Back when I was a kid, my Dad would go on hunting weekends near Kingsville. The running joke in the family was the way he’d come back with nothing and my mom would ask how many cans he shot. Wasn’t till I was older I realized she was asking how much he drank. When I was 14, she convinced him to take me. It was the 60s and I was a peace and love kind of dude but wasn’t too worried that I’d be put in the position to shoot anything because he never brought anything back.
We loaded up the car and stopped in Harrow for cigarettes, beer and some sandwiches. Dad said that we couldn’t have too much because we’d be eating what we shot. “Sure, dude,” I thought. I was one of the men that weekend. Drinking and smoking and just talking about life with Dad. Despite my confidence that nothing would die, my dad shot a rabbit and he cooked it over an open fire. No way was I going to be the guy who said no thanks so I tried it and, in my memory, calmly walked off and vomited. The cool dude I was at 14 thought I totally got away with it but my Dad retelling the story to my mom said that my face was beet red and I ran faster than he’d ever seen me move.
I’ve never been a hunting guy but that time bonding with my Dad was invaluable. Our relationship was easier after that. More familiar and we related on a man to man level. I think about it often now that he’s gone.
Dan – 71 – Windsor
Picture Hunting West of Windsor from SWODA. Click here for original source.