quote:

Originally posted by Outdoor Writer:
I'm guessing the writer is somewhat like the lady I met more than 20 years ago. I wrote the following column about her a few months later.

LAST SHOT

AN ANSWER FOR NANCY

A few weeks ago I invited a new acquaintance and his wife over to my house for dinner. They live in Scottsdale, but we had met Jim and Nancy in Mazatlan last October when my wife and I celebrated our 30th wedding anniversary at the Mexican resort city.

The invitation to my house was a big mistake.

I didn't know Nancy was a devout PETA member and a staunch advocate against hunting at the time. Having a few dozen big-game and fish mounts scattered throughout the house, I surely would have preferred meeting at a "neutral" site had I known what was in store.

Nancy's first reaction upon walking in the front door and being greeted by a flying pheasant mount in the entryway was sort of sedate. It changed quickly, though, when she walked into the living room and saw the life-size coyote mount, complete with quail in mouth, sitting on the oak coffee table.

I spent the rest of the night defending hunting and why I do it. Nancy never did understand.

Then a few days later, while going through some old photos, I found one of my grandfather and me with a nice North Kaibab buck. It's one of my more cherished mounts.

Right then I realized what I had forgot to tell Nancy. Something I wrote a few years ago on the afternoon my grandfather died says it all.

Here it is:

Sometimes, even professional writers labor over putting words on paper. This column embodies one such struggle. Although the words flowed easily, the subject matter made it the most difficult piece I've ever written; painful might describe it better.

At some point in nearly everyone's life, another person ultimately will influence one's behavior --- conduct, morals, principles, ethics, whatever. My life was no different. Early on, my grandfather became that person.

Born in Sicily in 1891, Pop came to New Jersey as a teenager and worked construction jobs for most of his life. He battled through the Depression, saved enough money to build a house and eventually retired in the late 1950s.

Although the hunting opportunities close to home were meager, Pop made the best of them. Each year he hunted for deer in the hardwoods and farm fields of upper New York state, and on Thanksgiving Day custom dictated that he and the other men in the family spend a cool, autumn morning searching for a few rabbits, squirrels or upland birds.

The outings into the brightly-hued woods were only for grown-ups, so I never went until I was 16. Yet, in spite of that, I spent a lot of time with my grandfather; weekend visits and Sunday dinners typified Italian tradition. Because I was the first and only grandson, Pop might have played favorites, but I'm uncertain of that. I do know we were close.

Pop moved to Arizona in 1960, and my wife and I followed a few months later. He was already in his 70s at the time, and I had just turned 20. The hunting opportunities in our new home state excited us both. We immediately began a new relationship. In addition to being grandfather and grandson, we became hunting buddies.

During the time we spent together, Pop taught me things that my urban upbringing precluded. He showed me the fundamentals, such as the proper way to sharpen a knife, pluck a bird and field dress a deer.

I retained it all. But the philosophical things --- matters dealing with the moral or ethical side of hunting --- are what I remember most. Pop always said obey the law and only do what you feel is right. If there's a doubt, don't do it.

To my two sons Pop was Papa. When they started hunting, their Papa taught them, as well. Sometimes, they did things contrary to what Pop felt was right. When that happened, he corrected them. His favorite reprimand was short and to the point --- "Shame on you."

Like most youngsters growing up, my sons and daughter often shed tears as a result of a scolding or an insignificant hurt. Pop always chided them. His "Big boys (or girls) don't cry," usually stemmed the flow of tears. And, as I remember, it did the same for me throughout my childhood.

For fifteen years, Pop accompanied me on every hunting trip. We scatter-gunned for fast-flying doves and quail, crawled through the sage for speedy pronghorns, climbed the foothills for the elusive javelina and stalked through the pines for the majestic elk. And yes, we hunted mule deer, too; Pop relished it.

The North Kaibab usually always produced venison for the freezer, so it became Pop's favorite hunting spot. I took him there whenever possible. In the early 1960s, Kaibab deer permits came easy. Later, however, after the drawing system went into effect, our hunting trips to the North Rim dwindled. If we failed to get a permit, Pop showed great disappointment.

Pop rarely was sick, but the years eventually took their toll. A strenuous day in the field often caused him to experience severe leg cramps in the middle of the night. When this happened, I'd get out of bed and rub the baseball-sized knots until the pain subsided. It never discouraged him, though; he endured the hurts rather than miss the thing he cherished most. Despite the fact that his physical ability lessened, his love for hunting persevered.

While I spent my days stalking through the woods, Pop sat in one place for hours, waiting in ambush for a not-so-wary prey to appear. I made a point of ending my day by circling toward his position, hoping to spook something toward him. Sometimes it worked, other times it didn't. I could always count on finding Pop where I had left him, --- usually leaning up against a tree or sitting on a stump, watching and waiting. He marveled at the fact that I covered many miles in a day's hunting.

Pop moved back to New Jersey in 1976, and quit hunting about four years ago. He visited every summer, and if I had killed some game the previous fall, he went home with a box of meat. But in spite of that, his heart remained in Arizona; he longed to return for good. Last July, he got his wish.

His stay was brief. On October 12, 1985, three months after he returned to the place he loved most, my hunting partner made his last stalk.

Without a doubt, he's probably watching me struggle through this column and saying, "Shame on you. Big boys don't cry."
Pop was rarely wrong. He would be this time.

Maybe if Nancy had read this, she would have understood hunting involves a lot more than killing and realized the many of the mounts on my wall invoke memories – memories of enjoyable times and beloved individuals.

----- 30 -----

quote:

Originally posted by MOA TACTICAL:
The problem with selling a house is that 99% of the time it is the woman that makes up her mind on the house.

Rarely will a woman have the vision to see past dead animals.

quote:

Originally posted by Mike Smith:
I understand tastes vary and there are certain "rules" used in selling houses. It isn't that part that bothers me but more the tone and attitude of the agents. All I can say is until it sells it is still my house and I will live how I want. You on the other hand as the agent work for me. You will do it my way or I will find someone else willing to make the 6 percent. I do not suffer fools lightly nor tolerate those who would treat me in a condescending manner. If you can not deal with that then move on down the road as you are not wanted here.