doublegunshop.com - home Forums General Discussion DoubleGun BBS @ doublegunshop.com Ot fO jO, Grand pappy & mammy thread.

Stan et al: Thank you so much for sharing that. I, too, was born and started life on the family farm, this one about 90 miles north of St. Louis, Missouri. Mom and Dad decided to hang it up in the mid-50's when I was about 7 yrs old. I was heartbroken but, of course, I wasn't consulted in that decision. Nonetheless, those few years on the farm had a very positive effect on my life. I was absolutely blessed to have had the experience. Thank you all for relating your experience!
Gil

Or, as an alternate morale to this interesting, but sad outcome story-- Don't allow the wimmenfolk to have access to firearms, and don't be 'PASSIN' THE TIME" in the same home and bedroom where you and your Missus sleep-- Georgia-Peach- Ty Cobb: wasn't there a shooting incident at home when Ty was about 13--?? Anyone remember the details?? RWTF

My granpappy was a coon hunter...

His buddy told me this story about him after he passed.

Grampaw had this famous coon dog name of Rattler Brown and this mutt [censored] name of spOt...

Said one gloomy damp night ol Rattler was down in the swamp just tearing it up on a big cypress.

As they approached the tree they see the little [censored] 'spOt running around and around Rattler nipping and yipping at his heals while Rattler is bull frog barking at the tree.

They put up light...the tree was lit up like a starry night.

Said Grampaw took aim up amungst them eYes...bOom.

Said when grampaw fired up that big cypress one time with his fOe'hunnad n tin....7 coons, 6 turkeys, 4 opossums, 2 woodpeckers and 3 squirrels fell out the tree....

and one cooked gOose.

One squirrel hit the betch spOt on the head and gave her permanent brAin damage....

Grampaw his buddy and Rattler barely escaped with their lives.

I'm sure in the next life the [censored] spOt is still running around nipping at fOlks heals.

On a dark gloomy night listen real close and you can almost hear her.

Rumor was Grampaw worked at Roswell seems he had smuggled out some alien mAgic dust not of this world...said Grampaw called it his magic fAiry dust.

Said all you had to do was just touch the end of your shotgun shell into it.


I'm sure this story sounds too far fetched for some...

As told to me cross by heart and hope to lie....

My Maternal Grandfather (PaPa to me) died about a month before my eighth birthday, my Paternal Grandfather (Grandaddy) about a year later. PaPa was not quite yet 62 while Grandaddy was in his 80s & had been rather feeble for some time. I have many fond memories of both, but not hunting or fishing related.

Grandaddy had a Big Black TN Walking Horse, he named Dandy Boy. "No One" else could ride that horse but him. After he had got to the point he could no longer swing up astride his back there was a large rock out in their barn lot. He would saddle Dandy Boy & then climb up on that rock & make him come up beside it & swing on from there. If some visitor was there & he was "Showing Off" the horse he would tell him he wasn't close enough & make him come around again & get closer, sometimes two or three times until the horse was just about on the rock with him, then he would mount.

If anyone else tried to ride him he would rear & buck till he unseated them. I recall my Dad's older brother trying to ride him once & he had at one point gone put west & got some wild Mustangs & brought them back to TN & broke them, but he couldn't stay on Dandy Boy.

My dad kept a line of his descendants throughout most of the rest of his life.

My Paternal Grandmother's Father had been a boxer somewhere around New York in his younger days, but later on, had taken a job as a railroad detective in Memphis TN.
He went to make an arrest one day as a Hobo jumped train while coming into a station there & as he approached him the Hobo pulled a pistol & shot him dead. I think my Grandmother was just a very young girl at the time.

He sure gave the horse a proper name.

Don't know Cobb story but seem to recall a "hot blood" defence for murder in Texas in the 50s or 60s, related to me by a physically challenged male librarian at MSC south of Houston. He was carrying a sixgun under his jacket. I asked what for. He said, "It's my equalizer." Gulp.

What is that...a Nova Scotian Scotch dialect euphemism for a feller that don�t like girls?

With all the lookin� back through rose colored glasses I�m not sure if I�m back in the USSR or up on Walton�s Mountain.


___________________________
The Homecoming
https://youtu.be/blO8u7wuyWQ

Keep in mind he Wrestled Martin Luther King.....

Just saying

The slight feller was dressed crisp white shirt, tie, blazer and flannels. One leg was shorter than the other. Otherwise, from his revelation to me, he appeared to be attracted to girls the same as I---except if another man got in his way!

I don't think we're looking back with rose-coloured glasses on grandfathers' places in our lives, lonesome. The posts are more intimate than most others in expressing feelings of family, and our enduring struggle to be human.

My maternal grandfather taught me about duck hunting the old way on the Eastern Shore. Back then feeding(baiting) was allowed as long as it was some distance away from the blind. Started out as bait being OK outside 100 yards then 250 yards and then 500 yards. The creek and marsh we hunted on was about six miles long and a mile wide along most of its length and must have had a dozen or two dozen plus areas of bait, five were family farms. Bait was used just to bring ducks into the creek not bring them into the blind. And that creek could have several thousand ducks on it. Today it does not have two dozen.

If they wanted ducks for a �fancy� dinner, no shot holes in them, they would bait up a narrow gut and trap the ducks. We did not do that but I�ve seen several setups and was told in no uncertain terms to leave another mans business alone.

After they started cracking down on baiting, methods were found to keep duck local without getting caught baiting. You would cut a cedar tree pole and strip all but the top few branches. Put your bait out and sink the pole as a marker. Ducks would find the bait and associate the pole with dinner. After a couple weeks they would follow that pole around the marsh looking for dinner. Then when you wanted to hunt them, move the pole into your decoys. Ducks would dive in. Game wardens figured something was up. Had a game warden drag and dredge out in front of my blind looking for bait. He just knew it was there, somewhere. But it was half a mile away and long eaten up. After awhile the game wardens figured out what was going on and told us if we did it they would just salt our marsh and write us up. Then they changed the law so bait within a mile was illegal. End up baiting on the Shore. And end of big duck numbers.

My other grandfather was the quail hunting side of the family. He was a farmer who also delivered the mail as a side job. As a rural mailman he knew where every covey of birds were in the county. On a few real cold days he would bring a dog with him in his car. Stop along his route, just to let the dog out to pee and stretch his legs, point a few birds, shoot a few birds, then put him back in his car and finish his route. Back then every farmer�s wife could clean a bird for dinner. Today they�d call the law and claim it was a hate crime.

Back then everybody, let anyone hunt, without even asking. He would often leave a quail in the mail box of a widow or poor person. They were glad for the free meal. People asked each other who left them that nice quail. People figured out he was doing it. Word got around what he was doing and people would mention to him that they had a covey of quail on their farm, tell him in detail where they were and he was invited to shoot anytime. And thanked him for giving so and so that quail the other day.