I'll Never Eat a Squirrel... Again and Other Short Stories

One Sunday morning, my daddy was ready to go hunting. I was already awake, and begged to tag along. He convinced my mother that missing one day of church wouldn’t hurt me, and maybe it would be good for me to see how a real hunter brought home the meat. Little did I know, he just needed someone to fetch what he shot!

I eagerly climbed into Daddy’s Ford Ranchero pickup. I watched with enthusiasm as he eased his rifle behind the seat. Within minutes, we were headed down a dirt road, anticipating the morning’s events.

Soon we were in our destined place. We sat in silence and waited for the sunrise. Daddy reached into his lucky hunter’s vest and pulled out his squirrel caller. He began to make a barking noise with the odd gizmo. Shortly, he had a response. Before I knew it, Daddy stood, aimed and fired.

He missed! Part of me was elated. I hated rodent meat. I secretly hoped that we would go home empty-handed. Bang! I watched our main course hit the ground. Bang! Sadly enough, second helpings followed.

Daddy tossed a canvas tote in my direction. I snatched it up and quickly scooped our dinner inside.

We tallied our catch and felt it was time to go home. Although I didn’t look forward to the night’s entree, I felt proud as a peacock carrying the pouch across my shoulder; my daddy had caught our supper. I was proud of him.

We reached a clearing in the woods when I heard an exhilarated yell. To my dismay, all the exuberance was due to a patch of poke salad.

I was told to go to the truck and grab some brown paper sacks. I hurried back with a grocery bag in each hand. One was marked Safeway, and the other Gibson. After thirty minutes of picking, we had accomplished our task.

I looked down at the ground and saw our morning’s endeavor to make a meal. Daddy stood straight and tall as he smiled at me. I smiled back thinking how I’d rather consume a What-a-burger.

Mid morning we pulled up into the drive-way. The blue Pontiac was gone. Mama must have gone to church.

I walked inside the house to find the pressure cooker waiting on the stove. I laid out the big pot she used for boiling vegetables. I knew she had her work cut out when she got home.

The sun was high and hot when I stepped outside. Daddy had commenced with the squirrel cleaning. I watched as he proficiently worked. How someone could hum and skin an animal at the same time was beyond my imagination, but, since daddy was happy, for some unknown reason, I began to feel exceptionally lighthearted.

I snatched the old wash tub and carried it to the outside water faucet. Soon, the metal vat was filled with wild greens and water. I made several attempts to wash and remove all the dirt from the greens. Before long, both squirrel and poke salad were ready for Mama’s stove.