When I was a girl growing up in rural south Alabama, hunting was a very big deal. With the acres upon acres of woodland and plentiful creeks, Choctaw County was (and still is) a hunter’s paradise.
Deer hunting was a favorite hobby for the men and boys where I lived, and my brother David was no different. He would take down one or two of Dad’s shotguns and head to our woods in search of the perfect row of antlers. For those who know more about guns than I do, the guns may not have really been “shotguns.” That’s just what I call all of those metal weapons that are long and have wooden stocks. It could have been twenty-two rifles for all I know.
Anyway, I used to like to go hunting, fishing, or whatever else my brother used to do. Except my idea of hunting was vastly different from his. I would tag along with Dave, but my weapons of choice were a coke, a bag of popcorn, and a good book. Oh, I’d pulled the trigger a couple of times, just to see what it was like. But the kick would hurt my shoulder, and I didn’t aim at some little animal. My favorite thing to do was to go out in those wonderful crunchy leaves and find shelter from the cold November wind in the hunting house. Or whatever they called the little shack with a small window where you could watch for wild game.
Dave would amble through the woods, searching for deer, and I would while away the hours with my good book.
I don’t remember him killing anything when I tagged along. Maybe I made too much noise. But those were some of my favorite memories of growing up, and I start recalling those memories when the temp drops and the trees shed their leaves.
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