Buck, whose adventures were a catalyst.
We tramped from one field to another, in a time when farmers weren’t nearly as touchy about trespassing. Then, property rights were better respected. We were careful crossing barbed wire fences, staying out of crops and keeping an eye out for cattle, just in case I had an opportunity with my single-shot 410.
Along toward noon, we spotted a squirrel cavorting in the top of an oak tree. At that point in my hunting experience I didn’t realize it was too far away. The shot scattered harmlessly. The tree-bound rodent flipped its tail in a sign of arrogance.
All the while crows were taunting us, cawing while they dipped and dived. I’d had enough of them and fired off a charge of No. 6 shot. Surprise of surprises, one folded like an accordion and plopped to the ground, dead as a door nail.
Then came a bright idea from my buddy. “We gotta eat it,” he said, the chocolate long gone.
We skinned the crow, eviscerated it, and prepared for a culinary adventure, sure it’d put us in the ranks of great explorers.
A small fire smoked enough that a farmer appeared wanting to know “what the dickens are you kids up to?” “Gonna roast this crow,” we said.
He shook his head and walked away.
We ate the crow — a little of it. How’d it taste, you ask? A little salt might have helped — a lot probably would have been better. Best of all would have been tossing the crow and chewing on the stick we used for a skewer.
