Gary Greene’s Memories from an Old Hunter……….#30
Previously, I have written about some fond memories that I have regarding my father introducing me to hunting. He always tried to make my hunting experiences into positive adventures as I recall him constantly positioning me for the best shot. He was proud but silent, when I did harvest a squirrel or a pheasant.
However, our relationship was not always that comfortable. My dad was never an athlete, but he was one of those fathers that attempted to live his athletic career through his son. As positive as he was with me as an outdoorsman, he was a different man in his evaluation of my athletic skills. Many game nights, after his critique, I went to bed in tears. Somehow, despite my father, I still loved sports and managed an athletic scholarship to play basketball and baseball at a NAIA college.
An example of my dad’s athletic knowledge: I can remember being stretched out on the floor, watching our black and white television and all the glory years of the 1960’s Green Bay Packers. My father would have his pyramid shaped pile of cigarettes next to his chair as he cussed out Vince Lombardi for being too conservative and for not knowing what he was doing. I just smile now, knowing that Tom Greene was also never satisfied with what was possibly the greatest coach of all time.
Side note: My grandmother always called him Lombardo, as she mixed up Lombardi with Guy Lombardo, the big bandleader from the 1920-30’s.
Hunting was different and there we got along well. I think it was because he was experienced and confident with his expertise in the outdoors. He viewed that relationship completely different than ours with competitive athletics.
This prelude leads me to a 1966 day of hunting when I was fifteen. If I didn’t have some sport practice on Saturday morning, I would be out attacking some woods or field for wild game. This particular morning, I had my regular partner with me, my English Springer Spaniel Barney. My plan for the day was to hit some den trees for squirrels on the way to the cut corn for pheasants. I was hunting non-gun Milwaukee County, so I had my 49 pound, wood, recurve bow and my squirrel skin quiver full of my personally made semi-flu-flu arrows.
I didn’t tell my parents where I was headed, because this was a normal day for me and they knew I would be home for lunch. It was about a half mile walk from my home to the start of the woods where I hunted squirrels. In the fall, there was one particular Shagbark Hickory tree that usually had a squirrel or two climbing the high branches for nuts. Next to that nut source was a dead Shagbark with a two foot high hole at the bottom of that tree that served as the den for those feeding squirrels. Barney knew the route as well as I did and he would be on my left side, as we both stalked those trees. When we got within a few feet, I would give the command: “OK” and Barney would run to the dead tree and attempt to block the den entrance.
That day, as I scanned the tree top, I found three squirrels hiding behind upper branches. From there it became a skill of outwitting each other. As I was circling the tree and planning my attack, surprisingly, my dad was standing next to me with his Chesapeake King. He very seldom came squirrel hunting with me, but he wanted to take King for a walk and followed my tracks in the dusting of snow. He just listened, as I went over my hunt plan. I stationed him and King on the other side of the tree, and the top squirrel, about thirty feet up the tree, moved to my side. I drew back, released my arrow and I hit the squirrel right in the head. It landed dead at my feet. While that occurred, a second squirrel made a break, attempting to jump trees. I knew exactly where he was headed as there was only one good branch trail from tree to tree. I waited for him to reach the jump location and as he was midair, I fired a second arrow, making a second head shot. Simultaneously, the third squirrel made a sprint down the tree and was running full speed on the ground. I quickly nocked a third arrow and fired, and I also hit that squirrel in the head and stopped him immediately in his tracks.
With King at heal, my dad just watched as Barney retrieved the three squirrels. After that one minute hunt, I made eye contact with my dad and I smiled, and he returned a smile with a big toothy grin. He never said anything and he didn’t have to. Just as he surprisingly showed up, he turned and walked King back home as I went on further to hunt the fields for pheasants.
Over six years and a lot of time in the woods, as a young hunter with a bow, I probably harvested only forty squirrels. That day was unique, as I hit those three difficult shots, that I had a very slim chance of making. In my lifetime, during that one minute span, those were the three best bow shots that I have ever made and my father witnessed the hunt. We both shared that moment and a smile, but it was never brought up again by my father or me.
In the outdoors, he and I had a solid relationship as it brought out the best of my father. I will always cherish those times while I continue to let many of our other memories fade.
One time, my dad did share his football career with me. In the late 1930’s, the Milwaukee West Division High School head coach told my dad that he was a tough kid and should come out for the team. He had my dad wait in the locker room while he retrieved his practice uniform and equipment. Evidently, the coach got delayed, and my dad quit before he received his equipment. From my dad’s point of view, he showed that coach who was boss.