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| Unlike a Central Valley Dove Hunt |
Growing up on our farm, one of constants was the
dove hunt in September. This event was not like the gentile eastern U.S. or European affairs with horses, and hounds, brightly colored sporting attire, and verdant scenery. This was a more gritty event when my Dad and his
Elks Club friends, many of whom were World War II Veterans, descended upon
dryland prairie pastures at the back of our ranch in their pickups and cars, waiting for sunrise and the
Mourning Doves' return from feeding on grain fields that had been harvested earlier in the summer. The birds would fly in waves, with the hunters then popping up from dry creek beds that ran through the fields, pointing their shotguns in the general direction of the approach, pulling their triggers, and waiting for the result. You knew when there was action by the bursts of discharged shells, and the instant there was a hit: the cheers from the entire party as a bird crumpled in mid-air from its flight path with gravity taking over, and the birds falling to the ground waiting to be found among the tufts of dried grass or brush. When recovered, the birds were slipped into the rubber-lined pouch that ran across the back of the tan-colored
hunting vests - the uniform of the day. As the morning passed, hopefully the number of birds shot was directly inverse to the fewer numbers of shells that were held in the stretchable fabric that lined the front of their vests. The shells were within easy reach to reload the gun after each discharge.
Back then I used a
single-shot Sear's 20 gauge shotgun - my younger brother the same brand, but a
410 gauge version. The two of us brought down more doves in a morning with a third of the number of shells as my dad's friends did with their semi-automatic 12 gauge pieces - a fact our dad often pointed out to his buddies. This must have been a point of pride, probably more a result less to do with our skill, but more to do with the men and their morning beer drinking.
With the passage of decades since those Opening Seasons in the 1960's, the routine seems much the same - just a lot fewer WW II Veterans to fill the ranks of hunters. An
article in the local newspaper reports the annual late-summer tradition still continues. I still remember many of the hunters names:
Norman, Kibby, Mic, Roger,
Guy,
Bob, Sheldon,
John, Kim, and
Jerry. Some of the names dropped from the ranks over time, and a few new ones added.
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| Jezebel the Hunting Dog |
As part of the folklore from that past, it was reported that my dad's pointer
named Jezebel once climbed up a broken down tree to retrieve a dove that
landed in that snag. Several of the hunter verified the story, and Norman
reported what he had seen to a friend who was a San Francisco
illustrator. The result was a gift to my dad of a framed sketch
documenting the event, though stylized for effect: the dog hanging precariously from the tree, a dove in her mouth, and her wearing a vest like the rest of the hunting party. That drawing hung on my dad's office wall on the farm for decades, and then in his home office when he and my mom build in town after they retired in the eighties.
It wasn't until two years ago when Jan and I were helping take care of my dad in his
home that I
searched for information on Tony Calvello the artist. This picture finally hung on the wall of my dad's apartment when he moved to an assisted living facility in Sacramento. It was there as a nine-month reminder of the many people, and places, and times that had passed time with him. Jezebel now hangs on the wall of my home office where I see it every time I work at my desk.
