Rabbit Gets a Name
Dad had a gun and I wanted it. It set in the corner on the back porch and I’d been given explicit instructions to never, n-e-v-e-r, touch it; but as a seven-year-old, I’d dream. Growing up in the 50’s and 60’s with Roy Rogers, The Lone Ranger, Gene Autry, and Bonanza, having a gun meant having a status symbol. After all, anybody who was somebody had one, didn’t he? Dad’s was a Marlin, lever action .22 with a tubular magazine. Nothing fancy, but it was my father’s and thoughts of shooting it filled my mind.
One Christmas, I received my first firearm, a Daisy pump-action BB gun. Somewhere there’s a picture of me, standing in my pajamas in front of the tree, holding that beauty. Boy, I was proud. I’d finally arrived. My informal gun training began that day. I was never to point it at anyone. The emphasis was on ‘never’ and Dad made this an edict. If I disobeyed, I’d lose the gun. To a youngster with an impressionable mind, his meaning came across loud and clear. Safety was paramount.
Mom had breakfast ready but I was anxious to get outside. Shoveling eggs, toast, and cereal into my mouth, I swallowed without chewing and was out the door in a flash. Filling the chamber with BBs, I placed a tin can on a concrete foundation, aimed, squeezed—and missed. Too high. The sights were adjusted and I fired again. Plink. Whoopee, I did it. Several more rounds were expended and the can soon looked like Mom’s colander from the kitchen.
Now that I was an experienced marksman, I decided to become a ‘game’ hunter. Dad’s warning still rang in my ears, so that eliminated livestock, pets, and song birds. The only thing not covered by his prohibitions, and against which a BB gun would be effective, was the sparrow. On our farm there were a gazillion of them and they were noisy, dirty, and had nests everywhere.
Sneaking cautiously through the orchard, I used a branch as a rest, and I waited. The birds soon landed in the next tree. My heart began to palpitate, my breathing deepened, my eyes squinted through the sights as I lined up on the intended target. I fired. The birds looked at me and kept up their noise as if to say, ‘You missed. Ha, ha, ha.’ Cocking the gun frightened the sparrows, so I waited, this time more noisily. After all, how long could an excited boy remain quiet?
The birds soon landed in the tree and I touched off another shot. I watched the bird tumble from the branch, fall through the tree and drop into the waist high grass. The mighty hunter had his first ‘kill’. I wanted the carcass for a trophy and started my search.
“Time to go to Grandma’s. Put your gun away,” Mom said from the back door. It was important to prove I’d been successful, that I was a skilled marksman. So, my probing through the weeds became more intense. Mom was persistent and the mighty hunter slunk sadly back to the house, empty handed.
I was close to twelve, by my recollection, when Dad felt I was old enough to handle his gun. I’d been rummaging through a cupboard and came across a bullet. A .22 shell is quite small, less than an inch and smaller round than a wooden pencil. I took it to Dad and asked if I could shoot it. The answer was ‘No’ but he did take me out back and showed me how to safely handle his rifle. He shot that bullet towards a can and missed, but my training had begun.
Later that week he purchased a box of .22 shorts and for the first time I fired his gun. Safety rules were ingrained into my mind. Always empty the gun before transporting. Know your target and, most importantly, what’s beyond. Never aim at a person, livestock, or pets. Keep the ‘safety’ on except when shooting. Treat the gun as if it were loaded.
Years later these rules helped me from making a costly mistake when four of my relatives decided to go hunting on our farm. We’d been walking the stubble field after the corn was harvested and were on the back side. A pheasant flushed and all five had our guns to our shoulder. That bird was flying directly away from me and for six or seven seconds I had a perfect shot. Dad’s training kicked in and I looked beyond the bird and found my gun aimed directly at our kitchen. For a split second I hesitated, then dropped the rifle from my shoulder, and un-cocked the hammer.
Dad’s training occurred only that once. He trusted me to follow the safety rules and I in no way abused that trust. By default, his rifle became mine and I never saw him use it again.
Over time I became quite proficient with that weapon, knowing and understanding its quirks and idiosyncrasies. The sparrow population was reduced by half and I was proud of my expertise at hitting the center of a target.
Sparrows no longer provided a challenge and I set my sights on something larger. Birds were easy because they would land, giving me a clean shot. But rabbits, on the other hand, ran from place to place, and then into hiding. I never was good at hitting a moving object.
Small game hunting season fell during winter and tracking rabbits is always best after a new snow. I made several trips into the fields, occasionally flushed a rabbit, maybe getting off a shot, but never did I come home as the triumphant hunter.
Correction, once I brought home a rabbit. A large Mulberry tree was out back with a split in the trunk about twelve inches from the ground. Right in the middle sat a bunny. I was nearly fifty feet from that tree and I squatted down, took aim and proudly came home carrying meat for the table.
Earlier, I told you about Dad’s safety rules. Well, Mom had some rules too. If I’d bring home a fresh kill, then it was my responsibility to ‘clean’ it. I’d never done it before but Mom was adamant, very adamant. Dad gave me some verbal instructions and I set about to skin and gut this thing. I’ll spare the gory details, but later learned how to do it in about 4 minutes.
Then came the big blizzard of ’63. Snow started falling the last day before Christmas vacation and the principal let school out early. My brother and I rode the bus. We were let out at the end of our driveway and made a beeline for the house. But because the roads were so bad, the driver missed the turn as he pulled out of our drive and his wheel slipped into the ditch. It was forty-five minutes before the tow truck arrived.
It snowed all that night and most of the next day with sixty mile per hour winds whipping it into huge drifts. I kept the milk-cows in the barn and we waited it out storm. The following morning the snow had stopped and the wind let up but was still gusting strongly. We figured maybe twelve inches had fallen and the place was truly a winter wonderland.
Our cars were buried and I was ‘requested’ to dig them out. After three hours of backbreaking labor, and despite the cold, I’d broken into a sweat. Finished, I returned to the house to warm by the stove. What intrigued me, while I’d been shoveling, were the numerous rabbit trails through the snow. This would be an ideal time to go hunting.
Putting on dry clothes and dressing warmly, I grabbed the gun and headed out the door. The snow was so deep it came over the top of my boots, filtering down inside, making my socks damp. There were animal tracks everywhere, but I saw no game during the next two hours.
In one corner of our back yard, there were four or five well used rabbit trails and despite the evidence, I was surprised I hadn’t scared up any. I followed one trail and topped a small rise, looking down into a deep hole. All tracks led to this spot.
A little digging revealed a clay tile, eight inches in diameter. Bingo. A light popped on in my head. I knew this pipe and it was not possible for a rabbit leave this location. Everything went in and nothing coming out.
Years ago, refrigeration was not available to rural families. The solution to keep food for long periods was to ‘can’ fruits and vegetable in jars. The jars were then kept in underground caves. This particular clay tile was the vent pipe to the cave in our back yard. Mom had long ago stopped using it, but it was a reminder to a bygone era.
I returned the gun to the house, grabbed a torch, some twine, and a gunnysack. Coming back to the cave, I uncovered the outside door and stepped inside, closing it behind me. It smelled dank and musty as I walked down the steps to the other door. I could hear activity on the other side and squeezed inside, also fastening this door behind me.
The space was eight by ten and seven feet high. It was made of bricks and plastered with cement. The shelves, separated with kiln dried bricks, lined the walls. Several had collapsed, having clattered to the floor. The place was dark except for the circle of light coming from the vent.
The beam from the torch stabbed through the darkness and rabbits scattered, seeking protection in the dark corners. I set about my work cornering the animals, tying their feet, and stuffing them in the sack. Six, this would be a very good hunting trip.
I carried the bag to the house, depositing it on the back porch. I’m not certain why, but curiosity got the best of me and I returned to the cave. I found a seventh rabbit under one of the shelves and he quickly joined the others. For the next hour my brother and I worked at cleaning them and getting them ready for Mom to fry. If cooked right, they’d taste almost like chicken.
Seven rabbits and I never fired a shot. At first my friends didn’t believe me when I’d told them. However, I convinced them after explaining in detail. It was at this time that they gave me a nickname. And so, “Rabbit” was named.