The opening day of dove season for our seven grandsons is as exciting as Christmas morning. The preparation and anticipation are almost as much fun as the real thing.
Almost, but not quite.
You don’t sit on your hands until the last minute and then say, “Let’s have a dove shoot on Saturday.”
Oh, no.
The planning and the work begin months in advance. This year, we added sunflowers to go along with the traditional crop of brown-top millet. Timing is everything.
And then, there’s the looming question: “Will it rain at the right times?”
For two years in a row, drought and pigweed infestation hammered our opening-day hopes into disappointing duds—cancellations.
But hallelujah, not this year. All the good-luck stars were aligned.
Grandsons and their dads were ready for legal shooting, 30 minutes before sunrise on Sept. 5.
The evening before, it was pow, pow, pow, as clay pigeons were launched and burst over the back pasture. Everyone wanted to make sure they hadn’t lost their shooting skills since last season.
As for me, Grandpa was scrambling to check off details on the to-do list.
On Saturday morning, I didn’t wait for the 5 o’clock alarm to sound. My feet were on the floor long before. Coffee had to be hot by 6. And if the boiled peanuts were going to be ready by mid-morning, the flame had to be lit by 5.
Hunters are famously hungry.
Coffee, orange juice, bananas, apples, oranges, doughnuts and granola bars got them fueled for the walk into the dove field. Awaiting their return was a mountain of hot cathead sausage biscuits. And more coffee and juice.
But the most popular drink was ice-cold water. Oh my, it was as hot as the door hinges of Hades.
By 9:30, family and friends were transitioning from catheads to boiled peanuts. I insist on boiling only green Valencia peanuts from Hardy Farms in Hawkinsville. And I don’t skimp on the Morton salt.
Yeah, I know. We’re supposed to go easy on the salt. But on opening day of dove season, I think it’s all right to loosen the doctor’s rules.
Doctors tell us to go easy on fried foods, too. But I don’t think they’ve tasted our son Alan’s swamp recipe for fried catfish nuggets or his hushpuppies. Country folks declare, “They’re “fittin’.”
Son-in-law Tom was the fry cook’s helper. Don’t forget the cheese grits and coleslaw. And gallons of sweet tea and lemonade.
Eventually, it was time—for those who wanted to sweat some more—to hike back to the dove field.
Some of us comfortably witnessed the Dawgs gnaw up Tennessee State, courtesy of air conditioning. I kind of felt guilty in such comfort. But not too much.
By game’s end, Alan was out of the field and getting the griddle hot. Another of his specialties are double-stacked cheese smashburgers with toasted buns.
Meanwhile, grandsons were peppering me, “Grandpa, when are you going to make swamp sherbet?”
It’s a family favorite: a 2-liter of Orange Crush and a can of Eagle Brand condensed milk. Twenty minutes later, delightful. Especially on a nearly 100-degree day.
An hour after sundown, the doves were cleaned and all the pots scrubbed. The highlights of the hunt and the verbal replays of Georgia’s victory were winding down.
As I watched taillights disappear down the gravel road, I thought of three things:
- A hot shower
- A soft pillow
- But most of all, the memories made on a Christmas morning in September.
