By Edward Master
I was never much of a hunter nor fisherman.
I went with my dad once to hunt deer near Elk City. I remember walking down a long right-of-way with utility poles. Never saw a deer. It was cold and the ground was covered in snow.
I went small-game hunting with my father on one occasion. We walked up the road from home to the area known as the Weller. I think at one time there was a home in that area. There may have been remnants of a root cellar, too. That was it for hunting—two trips.
My older brother Jack basically “taught” me how to shoot, if you call it that. Jack threw an empty quart can into the back yard, got a rifle out, loaded the rifle (it may have been a shotgun as opposed to a deer rifle), gave the gun to me, and said “Go ahead, shoot the can.” I shot the end out of the can and Jack said, “You’re ready.”
He laughed. I laughed. That sports fans was my “lesson.”
I decided early on in my short hunting career that I would rather be warm than slogging around in the cold. Becoming a basketballer (in junior high) convinced me of that course in life. However, lots of my friends stayed with the hunting rituals.
The one odd thing about the hunting culture on my part is that I enjoyed eating squirrel, rabbit, pheasant, and venison. My mother definitely knew the secret behind cooking squirrel and rabbit. I for one loved a venison steak, venison chop, and ground venison in a burger, especially when mixed with some beef. So, I never turned away any game. I just didn’t kill the animal and gut it. What really finished me on the hunting thing was the playing basketball in the local Watson barn. Being inside did it for me.
I was never the hunter my brother was, especially when he was in his younger days. Jack often hunted deer with my father’s friend (from childhood) Ivan (Bones) Best. My dad bought my brother a special rifle just for deer hunting. It was a lever-action 30-30. I don’t recall the manufacturer.
I don’t remember a year, but my brother was well into senior high school. Once, as Bones relayed with laughter, my brother emptied the rifle’s ammo chamber from his hip at his deer target, not landing a shot. Bones described the incident as “Just like the ‘Rifleman’ on TV.” We had a good laugh over that for quite a spell. The odd thing about brother Jack and hunting is that he did an enlistment in the U.S. Navy and that was the end of his hunting. He may have done some mule deer out west in the Rockies in later years, but I’m uncertain of that. I do believe he did some fishing with our Uncle David (my mom’s brother) in northern California.
I never asked why nor did I understand why my brother gave up hunting. He just did.
My fishing exploits were probably a duplicate of my hunting career. I recall doing the first day thing on a cold, snow covering the ground April morning. I trudged to the bottom of Weeter Hill to Turkey Run. Just east of the ball field. I tossed in my line and waited, and waited. Not a bite. Not a nibble. I did a better job angling with a safety pin and worms on the end of a stick when I was a youngster with Linda and Jane McHenry.
For some reason, I went fishing in the Clarion River once and I caught a sun fish. We may have been with Ivan Best. I also did a fish trip with my Uncle Ed (another of mom’s brothers) to Stoneboro (Sandy Creek?). I again returned home with an empty creel.
My last experience fishing was a bit more fruitful. I landed a small flounder off an Atlantic City, New Jersey, inlet. I was a tag-along with friend George Sanderson who was an avid fisherman in and around South Jersey. He owned a small boat and a Jeep with a boat hitch. George may have even cast a line or two in the Florida Keys.
George Sanderson may have been the most dedicated fisherman I ever knew. My Grandpa Johnson and at least two of my uncles were fishermen (and hunters). My brother often spoke of my grandpa’s bamboo fishing rod.
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