When I was in the third grade (7-8 years old), we lived in New Orleans. I had been hunting rabbits with a 22 for a couple of years during the Summers at my grandparents in South Texas. We always gave the rabbits to families that needed them more than we did, except for one rabbit that I insisted be made into rabbit stew (why rabbit stew? I don't have any idea. It just sounded good, and it actually was good. I ate it all, no one else wanted any). Anyway, hunting and shooting wasn't new to me. My grandfather had given me an Eastern Arms dogleg 410 and my dad told me we were going squirrel hunting. I had seen lots of squirrels (none in South Texas though) and hunting was hunting. We drove up to around Slidell where he had gotten permission to hunt on a patch of piney woods. It was a little cold but not uncomfortable. I was allowed to put a shell in the chamber but was warned under pain of whatever was worse than death, to NOT cock it unless supervised. I was following my dad through some pretty rough brambles when he stopped short, raised his mod 42 and shot almost in the same instant. It was as fast as Matt Dillon drawing on a BG, AND it was real shooting! I followed him on through and he picked up a huge rabbit. Swamp rabbits get a lot bigger than South Texas cottontails. We hunted through the morning without any more luck (but I got to carry the rabbit!)
About 11:00 we stopped on a logging road and he built a fire (things just kept on getting better and better!), cut a couple of sticks and cleaned the rabbit. He had gutted it earlier by squeezing the guts down into the abdomen and then swinging it between his legs stopping the swing with his elbows on his knees. If you do it right it cleans that rabbit right out. If you do it wrong (like my first attempt much later) then rabbit guts and all they contain gets splattered from the seat of your pants and up your back.
He skinned it, washed it with a bit of water from the canteen and put it over the fire on the sticks with the ribcage spread open. I don't remember what we talked about (an 8 yr old boy, with a fire and a roasting rabbit has a pretty short attention span), but he'd reach over and turn the rabbit every once in a while, and sprinkle a little salt and pepper from some tin foil packs he'd brought along (almost like he planned the whole thing!).
Then we ate that rabbit sitting right there in the red clay and pine needles (didn't even wash our hands). To date, I have not tasted better rabbit than that one. All rabbits since have been measured by that one and they have all fallen short. I can still see it in my minds eye, and my dad on his side propped up on an elbow doing something he'd done a thousand times, and not realizing the wonderful memory he was making.
This is something we all need to remember, young and old; Every interaction we have with our children and grandchildren is making a memory. Make them good ones.
Alan
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