It started about four weeks ago. The actions were subtle at first. The obvious seasonal clothes were out of the closet, off the hangers and strewn about. Bags of corn feed stacked up under our carport and the occasional gutting knife lying around with a knife sharpener close by. Empty rifle cases with their contents lying filleted open on my dining room table, waiting to be cleaned. New cans of “non-smelling people” spray lined up on his dresser drawer. And bullets, cases upon cases of bullets stacked up in every direction one might lay their eyes.
The feeder must have a new stand, therefore, I find it in a full state of disrepair on my kitchen counter and when I remark about someone needs to clear it off, there is dinner to be cooked and it’s in my way; I am greeted with the great American speech about who is the meat provider in this family and that my lack of respect for his position as such is very disrespectful. To which I reply, hunting season has been out for nigh on nine months now, accompanied with my “what have you done for me lately” plus “get your junk off my counter if you want to eat” face.
I don’t have enough time to tell you all the funny stories that come with having a teenager who likes to hunt. But suffice to say, you haven’t lived until you open your freezer one Sunday morning, reach down for a bag of frozen biscuits and come out with the left leg of a gigantic bull frog! Yes sir, that incident would have been after his first all night frog gigging adventure. My son thought it was “enough” to put those huge, half dead bull frogs in a plastic bag, and throw them in the freezer for cooking later. Well, evidently one of those old Jeremiah’s had some life left in him, enough to get out of that bag anyway. However at some point he succumbed to the ice cold temperatures and froze to death, belly up, and legs in the air; lying there ripe and ready for this old half asleep Mama to grab ahold to and wake up half the neighborhood in doing so.
In all fairness to my youngest son, there are a lot of hunting "seasons" recognized around here. There is always something to hunt down, shoot, gig, knife, or catch; and he and his buddies do it all. His hunting license is in Georgia, whose season came in the third Saturday in October. Now as I said, they've been feeding these deer for over a month now, so he was all pumped and ready to go last Saturday morning. Didn't see a cotton picking thing, but said he heard a lot of noises. When his dad asked what he thought he heard, he said it was either a teeny tiny deer, or a big dang squirrel. Well it was teeny tiny alright, all that, and he came home with a rabbit.
Now I don’t know how to cook a rabbit. So I told him to call his MeMa, my mother, in Georgia. She was born and raised in Alabama and her daddy was also a sportsman. He too, was willing to hunt anything that carried meat and could be cooked and eaten. There are good things that come out of all his fun, good things for us all. When he called his MeMa, she was able to go down memory lane a bit with a story or two about her Daddy, and share with her grandson the proper way to prepare rabbit. Both of which will be a great memory for my son one day and warm feeling in the heart of this daughter and Mama.