We all reflect upon our lives and memories at Christmas, and I’m no different for times spent hunting at Christmas with my dad, family, and friends. Here’s a particularly good one.
There was a houseful of them, eight in all, and some who would get together on the morning of Christmas eve, or Christmas day, and let off some steam in the hills of southern Ohio, along the Ohio River outside of Proctorville.
I was about eight at the time and Dad would allow me to tag along – glorious days as I reveled in his ability to pick off a running cottontail through the briars at 50 yards; or bring down a fleeing quail from a sudden covey burst that took everyone else by surprise. He was a marvelous shot, as were my uncles Charlie and Dan, and there was always some brotherly competition. But I remember more than once coming home being proud of Dad for doing something that the others couldn’t…