Dear Readers,
So it’s deer season again and folks are, predictably, arguing the politics of guns and hunting. That whole argument assumes that hunting is all about killing an innocent animal. But is that true?
During the 1960s my brother, Bud, and I graduated from pop guns to BB guns to gunpowder. We began deer hunting as 10-year-olds with our respective singe-shot shotguns and “pumpkin balls.” When we each reached 13, Dad thrilled us with our own anachronistic but venerable Model 94 Winchester 30-30. Yep, John Wayne’s gun; the pinnacle of weaponry in my mind! Of course we boys back then were raised on Gunsmoke and Bonanza and we didn’t know what it was to sit in a room all day playing video games. Thank God for that!
Monday morning of Thanksgiving week we’d rouse before daylight, load up with Dad and our gear and visions of trophy bucks, and off we’d head to Uncle Hubert’s farm on Taylor’s Ridge. Cousin Gary would arrive with a 303 Brit Lee-Enfield that he got from my Dad. Uncle Hubert had two 7.7 Jap Arisaka rifles from “the War,” which he’d generously loan to any needy nimrod. Oh, and don’t hope to be offended as that’s just it’s name. Cousin Rex used one of the 7.7s, as did Cousin Kevin as I recall. Rick showed up with a 222, which I deemed small for deer, but at 11 years old you don’t illuminate adults with your juvenile opinion. Well, kids do now, but we didn’t back then.
Uncle Buzz and Cousin Dave both had Winchester 30-30s as well. Cousin Danny and Uncle Hoy each had the ubiquitous aught-6, and with a telescope sights no less! Ohhhh, fancy, beautiful guns! Sometimes other friends or relatives would participate and it was always thrilling as a kid to hear their stories of wars, of cutting timber, of building Route 2 through “the narrows” or building the “stacks” at the power plants, etc., etc. Those hard-working, generous, decent men built our nation. They worked hard, played hard, and instilled in us a sense of patriotism, decency and work ethic that inspired us to successful careers of our own. Hard to believe it used to be that way.
Back then we rarely saw deer and even more rarely shot any. Usually the younger of us would “drive,” meaning we’d walk the hillsides through all the underbrush and briars hoping to oust bucks to run in front of the older guys strategically located “on stand” on points and clearing edges. I’d invariably be cut up and bleeding with ripped clothes, but nonetheless enthused! I remember “jumping” a doe once in a while, but I don’t ever recall running out a buck in front of anyone. But I was there, taking part, making memories!
Dad took his first buck in 1971. I was 9 and Bud was 11. Bud took his first buck a couple years later, and I took mine on Thanksgiving Day 1975. It was my 13th birthday. Mom & Dad gave me my own 30-30 the previous night. We were all thrilled at our first respective buck and we all got them mounted. In my case, we’d hunted all week with no success. That morning, Uncle Buzz tracked a 9-point around the hill toward me. The old buck, staying just ahead of Uncle Buzz, walked right in front of me. My hands shook as my brand-new Winchester barked fiercely. We took pictures, weighed, field dressed, and checked him in. It even ended up in the newspaper! We enjoyed the resulting venison for months. With every bite I relived that exciting, life-changing morning out on Taylor’s Ridge!
Uncles Hubert, Buzz & Hoy, Cousin Dave, Dad… they’re all gone now, only memories remain. Nobody farms the old Taylor’s Ridge place, part of which is actually paved now. At night it’s strangely illuminated with gas-industry lights.
Bud and I, both retired now, often talk of the old times. I visit an old friend Craig nearly every Thanksgiving Monday. We sit around most of the day, rifles on our laps, sipping cold coffee & sharing tall tales. Oh, if a hapless buck gives us a broadside and an engraved invitation, maybe one of us will lift a rifle. I still use that same old Winchester 30-30 exclusively. I’ve thought of Dad, Bud, Uncle Buzz and the rest with every shot I ever made with that old carbine.
No, hunting isn’t just about killing an “innocent” animal. It’s not about politics or being offended. It’s about tradition; it’s about memories; it’s about family; it’s about friends. It’s about … life as a West Virginian.
Bill Hinerman, JD, MPA
CDR, JAGC, USN Ret.
Charleston, WV
The END IS NEAR … But FIRST: THIS IMPORTANT MESSAGE
Dear Reader
The Marketing of the Beast has become so ubiquitous it’s hard to do anything without tripping a marketing snare of entrapment.
Ever since the engine in my truck melted down, I’ve been looking for some other wheels. Don’t have my own internet anymore, thanks to the advent of the Sprint/T-Mobile merger, so I go over to my folks house to use their internet to look for a truck on Facebook yard sale, which automatically connects to my sister’s Facebook account. Simple, right? So, I get a message on my Boost phone asking me if I’m still interested in a truck. Well, yeah, but how’d they connect my search with my Boost number? I never gave it out.
Technicalities aside, I hit the call button and got a message from our old friends Sprint. They announced themselves as Sprint part of T-Mobile and wanted ‘more information’ from me about the ‘Sprint’ phone number I was calling. They left me the D ** n message, what kind of information?! I didn’t hang on to find out as I sensed another marketing trap or at least additional charges to be connected to ‘their’ Sprint number.
This is a snapshot of what the internet of everything will look like. Your toaster will have a message waiting for you in the morning informing you that your butter dish in the fridge is running low, but it’s taken the liberty to book you an appointment with the new Korean cardiologist in town because your Sence-O-Comfort sleeping platform is worried about your cholesterol levels … and don’t touch that jam before having your sugar checked by your Shower Scanner lest your health provider (a division of Sprint/Mobile) be informed … which may reflect negatively on your premiums … and your employment performance review coming up shortly. ‘Remember, we’re all in this together’, your toaster comfortably coos in a light crisp female warble, ‘keeping your appointments makes us all safe and secure’.
You check your wrist cuff which informs you your pulse rate has risen, ‘Nice and calm, nice and calm’ the androgynous voice prompts before briefing you on the weather report and time left before you need to leave for work. You jump in your beater which automatically mists you with an elixir of perfumed patented potions guaranteed to tweak, adjust, treat, cure whatever temporarily ails you followed by a public service message of all the side effects you can expect to experience which may or may not be permanent. You automatically hit the mute button, but it only reduces the message to a whisper because ‘by law’ you must be informed of what you are automatically being doused with. You hit the music button on the dash to drown out the public service message and the number one hit for the past 20 years is playing, “We’re all in this together”, by the Three Sixes.
Way past my bedtime, Dale Michels