The crisp fall wind blew chilly off the mouth of the Choptank river, and in the fields where I followed grandad, the weeds were already dry and crackeled underfoot. We were off one one of his quail hunting trips afield with the usual group of suspects, what grandmom and her fellow church ladies called the rogues gallery.
It had been a good day, with coveys flushing in that sudden explosion they have, and the game bag was heavy with the evenings dinner. Or part of it. The sun was low in the sky, and there was maybe an hour of daylight left. As usual, Steve Decker, known as the cheapest man on the Choptank, had his fill early on, as he never missed. As foul mouthed and cheap as he was, he was also an artist with the shotgun.
We sat down on a log near where the truck was parked, and I watched as grandad went about plucking and filleting the breast. He would take the main clip blade of that Hen and Rooster stockman and use it like a surgeon uses a scalpal. A neat incission down the breast, and slowly working the fine tip of the sharp blade down the sides of the breast. When he was done there was no meat left behind, just breast bone and ribs. As much as Decker was an artist with a shotgun, grandad was an artist with that Hen and Rooster. I think I was about 9 years old or so, and grandad was teaching me the fine points of quail hunting, so I paid rapt attention to all that went on. This included bad language and seeing who could spit tobacco juice the farthest. Surprisingly, it was Bill the trapper who could spit the furthest. These were rough old cobs, and had developed thier skills to a high art.
Grandad got done with the first bird and stacked the two halfs of the filleted breasts on the square of waxed paper he laid out on the log. Then he tossed out the rest of the bird on the field. Being young and naive, I asked him wasn't he going to do anything with the rest of the bird. He thought for a moment.
"Well pup, I am doing something. I'm sharing it with the other creatures who live out here. You see, most of the meat is on the breast, but the other part will go to feed them who live here, and have to find food every night. There's 'coon, possum, crows, fox, and who knows what else. You see, nature's like a woman. If you keep taking without giving anything back, soon she'll turn a cold shoulder to you. " he explained in his thick Irish brogue.
I though about that as I watched him do another bird. He'd plucked as he spoke, and then the fine almost needle tip of the knife was slicing down the breast and working down the ribs. It seemed like magic the way the blade cut, and thought in my young mind that Bertram knife must be the best knife in the world. It seemed to me that his knife was more finely ground than the American knives his cronies used, and it had a steady taper from tang to tip, so the tip was as fine as a fillet knife.
"Is that why we don't shoot more?" I asked him, "You got some shells left. We could have a really big dinner."
"That would be greedy, taking too much. We'll take only what we need for tonight."
I watched as the little pile of filleted breasts grew on the waxed paper. Soon he was done, and the nights meal to be was wrapped up in the wax paper and put back in the game bag. He wiped off the Hen and Rooster with some dry grass, and then gently stropped it on the top of his leather boot. He was gentle with the knife, and it was evident from his treatment of it, that it ment a great deal to him. He stuck it back in his pocket, and then repositioned his wadded up bandana on top of it.
"Always stick your bandana on top of your knife" he told me, "It won't fall out of your pocket as easy."
I filed away that little piece of wisdom, along with how to hold my mouth while spitting for distance.
Later that night we had the broiled quail breasts with grandmoms hush puppies, and fresh apple pie made that day for desert. Grandad had been right, our bellies were comfortably filled, but not to excess.
It had been a good day, with coveys flushing in that sudden explosion they have, and the game bag was heavy with the evenings dinner. Or part of it. The sun was low in the sky, and there was maybe an hour of daylight left. As usual, Steve Decker, known as the cheapest man on the Choptank, had his fill early on, as he never missed. As foul mouthed and cheap as he was, he was also an artist with the shotgun.
We sat down on a log near where the truck was parked, and I watched as grandad went about plucking and filleting the breast. He would take the main clip blade of that Hen and Rooster stockman and use it like a surgeon uses a scalpal. A neat incission down the breast, and slowly working the fine tip of the sharp blade down the sides of the breast. When he was done there was no meat left behind, just breast bone and ribs. As much as Decker was an artist with a shotgun, grandad was an artist with that Hen and Rooster. I think I was about 9 years old or so, and grandad was teaching me the fine points of quail hunting, so I paid rapt attention to all that went on. This included bad language and seeing who could spit tobacco juice the farthest. Surprisingly, it was Bill the trapper who could spit the furthest. These were rough old cobs, and had developed thier skills to a high art.
Grandad got done with the first bird and stacked the two halfs of the filleted breasts on the square of waxed paper he laid out on the log. Then he tossed out the rest of the bird on the field. Being young and naive, I asked him wasn't he going to do anything with the rest of the bird. He thought for a moment.
"Well pup, I am doing something. I'm sharing it with the other creatures who live out here. You see, most of the meat is on the breast, but the other part will go to feed them who live here, and have to find food every night. There's 'coon, possum, crows, fox, and who knows what else. You see, nature's like a woman. If you keep taking without giving anything back, soon she'll turn a cold shoulder to you. " he explained in his thick Irish brogue.
I though about that as I watched him do another bird. He'd plucked as he spoke, and then the fine almost needle tip of the knife was slicing down the breast and working down the ribs. It seemed like magic the way the blade cut, and thought in my young mind that Bertram knife must be the best knife in the world. It seemed to me that his knife was more finely ground than the American knives his cronies used, and it had a steady taper from tang to tip, so the tip was as fine as a fillet knife.
"Is that why we don't shoot more?" I asked him, "You got some shells left. We could have a really big dinner."
"That would be greedy, taking too much. We'll take only what we need for tonight."
I watched as the little pile of filleted breasts grew on the waxed paper. Soon he was done, and the nights meal to be was wrapped up in the wax paper and put back in the game bag. He wiped off the Hen and Rooster with some dry grass, and then gently stropped it on the top of his leather boot. He was gentle with the knife, and it was evident from his treatment of it, that it ment a great deal to him. He stuck it back in his pocket, and then repositioned his wadded up bandana on top of it.
"Always stick your bandana on top of your knife" he told me, "It won't fall out of your pocket as easy."
I filed away that little piece of wisdom, along with how to hold my mouth while spitting for distance.
Later that night we had the broiled quail breasts with grandmoms hush puppies, and fresh apple pie made that day for desert. Grandad had been right, our bellies were comfortably filled, but not to excess.
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Your stories keep me dreamin of better days in the field while being here in the NYC.
) but there's also a generation of young lads and lassies who love to get outside and, whether they know it or not, are looking for a writer like Jackknife.