doublegunshop.com - home Forums General Discussion DoubleGun BBS @ doublegunshop.com Ot fO jO, Grand pappy & mammy thread.

My paternal Grand Father rode a Harley Davidson in his youth And I have a photo of him on that bike wearing his leather flying helmet and goggles. The photo was taken in 1928 right about the time he married my Grand Mother to be.

So the beginning of his married life & becoming an independent farmer was right near the beginning & through the hard times of the 1930's depression. I, like Stan, grew up on the family farm & orchards & vineyards. Work a plenty for all, our own food from fruit vegetables & animals. From Grand Pa's days of hardship he carried many ideas & things learned on through his whole life.

Like the one bullet, single shot that killed your game for the table.
NO wasting bullets & if you could run down a rabbit & kill it with a stick he was all that much happier & beamed smiles around the table as we ate it.

Grandma was an unbelievably good cook of any game, poultry or critter. Even English house sparrows caught in a trap that Grandpa had constantly on the go around the poultry sheds & pig sty or stables. Sparrow pie. We ate all the animals & birds on the farm save for the dogs, cats & horses. I still cant figure out how come they never got cooked up & eaten, not hard enough times I suppose.

When I became old enough of a lad to be trusted with a gun I was given a .22 rimfire bolt action single shot to use for pest control & game meat hunting. Grandpa was on my case about waste & eating what was shot & not pointing the gun a what you are not going to shoot, safe directions to shoot in & back stops, farm animal & machinery awareness, & all that.

I became a rather good shot, so when Grandpa saw the crossroad sign up the road drilled right in the guts with a .22 he knew it was me & confronted me about it. I of course lied & denied having any knowledge of the event, but he knew. He told me that I was now to clean it, cook it & eat it. I told him that was silly & he told me "no more silly than shooting the thing". You know, he never gave up on that & each time we went past that stupid sign he reminded me that I had not yet eaten what I had shot.

Needless to say, road signs were no longer a target of choice or opportunity. And I never did eat that stupid crossroad sign.

I would love to read about what your Grand pappy taught you about guns or the fond memories of days afield with him & that old Winchester.
You too jOe.

O.M

I like your story about your growing up years on the farm. Ernest Hemingway's father, Dr. Clarence E. Hemingway, was much the same in his teaching Ernest about " 1 shot kills" and respect for the game you had shot, and that what you killed, you brought home, cleaned and ate at table.

We never ate any of the barn pigeons or dump or farmyard rats we killed with our .22's in my boyhood days. But- you could ride your Schwinn bike with your .22 rifle in its cases, strapped to the handlebars, down country dirt roads- whether to the dumps on Sat. afternoons, or any day when squirrel season was open, and never have anyone panic or call the Sheriff and report your activity- Can't do that now-a-days.

Enjoyed reading your article-- RWTF

My father was an orphan, born in 1929. He laid in an orphanage for the first 2 years of his life, until a family took him in as a foster child. He represented a check, paid during the depression, and the family never adopted him. I have nothing that tells me the two older sisters in the family didn�t love him, but, there were subtle signs that he was ridden pretty hard by his foster father.
He was a middle teen aged male during the war, and had many after school jobs. There was a labor shortage in St. Paul, MN during the war, and Dad made the most of it. He also was expected to use his .22 and his fishing poles to provide protein several times a week. There was a limit to how much money he could be paid, and employers often paid him in .22 ammunition on top of his wage to retain him. It was an easy hitch hike to what are now second ring suburbs when my Dad was a kid, to hunt ducks, squirrels, bunnies and pheasants, and there were plenty of decent fishing lakes and a few rivers within a 20 minute bike ride of his home in the Frogtown neighborhood of St. Paul. Dad had a beat up old double when he was a kid, but, hated it, and made a trade for a .410 single as soon as he could. He ended up a rifleman more so than a shotguner.
His foster father died in a boiler explosion at the nursing home he worked at, Presbyterian Homes, which, still exists, near lake Johanna, in Roseville, MN. It was almost exactly a year after I was born, and I never met him.
My Mom�s Dad drove a team of horses in New York City, and, later, trucks, and later still, cabs. He was loathe to leave the city, didn�t understand why anyone would leave NYC, and never owned a gun, or so much as a cane pole. Entertainment to him was taking in a Yankees game when he had two extra nickels to rub together, and I gather that wasn�t often. He worked 60-70 hours a week for most of his life, and moonlighted other jobs to make ends meet. I barely knew the man.

Everything I got came from Dad and a few hunting partners of his. My Dad moved us off the East coast when I was a kid, back to MN, and never looked back. He hated Jersey, in particular, and told me of a dispute he had with local law enforcement when he wanted to buy a rifle to hunt deer, and the cop who issued the permit for that told him to forget it.
He was an active duty USMC Gunnery Sargent with nearly 18 years under his belt at that point, teaching future snipers with 7th Rifle Corps, at NARTS, the Naval Air Rocket Test Station, and it chapped his ass.
We left Jersey as soon as Dad could figure out how to do it. I think I got more and better outdoor opportunities as a result, and am glad I ended up here,instead of there.

Best,
Ted

O.M., thanks for this opportunity. After reading about Stan's granddad, I thought a lot of my grandparents today.
My dad's dad died when I was 18. Mom's when I was 10. They were in transportation of sorts. Mom's dad was a sea captain who served in the USNR in WWI and WWII. He was first mate on the civilian ship the SS City of Memphis which was sunk off the coast of Ireland by UC-66, a German U-boat, on March 17, 1917, a few weeks before we entered the war. It had delivered horses at LaHarve and was heading back to Savannah in ballast. The Germans had just declared the waters subject to unrestricted submarine warfare. He was eligible for exemption from service in WWII because of essential civilian employment as tug captain having just left ocean service as a master mariner but he wouldn't seek it. At war's end he received a presidential promotion to captain. During the war he and my grandmother lost their oldest son who was executed after being shot down by the Japanese over New Guinea. He was one of three sons who served. After the war, he was tugboat captain at the local port. My great-great grandfather had been a tug captain as well and Papa worked on his tug, the Cynthia, for a brief period. It was put in service in the late 1800s as a coal burner and eventually was diesel powered. My first office overlooked the tugboat docks and the Cynthia was used in reserve a 100 years after being launched. Dad's dad was a RR engineer who retired from the ACL with 51 years service when he was 65. I don't need anyone to do the math to tell me that he was 14 when he left Nebo, NC, because his dad told him there were too many mouths to feed at home. He lied about his age; and was immediately hired. The railroad needed bodies in Savannah. He died one year after retirement from cancer perhaps caused by years of exposure to coal dust and smoke in the cab of a steam engine. Mom has told me of the times dad had to help Nana put and take Papa in and out the tub because he couldn't do it on his own. He would be covered with coal dust and soot. I have a vivid recollection of being about 6 going down to the docks seeing an ambulance take my other grandfather away after having a stroke. It was the last day for him at the helm of the fire tugboat Chatham. When I retired the first time 15 years ago, I gave the photos of both old tugs and a print of a painting by Robert West of the ACL East Coast Champion at Race Pond, GA., on my grandfather's run to my brother for his office. The artist's grandfather was a porter on the train at a time when his and my grandfather's time overlapped and may have been on the Champion's run at the same time. At that time, the tradition was porters were black men. The train ran from NYC to Miami, Florida. I was the only grandchild to ride both the East Coast Champion with my granddad at the deadman's switch and with my other grandfather at the helm of his tugboat. I'd often meet Papa after his run with my grandmother at Union Station and lug his "grip" with both hands from the Champion back to their old Pontiac. As a kid, on his days off, I'd go with him to visit his old fireman, Isaac, an old black man who saved his life by pushing him off the track when he didn't hear a box car being pushed his way for coupling. Loss of hearing was an occupational hazard working in and out of trains. I had wonderful grandparents and my grandmothers were as sweet as sweet could be. My RR granddad met my grandmother at the boarding house my great grandmother owned and operated boarding railroad men. Her husband was killed working with the railroad and she bought the house with the insurance. My sea captain grandfather had a ship with engine trouble and was berthed for a couple of months in Bermuda undergoing repairs where he met and married my grandmother. I think of them often. (Right now when I think of trains and my granddad, I think of ole' Dizzy Dean on the Falstaff Game of the Week with PeeWee Reese with Dizzy singing the Wabash Cannonball followed by: "Buy Falstaff Beer.
It's everwhar".) None of them hunted.

My dad, after living the first eleven years of his life in the Great Depression in south Texas, my paternal grandfather went island hopping out in the Pacific for 4 1/2 years. His older brother was a good guy but didn't do much in the way of bringing things home for the family to eat. My dad ran traps for pelts (skunks and raccoons) and hunted to and from school. It was about four miles from their house, as the crow flies, to school. His mother gave him a Win Md 42 (which I now have) and with that there was almost never a day when there wasn't some meat on the table. Through it all my grandmother never lost sight of what was important. School was the most important thing of all. Her four sons would all graduate from Texas A&M after going through the Corps and serving their time in the US Army went of to become successful men in their own right.

My father killed his first deer the way a good many young men did, with a borrowed rifle and borrowed ammo. A Win Mod 71 in 348 Win did the deed and it was no small task for a 125# soaking wet teenager. His second deer wasn't much different. A borrowed 8mm Mauser (battlefield pickup) and he had two FMJ rounds of German ammo (conceivably what was left in the rifle when it was picked up) He filed the points off so they would expand. He used one to check the sights and the other to kill the buck. A buck deer in the late 40s was a rare commodity.

My maternal grandfather was the gun nut. He lived and breathed guns. If it had to do with guns, he did it. I guess that's where I get my interest. Reloading, casting, wildcatting, the works, but all situated around hunting. When he married in 1931 he went to work for the highway dept shoveling asphalt. My grandmother cooked for the crew. He had a Rem Mod 12 22. He was the only man on the crew with a gun. They would all put in their pennies for enough to buy a box of 22 shorts. He said it was a quarter. He went out before work and shot squirrels in East Texas every morning before work (head shots) and my grandmother cooked them for the crew. Cheap stew meat. I have that rifle also. It actually belonged to my Great Grandfather first.

I grew up in South Louisiana. When I wasn't in school or mowing grass I was in the woods or on the water. My father put a lot of faith in me early on and it was quite common to see a 12 year old boy walking through the neighborhoods with a shotgun and a bunch of squirrels, a swamp rabbit or two or a stringer of fish. Life was good.

My dad did way better than any of his family before him and my sisters and I suffered none of the depravations of hunger or insecurity. We wanted for nothing. I grew up using some pretty nice firearms and didn't really know the difference until much later on. He taught me about fine shotguns, bird dogs and field etiquette of gentlemen. Those are worthwhile things to learn.

#1 wife and I got married against all common sense, put ourselves through school and made our own way. We had a lot of help, but we had to do it on our own. For a good many years my shotguns and rifles accounted for about 50% of our table meat, hogs and chickens on the place took up the slack.

I know guys who will burn up 200 rounds of ammo in a weekend of shooting paper, tin cans, or clay pigeons. While I could certainly do that, I can't. There is something inside of me that will not let me "Waste" ammunition. I certainly practice, and work up loads, and at times will shoot more than I should. But most times every shot represents multiple strokes of the loading press and multiple hands on of the single round. It takes a lot longer to load than it does to shoot.

I could go on, and on, and on...

I guess the greatest thing that all those men taught me in all the gun training, was responsibility. When you take a gun in your hands, you hold a lot of power. It must be wielded responsibly, to yourself, the animals you hunt, and the rest of mankind, anything less is pure negligence.

Alan

I never knew my grandparents on either of my parents sides - they had all died before I was born in '48.

My Dad was never a hunter or fisher until he was invited to Hubert's deer camp in the Vermont hills in about '53 or '54. Hubert eventually became fire chief in St. Johnsbury around '70 or so. As it was, Hubert sort of became my 'grandfather' mentor. He was born and raised in the hills and knew hardship through the depression years when he was in his teens so he carried a thriftiness all through his life and never wasted a single thing.
Hubert took me on my first grouse hunt there in those hills in October of 1960. Here is an excerpt of something I wrote about that first hunt.

.. "I think I know where we'll find some pa'tridge." Hubert said as we lurched out of the driveway and down the old dirt road toward the Four Corners. I can't remember how we got to where we went that afternoon and I know I could never find it again but eventually we turned onto a little-used dirt track which wound along through some of the prettiest woodcock and ruffed grouse cover I can ever remember seeing. The young trees and underbrush grew right to the road and scraped down both sides of the little Jeep as we slowly pushed our way through.
Thornapple, black birch, alders, poplar and the occasional wild apple tree seemed to crowd each other for what little sunlight entered there. "There's one right there!" Hubert announced as he pointed off into an old apple tree. The Jeep suddenly bucked to an abrupt halt and I found myself getting up off the floor after having bounced off the dashboard. "Get the gun, here's some shells," he ordered as he thrust a couple of green, paper-hulled sixteens into my hand. "Why two?" I asked, "It's only a single shot!" "There may be more than one bird in
there," he replied logically. I proceeded to load the gun and snapped it gently shut hoping the grouse wouldn't fly before I was ready. He was, after all, only about twenty yards from where I stood. "What should I do?" I asked. "I've never
shot a partridge before." "Simple," Hubert replied with that twinkle again in his eye. "You just shoot it." I turned around and looked for a stick or rock to throw at the grouse to make it fly. I picked up a stout little stick, hauled off and sent it sailing in the bird's direction but all it did was stretch its neck up and peer at me with one shiny black eye. As I was looking around for another stick to throw and scare the bird from its perch, Hubert hollered, "What in Hell are you doing?"
"Well," I said, ''I'm trying to make him fly so I can shoot him. I'm not going to shoot him just sitting there on that branch."
"Why not?" Hubert asked, "Everybody else does.�

I had read enough about grouse hunting in Field & Stream and other sportsmen's magazines to know that it just wasn't done that way; it just wasn't sporting to shoot a bird in a tree or on the ground and I wasn't about to start that way. I explained this to Hubert as I continued to look around for another projectile to hurl at the grouse. Hubert grew up in Tampico at a time when the family's supply of fresh meat was supplemented by that which Mother Nature provided. To waste a shot at a flying game bird when it could easily have been shot from its perch was considered next to sinful. Game was taken solely for the pot, so the "pot-shot" was the approved method of procuring game, not that it was wrong, for certainly then, it was not. It was nothing more than efficient. But, pot-shooting was not for me. Not then and not now.

"Bullshit!" Hubert harrumphed defensively. "I have shot my fair share of pa'tridges and most of them were either on the ground or in trees. If you wait 'til they fly you're likely as not to miss 'em so just shoot it!" I bent down to pick up another stick to send at the dumb bird still sitting there in the apple tree and as I straightened up I heard the unmistakable "P-r-t, p-r-t, p-r-r-t" which I have since come to recognize as an announcement of the grouse's intention to immediately take to wing. Well that grouse took the back way out of that tree, darting and crashing through twigs and leaves while dodging the largest branches as it rocketed back through the thick growth behind the tree it had so innocently been sitting in only a moment before.

Back when there used to be blue quail in South Texas, we hunted them on the run. They would not hold for a dog. Driving on ranch roads we'd spot a covey (which meant you'd see one run into the brush), I'd immediately bail out of the truck on the run. If I was lucky I would catch up to and run into the covey. They'd flush. The flush was one or two birds basically hopping off the ground and flying about ten yards two feet off the ground. You had to be fast on the draw or they be back on the ground again.

When my grandfather wanted a few quail for supper, he break out his little browning 22 short automatic. It had an over sized brass bead on the front sight.

He'd catch a covey of Bobwhites in the road and shoot one of them in the head. It would flutter around and the rest would run over too it to see what was wrong. Pop, and another one is fluttering. He'd take what he wanted which was usually four and take them home. My grandmother did not cook skinned quail. They had to be plucked (the skin was the best part).

This method works remarkably well, and sporting issues aside, I have eaten some ground tainted meat. It tasted fine.

Alan

Those are all great remembrances. I like the pics of the Champion, Gil. And ...... it's been a long time since I heard the word "grip" used for a travel bag. In fact, it was likely either my Grandad or Grandma that used it.

Grandad took me on my first dove shoot, and quail hunt. He was a habitual fisherman, too. Daddy said that he once said to the family at the table "Quiet now, I've got an important announcement to make. As of today I have caught a mess of fish out of Brier Creek every week for the last year, 52 straight weeks". Brier Creek is a large creek that flows through several counties here. It would qualify as a small river in most of the country.



He also taught me how to drift that creek, and the Savannah River, for ducks. He told me to wait until there was a hard cold snap that froze all the lakes and ponds over. After the second night of that cold, go to the creek or river and drift, and jump shoot the ducks. All of them in the country will be there because the current won't allow the surface to freeze. I have done that for much of my life, and it remains one of my favorite ways to hunt ducks, requiring a keen eye to catch them "on the rise" and kill them before they are out of range. It takes lows of at least 20 degrees for two nights to make it work best. Didn't have that all winter here, last season.

One of my favorite true stories about Grandad concerns the very house and farm I live in/on. It was built in 1875 by a country doctor, upon marrying, and he set up his practice here. He was taken out of this life by tuberculosis about 1909, and his widow moved back to Augusta. The place sat empty for about 10 years, during which time a local man decided he'd start living here ........... and just moved in. Grandaddy married Grandma about 1918 and went looking for a farm to buy. He said he rode as far as Beech Island, SC looking, before finding out that this place was being offered for sale. He borrowed the money from his mother, my Great - Grandma and made preparations to move into the house. When word got to the man living here, the man sent word to Grandad that if he set foot here he'd "leave him in his tracks". Grandad rode all the way to Waynesboro, 25 miles away, and told the high sheriff the story. Sheriff said to Grandad "Can't you handle that?" and handed him his personal pistol. Grandad then continued on to Augusta and bought a Colt revolver of his own.

He arrived back home the next day and rode to his new land and house, to find the squatter in the mule lot out back. Grandad walked up to him and said "Joe, I got the message you sent me. I own this place and I am going to live here. We're going to settle this right now. if you want to 'shoot it out' I brought two pistols, if you want to 'cut it out' I brought two knives. If that doesn't suit you we'll settle it with these, and held up his two fists." Joe replied he would fight him over it, with fists. Grandad spun around and said "In the middle of the public road, so anybody that comes by can see", and started towards the road, about 75 yards away. They got halfway there and Joe backed out. He didn't keep that pistol, trading it for a S & W .38 Special M & P, which I have. He said the Colt would cause the cartridges to corrode in the chambers, and the Smith wouldn't.

After living in this house for awhile they had three children born, the youngest being my Dad. The oldest son, and Grandma, contracted TB, but were eventually cured. The doctor told Grandad that the germ was still in the house from Dr. Herrington's illness and death, and that the only way to be rid of it was to move out and paint every square inch of the house, that the paint would kill the germ. They did, and it did.

Grandad and Grandma built a new house, next door, in 1947 ....... the first brick home in this part of the county at the time. This house sat empty until my Dad, who was a Civil Engineer with a degree from Ga. Tech, quit the profession and moved back here, built a big country store, and did some remodeling to the old house. I was about 2 at the time. I and my siblings were raised here. I quit college after two years, moved back home, got married and started farming with Grandaddy in 1971. He died in '75 at age 83. Dad and Mom moved from the old house into the brick house to care for Grandma, and I moved into the old house, with my wife and first son in that year, '75. We raised our two boys here, added on to the house in 2000, building a big dining room, laundry room, master bath and closets. When we gather around the table at Thanksgiving, Christmas and other special occasions, I sometimes remind the grandsons that they are the 5th generation in the family to take nourishment here.

Grandad has been gone 44 years, come April 21. But, I still farm the land he bought in 1919, and still live in the house. We will have farmed it continuously for 100 years when we reach the anniversary date this year. I will be applying to the state for recognition as a Georgia Centennial Farm, one which has been owned and farmed by the same family continuously for 100 years. Everywhere I look I can "see" Grandad. He is a huge part of me, my sons, and my grandsons. I hope I have done right by him, and that he would be pleased. I'm filled with excitement when I think about being with him again ............. across the river.



SRH

Very well written, Stan. Hard times bring up folks better able to appreciate the good times. Now, is that photo in black and white (Kodak Brownie camera) of you and your late grandfather maybe about 1956-1957??

Here in MI we have a State sponsored Centennial Farm recognition program- if the land has been in the same family lineage for 100 years or longer, the State erects a large plaque in a designated place on the grass- recognizing that. Tempting to sell the farm and the acreage to "developers" who tend to name their new "cookie-cutter developments" quail ridge- when no quail or other game birds have lived there for decades-- RWTF

Yeah Stan, I�m jealous because I remember that Granpappy and Colt story from another thread a time or two ago, and your luck with ancestral 2nd generation relatives was a bit better than mine. However, it�s a good thing your Granpappy didn�t end up using that Colt 6-shooter on his squatting bud or he may have ended up just like my paternal Granpappy who spent most of his life on Alcatraz, the �rock� in San Francisco Bay, where he got sent for murder (he said he didn�t do it). My paternal grandmammy visited him about every 6 weeks but that was before they started allowing conjugal visits in prisons, so it�s really a miracle my daddy was even born. Turning to the other side of the family, my maternal Granpappy had a rather short turn on this earth because my maternal granmammy caught him in bed with his 21 year old girl friend and then took her Baby Browning�s .25 ACP and popped them both. Luckily, that .25 ACP bullet was lead and not made outa Tungsten or my Mama would not have been here either. Granmammy got even though after my Mom was born because grandaddy, after his wound from the .25 healed, found another young girl, and this time granmammy used her .38 and shot Granpappy right between the eyes. Lead did the job and was plenty good enough in her .38!! I guess the moral of that story is go big or don�t go at all, at least with lead in the ole pencil.