Latest From Bob White

[Danoinark]

Each week I get Bob Whites latest email called The Thursday Morning Art Review. Its a new painting that he fashions a story around. This is the latest. A great read. If you are interested in signing up for his weekly edition you can here http://www.whitefishstudio.com/index.cfm

THE THURSDAY MORNING ART REVIEW

Lively Grove

"Ach der lieber!"

- Leo Schoenherr

I grew up in southern Illinois. We referred to it as "southern" Illinois because we'd rather not be associated with Chicago, and most of us took a certain pride in being from the country, or at least a small town. The further south and west one travels in the state, the more interesting things become; there are hills and bluffs, and conifers begin to creep into the landscape. If you go far enough, towards the Missouri Ozarks, the streams and rivers begin to run clear and there are actually vistas. Let me put it this way; no one where I lived ever went north, towards Chicago, for a family vacation.

Perhaps, it was because I grew up with the southern tradition of bird hunting, that I considered myself a southerner. Whether or not I really deserved this distinction, I'll leave up to you, but when I was a boy, a "bird" meant a bobwhite quail, and a dove was a dove. Where I lived, pheasants were exotics, hunted on private game farms or state managed fields. Wild pheasants, sharp-tails, gray partridge, and sage hens meant the Great Plains, and ruffed grouse and woodcock were synonymous with the North Woods. Everything but bobwhite and dove were beyond my short reach, and I knew of the others only from Lynn Bouge Hunt's illustrations in a well- worn copy of Our American Game Birds.

This week's painting, "Left and Right - Doves", is a watercolor that takes me back to my childhood and the southern tradition of a family reunion on the opening day of dove season.

As summer drew to its languid end, Labor Day marked the annual family reunion, and the start of dove season. That the two fell on the same day was no accident, and to insure a memorable shoot, my Uncle Gene always planted a sunflower field just for the occasion. It promised to be a great time.

I had received my first shotgun, a single shot 20 gauge, the Christmas before, and even though I'd already hunted with my father several times, I was told on the eve of the family reunion that I'd have to wait a year or two before I could participate in the family dove shoot with a loaded gun. "Son, a dove field can be a mighty dangerous place; there's lots of action, fast shooting, and plenty of other folks," my father explained. "I know that we've hunted together, and that you've proven yourself to be a safe partner, but I think it wise to wait a few years."

The look of disappointment that crossed my face must have been a terrible thing for him to witness. "I'd tell you that you can bring your gun, and leave it unloaded, but I don't think it would be the same now that you've carried it in the field."

I knew that my father was right, but it didn't make the bitter pill of disappointment any easier to swallow. I also knew that once he'd made a decision, it was rarely, if ever rescinded. "I'll tell you what," he continued, and brightened into a smile that could only mean something good. "Why don't you join me, and we'll share the model 12."

"Wow! Really! I get to shoot your gun?" I yelled.

"Whoa, kid... once things have settled down a bit," he said in obvious relief, "we'll get you some practice."

I went to bed that night trying to imagine what it would take to shoot a dove out of the busy sky over a sunflower field. Now, it was true that I had shot several doves, but these had been birds flushed from the edges of grain fields. I'd never taken a poke at any that were sailing down wind with several ounces of lead to hurry them along. I was instinctively intimidated.

The following morning seemed to crawl along at an agonizing pace, and it took forever to load the station wagon with the coolers of fried chicken, salads, slaws, and cakes. We stopped by the icehouse on the way out of town to pick up some blocks for the tubs of soda pop, and my father wisely let me chip it down to size with an ice pick to relieve my pent-up frustration. This done, we were finally on our way.

The drive out to the country was never longer, and it seemed forever until we arrived at Lively Grove, and stopped at Waller's General Store for fresh bread. Things were in full swing when we finally made it to Benny and Angela's farm. Relatives waved and hollered in greeting as we drove down the field road and parked in the shade of a wood lot.

As anxious as I was to shoot, I was immediately transfixed by the place. There were sawhorse-and-plank tables that groaned under the weight of food, and a bed of coals to grill pork steaks and homemade sausages. Three of the younger cousins took turns at the hand-crank on an ice cream freezer. On top of the pile of quilts that blanketed the freezer, and struggling to maintain his precarious perch, sat my grandfather, Leo.

It was the only day of the year that I could drink all the soda-pop I wanted, and my mouth watered at the sight of a huge washtub filled with thick bottles of grape, strawberry, orange, cream soda, and root beer. They were covered in a mountain of shaved ice, and there were two bottle openers tied to the tub's handles with bailing twine.

In the background was the ringing of several busy horseshoe pits. The alternating moans of losers and the laughter of the winners was in perfect concert with the clanging of the shoes. My cousins played their accordions, and out in the field, a cork ball game was under way.

"Hey Tippy," an uncle grinned, "Marcela says you just got yer self a brand new TV set."

My great-uncle, Tip, looked sort of sheepish as his wife, Marcela, broke in. "Ach... don't you know, Richie, he shot da durn thing one night last week ven he was cleaning his shotgun for da dove shoot. Ach de Lieber... vot a mess... poor Walter Cronkite!"

Everyone howled with laughter as Uncle Tip raised his finger in protest, thought better of it, and resigned himself to tapping a second barrel of beer. On a table next to the beer were a dozen or so small tin beer-buckets, seemingly identical, but each known intimately by its owner.

I was having such a good time that my father actually had to find me and remind me that the shoot was about to begin. The field where we'd hunt was a half-mile distant, and the sunflowers had been knocked down a week before. Conveniently, the wood lot that held the reunion was the largest dove roost in the area and all the birds, driven out by our presence, were in the field or on the power lines that bordered it. Occasionally a dozen or so would fly back to their roost only to be frightened off and loaf back to the field.

All of the men and older boys climbed onto a hay wagon, the center of which was piled with several crates of shells and cased shotguns. We sat around the edge with dangled legs as Benny's tractor pulled us down the lane, and dropped us off as he circled the field. When finished, he headed back to the grove, as he was in charge of the grill.

The doves buzzed around the place like bees whose hive had been knocked over, and the shots began before Benny got back to the picnic. He'd return for us later, when the shooting stopped and the slow-cooking sausages were done.

My father found us a spot on a fencerow, under a tree, and directed me not to retrieve any birds from the field until after the hunt. No sooner had he spoke, than two doves flew from behind us, going away. His 16-gauge barked twice and the pair crashed into the tangle of downed sunflowers. My father then crouched, gun held low, and waited until an incoming bird was almost upon us before rising and flaring it into a towering climb. The bird disappeared into an explosion of feathers just before my father pulled the trigger.

"Haw haw!" shouted an uncle. "Wiped your eye on that one!"

"Nice shooting, Virgil!" my father conceded, not too convincingly.

Virgil then threw three long shots at a crossing pair and only managed to wingtip one. My father saw his chance and crushed them both with two quick shots.

"Virgil, you let me know if you need any more help!" he said in a voice loud enough for all to hear.

"Yeah, yeah..." my uncle mumbled.

The shooting was riotous for half an hour. I was so intimidated by the speed of the birds, and in such awe of the shots being made, that I didn't press the issue of my shooting. My father finally emptied his gun and handed it to me. "Just load one shell at a time, he said. "Then, you won't have to worry about the second shot. I've seen you shoot... you'll do fine. Don't think about it," he coached. "Just shoot the bird."

I dropped one of the purple, waxed paper shells into the receiver and moved the forearm forward to chamber it. "Now, you're a lefty, and this safety will be all wrong for you. Wrap you finger around the trigger guard and push it off as you bring the gun up. That's it... like that. On your left coming in low," he whispered.

I'd never shot at a bird that I could watch from any great distance. I raised the gun to my shoulder while it was still out of range, clicked off the safety, and tried to follow its flight with the barrel. By the time I shot, I was waving it around like a yardstick-wielding nun. "We'll need to work on this," he said, handing me another shell. "Keep your gun down until the moment you're ready to shoot. Just watch the bird, and blot out every thing else. Ready?"

"Yup."

"Good... from the left again."

Half a dozen birds were strung out in line, crossing downwind. I watched the lead bird and waited... and waited... and finally threw the gun up and fired. A solid hit! The last bird in the line exploded into feathers and bounced on the field road. "Nice shot!" my father said, and slapped my back.

It was only then that I realized that everyone else had stopped to watch. They cheered and clapped, and were still whistling when we heard the tractor cough to life.

Benny arrived with a cooler that held several dozen iced bottles of beer, and one strawberry soda. It took us a while to collect all of the doves, and they were piled into the now empty cooler of ice. Shots were relived and bragged about on the short trip back, and everyone congratulated me again.

My uncle Richie smiled. "Is this your first dove hunt?"

"Yes sir." I answered.

"Well now," he said scratching his hairless head in mock thought, "what was it I heard about, fellas? You know, about first timers?"

"He gits to pick all the birds!" they all cheered.

When we arrived back at the grove everyone was on their hands and knees, as they searched the grass and sifted through the leaves. "Vot da hell's go'n on here?" asked Benny as he turned off the tractor and jumped down ahead of us.

"Benny! Careful ver you step!" Angela cried out and waved him back.

"Vot da hell?"

"Ach... Leo's gone and lost his glass eye again!"

"He vot? Now, how'd he do dat?"

"Vell, he was playing tricks on the little ones, you know, where we slaps himself in the back of the head, and it pops out. Only he didn't catch it."

"It's hard to catch vit only von eye," offered Leo. He looked like a pirate, with a handkerchief tied around his head.

"Mien Gott in Himmel," mumbled Benny. "Not again."

"Ahhhhrg!" Screamed one of the little girls as she pointed at the washtub of ice and soda. "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!" she cried.

"I think we've found Leo's eye," my father said, and we all crowded around the first washtub any of us had ever seen that could stare back at us.

Late that night, as we drove home and listened to the Cardinals game on KMOX, my father, who had waited for my mother and sisters to nod off to sleep, looked over his shoulder at me and softly asked, "Did you hit the one you shot at?"

He smiled to himself, already knowing the answer.

Thanks for visiting,

Bob White

[denjac]

He writes and also is an artist. Some folksl have all the talent. I cant even draw good stick people!

[tippett7]

Where they guzzling beer before or after they went out with loaded shotguns.