Last Monday, the first Monday after Thanksgiving, was the
first day of deer hunting using a rifle here in Pennsylvania.
When I was a child, the first day of Buck Season was on the
first of December. It did not matter
which day of the week it fell on, with the exception of Sunday. In that case, since hunting is not permitted on
Sunday, it fell on Monday, the second of December.
The business section of our town lays on flat land, or a valley
running north and south. This is rimmed
on the east and the west by hills. I
lived on the hill on the east side of town.
During the Great Depression, the WPA built stone steps up the slope of
the hill leading from the center of town to the east side. This allowed the people living on or near the
top of the hill and beyond easier access to the schools and businesses located
in the town.
At the top of these steps, the WPA also built a large stone
bench as a resting place for those walking to and from their homes to the shops,
businesses, and schools. It was also
where the three main routes coming from the north, south, and west met.
On the evening of the thirtieth of November it became the
meeting place for the east side children to enjoy the annual spectacular sight.
As far as you could see up any of those
three roads were the headlights of the hunters arriving in our area as they
sought out their camps and lodgings for the big day.
While the lights were an exceptional show, the first day of hunting
meant that cars with dead deer tied onto their fenders would proudly parade
through town, proving the prowess of the drivers as skilled hunters. Buck season was special because the local
paper, as well as the local businesses, offered prizes for many of “the first”—the
first deer, the first spike, the first of the various total points of the
antlers.
My father was a hunter—deer, squirrel, rabbit, groundhog,
grouse, ring-necked pheasant, turkey —they were all welcomed additions to our
table in those depression and post-depression days. Dad won prizes twenty times in the twenty-five
years he participated.
My birthday also happened to be on the first of
December. When he would bring home his “catch,”
he would jokingly tell me, “Well, here’s your birthday present.” I would much rather have seen Bambi alive than
dead! Especially since Dad would hang
the deer on the back porch roof strut that was about a foot away from the
opening of the back door. I know it is
silly, but as a young’un, whenever I had to go in or out of that door, I was
always terrified as to what would happen if that deer ever came alive and
started kicking. Mom must have told him
how I felt, because later on Dad began hanging his deer on the iron clothes
posts in the yard.
My father never let us have any of the tails as trophies of
his accomplishments. When I was in high
school, I was quite surprised when he brought the tail of his twenty-fifth
deer to me as a present. He later also gave
me the tail of a grouse he had spread and dried. The following February my dad died of a heart
attack at the age of forty-eight. I kept
those trophies for over sixty years.
When I was in junior high, the school board decided to
declare the first day of hunting season as a legal holiday for any student who
could show a valid hunting license. That
meant that most of the girls as well as the boys who did not hunt still had to
report to classes. This did not sit very
well with the student body. But what is
the saying? That’s the way it is.
So when congress enacted the “Monday Holiday,” the State
changed the first day of buck season to the Monday after Thanksgiving, and the
school system declared it a legal holiday for all students, not just the
hunters. Of course, with the whole
weekend for the hunters to arrive at their destination, the drama of their
appearance fell drastically.
The deer “bagged” had to be reported to the game commission,
and if a doe were accidently killed during the week-long buck season, or a buck
accidently killed during the one-day doe season, the deer would be confiscated
and the hunter fined. The meat did not
go to waste. The Commission had a list
of handicapped individuals unable to hunt and the deer would go to the families
on that list.
We were married about twelve years before we found out
about that list and the fact we were eligible.
For a good seven years we received either illegal kills or sometimes a
road kill. The deer we received had
already been gutted, so our part of this deal was that we would skin the deer
and cut off the head. We were then to
return to the game wardens the skin with the head intact.
Our younger son was about five years old when we started
this exchange and he wanted to help with the skinning, He felt
his part was to sit in a chair and make gagging sounds while we worked. He was quickly barred from the room when my
stomach started churning.
We canned the venison and found that it was a very tasty
addition to a meal…much more so than the beef we have canned.
What about you? Did/do
you hunt? Your parent or an older
sibling? Or, like me, do you prefer catching
sight of your Bambi eating at the side of the road or from your apple tree?