Mike, you wondered if that Model 37 kicked. The following is a short story I wrote four years ago about my very first experience shooting the gun.
Steve
My First Pheasant Hunt
I remember my first pheasant hunt as clearly as if it was yesterday. It was opening day on a cold bleak drizzly November morning in 1961, I was 14 years old, the shiny new single-shot 12 gauge Winchester 37 shotgun, an early Christmas present, was cradled in the crook of my right arm as I crossed the corn field, a blacktop road was located about a block to my left, the DuPage River two blocks to my right. As usual I was alone, my father used to hunt, before the War. I knew he used to hunt, because he had an old album of tattered black and white photos - one was of him and his friends standing in front of two rows of pheasants and rabbits, all laid out on the ground in front of them. They were all smiling, holding guns, Dad tall and thin was smoking a cigarette and looked very satisfied, almost smug, but this was before the War and things were different for him then. Dad had given me the shotgun as an early Christmas present, so I would have it in time for pheasant season, I was hoping he'd take me hunting that morning, but he'd been up late the night before watching TV with his best friend Bud Weiser. Bud was doing his best to help Dad forget the War. Though WW II had "officially" ended 16 years earlier, the war memories were still an all consuming part of Dad's life. That November morning, taking his son on his first pheasant hunt was the last thing on Dads mind, besides there was other more important matters coming up such as afternoon football on TV.
I had just crossed a drainage ditch and was heading across a corn field my shotgun held high my senses ready, the wet brown corn stalks and black organic-rich soggy soil giving off a wonderful earthy smell as I walked. I heard two shots fired in rapid succession directly across the field from me, and saw a cock pheasant flying straight towards me, low across the corn, his wings nearly brushing the corn tassels. The pheasant saw me as I saw him; he flared his wings to drop into the corn. I'd never fired a shotgun before, only BB guns and a single-shot 22 rifle, I raised my 12 gauge and took quick aim at the pheasant, cradling the guns fore stock loosely in my left hand, just as I'd taught myself to hold my 22 rifle when I plinked summer blackbirds. I was unprepared for the shotgun's recoil, the fore stock jumped from my hand, the receiver smacked backwards into my cheekbone, just below my right eye. I stood there stunned, pain searing my cheek, a nasty bruise developing below my right eye. I knew I'd hit the bird, feathers drifting down from where I'd last seen the pheasant gave mute testimony to my shots success. I stood dumbfounded for a minute, dazed from the shotgun blast, and then ran over to find the bird. As I picked up my prize I heard a loud angry "hey you, come here!" from one of two men standing next to a red pickup truck parked along the roadway. The man who yelled was dressed in blue coveralls and wore a plaid shirt, the other was dressed in a brown uniform. I didn't have a clue as to what they might want, it would have been easy to disappear with my bird into the corn, but they were adults and I was a kid, when an adult called you over, you went. I picked up the bird and warily walked over to the two men. The man in the plaid shirt angrily informed me that he owned the land and that I was illegally trespassing and hunting on his property. I was then introduced to the man in the brown uniform, and informed that he was the local game warden, on hand to see to that I was properly punished. For my part I didn't understand what the problem was, I'd hunted the same land for blackbirds all summer long and no one had ever complained, in fact that's how I knew the property was rich with pheasants. The farmer asked me how old I was and where was my father, I told him that I was 14 and that Dad was at home sleeping off the previous nights drinking. They looked at my shotgun and inquired when I'd gotten it, I said that it was an early Christmas present that I'd gotten yesterday, just in time for pheasant season. With that the farmer bent down and peered at the angry swollen bruise just below my right eye, looked over at the warden shook his head and sighed. The two men walked about 15 feet away and had a short huddled discussion. While they talked I considered my options, the corn field was right there and few people knew the river bottom as well as I did, escape would be easy. However, I'd already given them my name and address, flight was not an option. After what seem like forever, but was probably only a few minutes, both men came walking back. My guardian angel was smiling on me that day, the two sent me on my way, with my pheasant, but not before the game warden gave me a firm lecture about the legalities of hunting on private land without first asking permission.
Dad was so surprised when I walked into the house holding the pheasant high above my head that he actually put down his beer, I didn't tell him about my brush with the law. My mother helped me skin and clean the bird; mom had grown up on a potato farm in the Snake River plain of southern Idaho and was very knowledgeable about cooking wild game. Our family dined on pheasant that evening, my father exclaiming between bites that this had to be the best damned bird he'd ever eaten.
My Dad and I never did hunt together, though his general lack of interest in me never bothered me until years later when I had my own kids. It wasn't until 1998 when I watched the first half hour of Saving Private Ryan in tears that I began to understand the horrors of war that my Dad spent his adult life trying so hard to forget. Though he never spoke much about it, Dad had lived those horrors, there on Omaha beach, in Normandy. Dad died suddenly of a heart attack in 1983, I thank God he was able to meet my kids shortly before he died. Though Dad never paid me much mind, it made me happy and proud that he was obviously quite taken with my three year old son and seven year old daughter, something I knew from experience he was incapable of faking.
After I graduated from college I moved to Texas and began my career as a geologist. There wasn't pheasant hunting in the Houston area and I didn't enjoy duck hunting, so that temporarily ended my bird hunting. I now live in the Chicago area and still love the outdoors. As a parent I've tried my best to instill a love of nature in my children. With my career as a geologist, summer vacations for my kids typically meant long western road trips, with numerous stops at road cuts and rock outcrops (oh no! another road cut, please Dad don't stop again!). I'm well into gray haired mid-life now and my recreation has taken a more adventurous turn, instead of chasing skirts I chase outdoor thrills. Hunting, hiking and camping, usually with one or the other of my two kids, have become my mid-life passions. Oh ya, I enjoy pheasant hunting again too.
