Reflections from the Farm - Pheasant Hunting in a Blizzard?

Some ramblings about hunting on the farm in the fifties, following a recent conversation with my older brother.

The area of the"killing fields" - taken June 2015 - about 60 years later!

I have two older brothers, both now living in Minnesota--a cold winter state that usually shares its weather with us here in Michigan a few days later, usually moderated by that big lake between us.

When I have referenced my early years on the farm in South Dakota I have occasionally spoken with my brothers by phone to check if my memories are accurate. When I had an episode of transient global amnesia a few years back, I immediately understood that my mother had had the same thing back in 1957. She did not have the benefit of an MRI or a neurologist to diagnose her, but like me, quickly improved and, as far as we know, never suffered that kind of memory loss again. At that time I was curious about what happened to her. I was only eight at the time and my brothers had other specific memories of that day. I learned, for example, that it all started when my mother woke up that morning and started making hamburgers for breakfast.

In a recent post when I referenced the foot-feed or feet (the accelerator or gas pedal), brother D. was glad to explain to me the origin of the term and brother L. confirmed that we indeed used the word foot-feet.

When I was talking on the phone to brother D. last week about that gas pedal and about how cold it really was back in the day, he recalled a wintertime activity which he engaged in, probably starting when I was still just a toddler, back in the 50's. I thought it was a great story, probably not shared often--perhaps because the activity he engaged in was illegal. I think the statute of limitations has now long since run out.

He probably recalled the story because on one of the hunting jaunts with our father, he had been advised to rub his cheeks (already suffering from the crystallized wind-blown snow) with snow--as if that would help. The result was raw and blistered cheeks with 3-inch circles of red. He was forced to return to school with those embarrassing cheeks. The whole incident was probably seared into his memory.

As I understand it, there were occasions when D. and Dad took advantage (in a rather unsportsman-like way, I might add) of pheasants in the middle of blizzard weather, birds that huddled together in a sheltered hollow with long grasses and shrubby trees--a ravine area formed when gravel was removed from the land. This was in the middle of a cow pasture, a quarter mile from our farmstead. They could easily walk to the gravel pit, but may have taken a tractor if the snow was not too deep. D. said he would often beg to go hunting when he returned home from school. My Dad sometimes was too busy with chores and D. would go alone.

Our gravel pit was a perfect spot for the pheasants to congregate and escape the cold blizzard winds and a perfect spot to be sitting ducks for the hunters. He remembers finding some of the birds already frozen to death.

I am familiar with the guns used. They sat propped behind the door to the basement all my life. My Dad used a 12-gauge shotgun and my brother toted the smaller bored 410, probably from the age of 10, although he seems to remember that a hunting license was available when he was 14. I understand that the (Ithaca 12-gauge) shotgun is still in the family. He also mentioned to me that the original 12-gauge that was used in those early days of hunting was not a very good or accurate gun.

My mother was a good Dutch cook as well as immigrant/depression-era-frugal. She gladly prepared the pheasants (those shot or already dead, I guess--in season or not!) and probably made them tasty. I do remember eating pheasant and disliking that it was sometimes peppered with black shot.

I also remember one young pastor (John) who loved coming to the farm in the fall (in season!) to hunt with my Dad. Later this same man participated in a golf event for a few years here in Michigan with the husband, but I never met him again after those years. I do also remember memorizing the catechism for him as he taught the lessons in my private Christian grade school classroom. It was a shock to see him in his hunting garb, and with his gun, when I had only seen him in a dark suit.

My brother tells me he thinks the Rev. John enjoyed walking the fields and talking with my father about matters of the church as much as shooting the pheasants, but he did take the birds he shot home with him. Also, I'm sure my mother put out a full spread of homemade buns with meat and cheese, along with baked goods, etc.--a "little" farm lunch (coffee-time) for the weary hunters when they returned.

Brother D. tells me he sometimes misbehaved in the classes of the young pastor and was a little uncomfortable with him being at the house. My parents spoke of him as a thoughtful and knowledgeable preacher, but they would have treated any pastor with kindness and deference, because that is what you did back in the day!

Pheasant hunting (usually in season in the fall) was common all through my growing up years. It was fun for the men and it provided good organic meat that supplemented our own freezer stock--which was never really in short supply--with home-grown beef, pork and chicken available.

 But this illegal, out-of-season hunting that my father did was news to my ears.

What a rebel he was!

There was always a hunting season in latter October and you needed to buy a license to hunt pheasants. There was a limit of three birds and you were not to shoot the hens. If one hunter shot five pheasants and another hunter just one, they would share the birds in order to not be caught going over the limit. My Dad would hunt with my uncle Herman, a nephew Mel and often, for a few years anyway, with the pastor.

This past year we have been watching "Life Below Zero," a reality program on the National Geographic Channel. It follows various "subsistence living" Alaskans who hunt and gather for all their food. Taking advantage of the salmon run, trapping animals, shooting birds in the sky or ducks in the water is how they survive. There are limits, and only the native Alaskans can hunt without restriction.

Taking advantage of game birds on one's own property (and using them for food) really seems okay by me. I suspect that there were not enough game wardens around in the 50-60's to monitor activity on our farm, especially in the cold and snowy winter weather. But I am sure that my Dad was very aware that what he was doing was against the law. Maybe that added a little more excitement to the hunt!

More interesting is that along with the plethora of birds huddled in the snowstorm, they would find dead birds and pluck them out of their snowy burial ground to take home and eat! They would find primarily dead hens, which it was against the law to shoot,

When the winds were blowing hard the birds would be vulnerable. I have learned that the nostrils of the birds can freeze over, suffocating them. They can last a few days without food in a snowstorm, but the smaller hens and the younger birds do not have enough fat on their bodies to sustain warmth for a long time. A long and cold winter can be hazardous to the bird populations. It seemed we always had a plentiful supply of pheasants in those days.

D. also told me that  Dad felt comfortable shooting the pheasants he spotted that had sought refuge in the shelter belt around the farm, whether in season or not. We called the original trees around the farm buildings the grove. It was my private childhood playground.

I also remember hunting jackrabbits at night with a spotlight, bumping around over the furrowed fields of cornstalks in the old pickup truck. I actually went along on at least one of those adventures, because I have very distinct memories and there are no photos. Jackrabbits were not hunted for food, although apparently the family ate a few of the "cottontails" that were shot. What I didn't know is that the thick winter hides of the jackrabbits were worth 50 cents each and that the meat was used to feed the mink on the mink farms. D remembers the "jacks" hung up in a row, out of reach of predators.

That's it for now. My brother's memory of these times is remarkable. He also told me about all the cars that were purchased and what we paid  for the champagne-colored 1963 Ford Falcon Futura that I inherited my junior year of college, all the features he special ordered on his own Falcon, the size of the engines, the cost of the am/fm radio (fm was not standard!) and the trade-in value of the car that my other brother smashed when he hit a train in town, spinning around to crush both ends. I'll have to review that story with brother L. some day--if he is not still too traumatized to talk about it!

These photos, taken when I was close to 18 years old, are my only evidence of my own hunting cred. I am pretty sure that I shot these gophers. The hungry calico kitty is waiting. Note the shell on the chair: