Farm Life

If you are a regular reader of my stories, by now, you know that I am a hunter through and through.  When I think back about all the ways hunting has been a huge part of my life, I think it all started when I was very young, through a very odd set of circumstances.

I was about six years old when my mother dropped my brother and me off at the Vance farm somewhere near Batavia, Illinois. I don’t know how she found them, but I was told later in life that they were not related to us. My mother and father had recently divorced and apparently my father was not assisting my mother with any kind of financial support, so she sought refuge for us with this sweet elderly couple who lived on a farm.

I’m not sure what it felt like when we got dropped off but abandonment is a probability. In the early sixties, there weren’t many options for a single parent who was totally on her own, as my grandparents on mother’s side were still raising three sorry sons.  And sorry doesn’t adequately describe the misfits, as two of them ended up in prison.

The experiences my brother Mike and I had with who we called Grandpa and Grandma Vance were critical to our emotional development. It’s crazy to me to think about the things that influenced my life, as I only remember two things that occurred while we were with the Vance’s and both involved the killing of animals. Go figure!

You know what they say, “we are a product of our environment.” And for me, I remember just about every good killin! And this is about my beginning as a hunter, sort of, as my first kill was a hog held captive in a pen and his crime was that he had eaten some baby pigs.

It was during the winter, as I remember steam coming out of the hog’s nostrils as he stared me down. I was standing beside the squatting Grandpa Vance as he was coaching me on how to shoot and assuring me that the beast could not get to me. I was surrounded by a host of men waiting on the hog to hit the ground so they could hoist him into a barrel of scalding water. I’m pretty sure I was trembling, wouldn’t you be? Six years old and standing in front of 300 pounds of really bad breath that snorted and grunted at me.

Maybe he is the reason I wanted to hunt a cape buffalo and lion with my bow, and not that I just have a learning disability. Ha!

Grandpa held the trusty .22 rifle and I boldly pulled the trigger. The hog squealed and so did I!

Grandpa Vance slapped me on the back and I grinned from ear to ear, as I just shot a hog.

What a beginning!

The men immediately drug him out of the muck and manure and hoisted him off the ground and lowered him into the boiling barrel. The only thing I remember next was that they pulled him out and scraped on his hide till he was white as ivory. One man pulled his front legs apart as another split him from chin to end.

And I was in hog wonderland.

I don’t even remember my brother being there as he was afraid of the farm animals for good reason. I think they had some tradition of removing the liver first and cooking it while they cut the animal up, but I’m not certain.

The next great event I remember is what caused my brother to dislike the animals. We were playing one day while the chickens were feeding in the yard and the head rooster came after my little brother with the intent to kill him, or let’s say flog Mike with his spurs. Mike was four and a half then and was the sweetest kid ever, and really wouldn’t hurt a fly. At least not until that rooster came after him. Grandpa Vance heard Mike scream and came running out of the barn and when he saw what that nasty rooster had done, he grabbed his hatchet and told Mike to wait over by the chopping block.

I was getting excited cause I knew that this was about to get interesting. My hope was that my brother would pass on the execution and I would get my shot. But Mike was mad as any little boy could be to have a rooster scare and embarrass him enough to cry, not to say how his leg may be scarred for life from the rooster’s spurs.

He was ready to get even as Grandpa told the rooster that he had enough of his shenanigans and it was time for “an eye for an eye.” He held the bird up by his feet with his head hanging over the chopping block and handed my brother the hatchet. He got my brother in position for the death blow and sure as I’m standing here, Mike swung with all his might and the head tumbled to the dirt yard with the rooster’s eye still blinking. Grandpa Vance dropped the bird on the ground and the greatest experience of my early career as a hunter took place, as the rooster flew straight up in the air and landed on the roof of the house, flopped a couple times and fell like a rock to the ground!

I think my brother and I both cheered!

I believe that we were with the Vance’s about six months as I remember summer and winter, but I cannot remember anything other than these two events. Am I crazy or what? Chicken anyone? And I’m one of His favorites!

THOUGHTS OF THE HUNTER KIND:

I know it had to be hard for my mother to leave us with a couple of people that she really didn’t know, but sometimes life doesn’t give us many options. Many years later, I  tried to locate the Vances through my uncle, but wasn’t successful.  As crazy as it seems, my mother may have even found them through the newspaper classifieds.  Just goes to show you that God was always looking out for me, even as a six year old kid who had no idea how influential this short experience in my life was going to be. Mike and I never looked back on the experience as being something we regretted, just a unique time in our life. I understand that some people can justify saying woe to me for having this kind of a childhood, I’m just not one of them. For some reason, I have just been grateful for surviving my own folly!

Prayer of the Hunter Kind:

Psalm 110: 4-5 NIV

Enter his gates with thanks giving and his courts with praise; give thanks to him and praise his name.

For the Lord is good and his love endures forever; his faithfulness continues through all generations.

Lord, I can’t help but to be grateful, as I know You are in life with me and Your grace is the only certainty that I can be certain of. I praise Your Holy name!

 

P.S. I hope that if you are reading this and you don’t know the Lord that you have the audacity to walk into a church nearby and ask the Pastor, “Who is this God you worship?” And if you are not sure about the answer you get, go to the next church and ask the same question. Get the question answered and receive the peace that defies understanding!