The afternoon has passed so quickly, and I realize that although it is not really late, the shadows are beginning to lengthen. I squint at the scalding white hot sun, and remember not to do that because I won't be able to see doves in the sky for a few moments until my normal vision returns. A quick count and a check with Lane reveals that I am leading him by one, in bird count, but that I only need one more and he only two. I don't know about Grandpa .............he's been abnormally quiet this afternoon, although he seems to be really enjoying himself. The pretty much constant breeze all afternoon has made the heat bearable, but I sure have appreciated the cooler with Powerades on ice. Staying hydrated is very important on a day like this Grandaddy says. He says even slight dehydration begins to affect your sharpness of vision, and you may not even realize it.
I hear Granddad shoot, look back towards him and see two dead doves in the air at the same time. I holler and ask did he kill two with one shot and he nods, with a grin. He breaks his gun open, lays it across the seat of his chair, and walks out to retrieve the birds empty handed. He returns and seems to be busying himself on his knees at his stand, with what I can't tell. Lane kills another, and I keep scanning the sky for my last one needed. I hope it's quick .............I'm ready to get out of this south Georgia sun and get cooled off, but not bad enough to leave yet.
Just then I see a truck entering the field on the southwest corner. As it makes the turn I see the GA DNR emblem on the door, and realize it's the game warden. He exits the truck slowly and several shooters begin to walk out of the field with their gun and stool. I walk back to Grandaddy and Lane comes back, too. "Y'all boys haven't miscounted have you?", he asks with a little sly grin. "No sir", we both reply. We've got 14 apiece". "Haven't forgotten about any you stuffed in a pocket on the stool, or anyplace like that?" "We're sure, Grandpa", Lane says. "Good enough, and good shooting", he says as he nods repeatedly. We sit down as Grandaddy has a long slug of ice water from his cooler.
Just then the warden walks up. "Hello, fellas", he offers. "Hey, Jeff, Grandpa replies and sticks out his rough, dark brown hand. They shake, and as the warden looks down at our guns he asks if my brother and I have them plugged. We reply that we don't know how to unplug them, and rarely shoot the third shell. He says he needs to check them anyway, and we hand him our guns, one at a time and a few shells to try in them. He satisfies himself that they are legal, smiles, and turns towards Grandad's gun. He looks at it for a few seconds and says "Is that a .410?". Grandad nods. Warden then asks "Is it plugged?", and we all have a chuckle as Grandad hands him the little, long double. "How many birds y'all got boys?" We reply that we have fourteen apiece. He counts them carefully to be sure, then turns to Grandad again, but he isn't where he thought he'd be. He's kneeling by his cooler carefully removing doves one at a time. They're each wrapped with a rubber band around the wings, holding them snugly to the body. As he lays them out to be counted I notice the brass head of a .410 shell sticking out from under one wing of each bird. I frown in curiosity, but say nothing. He carefully lays out fifteen doves, in three rows of five each.............each with an empty hull tucked under the wing. Except for the last two which are bound by one rubber band, with one shell nestled between them. The warden looks quizzically at Grandaddy, and he returns the stare. For several moments they just stand there quietly, as Lane and I look at them. Lane asks "Why you got a shell under each bird's wing, Grandaddy?". "'Bout time somebody asked", he says.
He begins, "You see, today is a special day for me. Fifty-eight years ago I shot doves the first time with my Grandad, just like you're doing today. I used a little .410 double, just like I'm doing today. I killed my first dove that day with that gun. I grew older and became more enamored with quantity, with impressing. So, I went to larger gauge guns, until I ended up with a 12 ga. autoloader, to be more efficient. Try as I might I never could take a limit of 12 with 12 shells, fairly and on the wing. I came close once, 12 for 13, but had to shoot a dove twice to keep from losing him in a thicket. As I got more years under my belt I realized that it wasn't the size of the gun, at all, that determined how well I shot on the dove field. It was more my attitude. So, a few years ago, to challenge myself to be a better shot, I went back to the "little gun", the .410, to prove something. Not to anybody else, but to myself." The warden listened as if he was hearing Allison Krauss for the first time. Grandpa continued, "I knew if I could do what I wanted to do I would prove it to myself for all time, and today I did. Today, I took fifteen doves on the wing with fourteen .410 shells. I would've been satisfied with shooting 100%, but that last pair was just a gift."
Jeff, the warden, stuck out his hand, took Grandad's and squeezed it hard, and long. He never said another word, but just looked at Grandad for a long time holding his hand tightly. Then, he turned and said he guessed he better check out these other shooters, and walked briskly way. Grandad looked at us and said slowly, "Today, it has come full circle". Then he turned to the northwest, looked into the long shadows for what seemed like five minutes without even blinking. "What do you see, Grandaddy?" I asked. He answered very softly and slowly "My Grandaddy", and we could see his eyes welling up. But............. we pretended we didn't. As we walked quietly back toward the truck I remembered ..............."the best shooter on the dove field isn't always the best shot, but he is the most disciplined".
Last edited by Stan; 08/27/18 05:27 PM.
