Bay ducks

Two weeks ago, the ol' man called me up to see what I was doin' the next mornin'. Twelve hours later, me, Joe and Dad were en route to our buddy Robert's house on Sparrow's Point, just south of Baltimore, to hunt some bay ducks.

After breakin' through damn near three miles of ice in Rob's ol' Carolina Skiff, we were treated to a magnificent sunrise and a great duck hunt. Accordin' to Rob, the shootin' wasn't quite as good as would have been due to the calm conditions, but in the end we wound up with a baker's dozen of mostly Buffleheads, with a Blackhead, Gadwal and a Goldeneye thrown in for good measure. Feel free to correct me, as I probably have those species identified incorrectly, but I think that's what they all are. Basically, the little bastards were all the size of a pigeon, but about three times as fast. Very challengin' but fun wingshootin' to say the least.

Red sky at mornin', sailors take warnin'...

The mornin' catch.

Them bufflehead drakes are right purdy.

Breakin' back through the ice on the way back in.

That was my first time for a waterfowl hunt on the bay, but hopefully it won't be my last. As much as I hate the liberal-infested shithole that is Maryland, I never get sick of the Bay or the Shore.

So God made a farmer.

I'm sure you've already seen it, but it's certainly worth another look...

I don't normally like postin' links from the Puffington Host, but this blog post gives a little bit of background to this damn well-done commercial. And don't think for a minute that Chrysler didn't take one helluva gamble to air a commercial like this. Thankfully (and thus helpin' me maintain a wee bit of hope for the human cause) the ad has been viewed in a mostly positive light thus far.

It also helps that Chrysler will be donating good money to the FFA and other programs based on Social Media's response to this video.

(On a quick side-note.... I never joined the FFA at my school for the simple reason that the advisor, to this day, is nothin' but a pompous, sexist, arrogant ass. I didn't have tits, therefore he wouldn't have made my participation a worthwhile experience. Jackoff advisors aside, the FFA (and ag programs in general) always has and will continue to have my full support.)

Here's the full text from the Paul Harvey's 1978 speech at the National FFA Convention:

And on the 8th day God looked down on his planned paradise and said, "I need a caretaker." So, God made a farmer.

God said I need somebody to get up before dawn and milk cows and work all day in the fields, milk cows again, eat supper and then go to town and stay past midnight at a meeting of the school board. So, God made a farmer.

I need somebody with strong arms. Strong enough to rustle a calf, yet gentle enough to deliver his own grandchild. Somebody to call hogs, tame cantankerous machinery, come home hungry and have to wait for lunch until his wife is done feeding and visiting with the ladies and telling them to be sure to come back real soon...and mean it. So, God made a farmer.

God said "I need somebody that can shape an ax handle, shoe a horse with a hunk of car tire make a harness out of hay wire, feed sacks and shoe scraps. And...who, at planting time and harvest season, will finish his forty hour week by Tuesday noon. Then, pain'n from "tractor back", put in another seventy two hours. So, God made a farmer.

God had to have somebody willing to ride the ruts at double speed to get the hay in ahead of the rain clouds and yet stop on mid-field and race to help when he sees the first smoke from a neighbor's place. So, God made a farmer.

God said, "I need somebody strong enough to clear trees, heave bails and yet gentle enough to tame lambs and wean pigs and tend the pink combed pullets...and who will stop his mower for an hour to mend the broken leg of a meadow lark. So, God made a farmer.

It had to be somebody who'd plow deep and straight...and not cut corners. Somebody to seed and weed, feed and breed...and rake and disc and plow and plant and tie the fleece and strain the milk. Somebody to replenish the self feeder and then finish a hard days work with a five mile drive to church. Somebody who'd bale a family together with the soft strong bonds of sharing, who'd laugh and then sigh...and then respond with smiling eyes, when his son says he wants to spend his life "doing what dad does". So, God made a farmer.

As a kid who's come from a long line of hard-workin' farmers, there's no way I could not proudly share this video and text.

Small Game Weekend '13

The middle of January found the boys and I upstate for our annual Small Game weekend, otherwise known as a feeble attempt at baggin' some small woodland creatures in between copious amounts of eatin' and drinkin'.

We had a damn good time again this year as always, and we managed to put the smack-down on some more critters than normal.

My girl's brother and I went up a day early so we could hunt Friday a little bit. I had to pull my trail cameras from our deer huntin' spot, so after sleepin' in and relaxin' on Friday mornin, we headed up the hill. I managed to smoke a bunny with my lil' 20-gauge, and Josh broke in his new Christmas present with a fat rabbit of his own.

Our buddy Smitty and a buddy of his raise a bunch of pheasants, and every now and then let 'em go so they can work their dogs and practice their wingshootin'. I wouldn't call it huntin', but we did have one helluva fun Saturday afternoon baggin' some birds.

Most excitin' though was Erik whackin' his first flintlock deer despite the damp weather on Saturday mornin'. As far as I know, his was the first flintlock deer to grace the camp meat pole, which is pretty excitin'.

And of course, Ron was a fantastic host as we enjoyed plenty of good eats and ample beverages over the course of our stay.

Some pictures from the weekend...

Josh's bunny with his new Mossberg 500.

My only bunny of the weekend.

Schlongie's first black-powder deer, taken with a .54-cal TC Hawken.

Bed fulla bird. Tasty, tasty bird.

Flintlock

You wanna talk about a frustratin' chunk of wood and metal that just makes ya wanna spit and cuss, look no further than a flintlock rifle. If the slow re-load time and the weight of the beast isn't enough to drive you to insanity, the tendencies to give a massive hang-fire, or not even go off at all, certainly will. Cleanin' the thing is about as fun as shovin' your arm down a garbage disposal. Worst of all, if you don't clean the damn thing within a few hours of shootin' it, Ye Olde Rust Fairy is always quick to descend upon the beast with her carnal intentions.

My ol' man carried the Hawken for many years. After a particularly damning hunt that resulted in several no-fires at a nice buck, and promptly killin' the stump he shot at on the way out the woods, the Hawken was unceremoniously thrown handed down to my older brother. To my knowledge, the ol' man hasn't touched it since except maybe to shift if in the gun cabinet.

Jesse never really took to it, so Joe and I were the primary handlers for the beast. Now, suffice it to say that Dad didn't exactly take exemplary care of it, nor did I in my youth. The beast actually looks far more beast-like than the pretty new one at the top of the post. The Rust Fairy has worked her wicked ways on it, so the best I can do is clean it religiously and hope for the best.

So what's the point of all this?

As much as I hate that damn thing, I feel the need to carry it. Perhaps is the primal urge to make meat the old-fashioned way. Maybe I just like the thought of success with an arm that I find more challengin' to use than my bow. Perhaps I just like the torture. Regardless, I've been luggin' that beast and all it's necessary accessories around for years to no avail. Runnin' deer, dreadful hang-fires and the dreaded "flinch" have been to blame.

Well, I finally got 'er done.

We've been watchin' deer come out into Grandma's hayfield around dusk now for years. The only reason that we never go after 'em is that her 33-acre farm is lined on two sides by roads, a business, a church, and other sorts of suburbia hell. The only place to successfully sit is about 15 yards off a well-traveled road. The last thing we need is a mortally wounded deer runnin' in front of heavy traffic and into the neighbor's front yard to die, so we have kinda avoided puttin' ourselves in that situation. To my knowledge, nobody's killed a deer there since my grandparents bought it in the sixties.

I finally bit the bullet and tucked myself into the brush along that road, and low and behold, the plan came together. I made the best of a marginal shot; I remembered my breathin', focused through the hang-fire and made a dead-nuts shot on a young doe at 40 yards. Dropped her in her tracks before she could cross the road, which was my goal.

Certainly not the biggest deer, but I'm damn proud of her. Finally gettin' over the hump with a difficult gun was great, but it sure was special to take a deer on my grandparent's farm.

Even though I've crossed that little task of the bucket list, I'm sure next winter you'll find me luggin' that big bitch around some more, prolly cussin' and fussin' the whole way. Besides, I ain't killed a buck with it yet....

As one life ends, another begins...

I'm gonna take a quick break in my quest for catchin' up to deliver some family news...

Some bad news came down the pipe on Tuesday with the passin' of my girl's grandfather, Red. I've only known him a few short years, but it didn't take me long to like him. He was a gentle ol' farm boy, a veteran and overall good man who could usually pull a good story out of his hat with minimal proddin'. My girl and I have been blessed to have all four of our respective grandparents in our lives up until now. I have a pretty realistic outlook on death in general, so while I don't necessarily look forward to the services, I'm glad to celebrate the full and adventurous life that Red enjoyed.

Yet, the world doesn't miss a beat and the "circle of life" continues.

Jesse and my sister-in-law welcomed their second kid into the world on Tuesday afternoon. My little nephew Alex will now have to compete with a cute lil' sister for all the attention. I do pity my brother... that cute lil' Lydia will spend 12 years just a-wrappin' him all around her little finger, and then... who knows. All I know is that I'll do my best to be the cool uncle that steers her towards the wonders of the great outdoors and away from them sly little boys:)  I'm really happy for my brother and sister... they've got a nice little family goin', which I'm just a wee bit jealous of.

Not to be outdone, my good buddy Wade's wife gave birth to their first-born yesterday evenin'... a big ol' boy, just like his daddy. Of the three non-related clowns that I consider my closest friends and huntin' buddies, Wade's the first to pull the trigger on the whole procreation deal. Somethin' tells me that young Luke will be takin' to the great outdoors like a duck to water in just a few short years.

The Growler diaries

Of foremost importance...

After a mornin' of chasin' deer with the flintlocks on New Year's Eve with Uncle Bill and Joe, we wound up at one of Gettysburg's staples for culinary awesomeness; Tommy's Pizza.

I'm not sure at what point they started doin' it, but Tommy's has several taps juiced up with fine local micro-brews that lines a bar with several growlers and glasses for sale. Needless to say, I felt the urge to finally take a growler under my wing to love, nurture and imbibe from. To that end, I will use this here blog to keep a runnin' diary of the delicious hoppy goodness that grace the cold brown walls of said growler.

The new growler's virgin pour was two liters of delicious Troeg's Mad Elf. Mad Elf has always been one of my favorites, and the growler that was drained rather unceremoniously during Notre Dame's beatdown was likely the only highlight of the night for our family.

The second pour came on the way to a romantic getaway with my girl the the hills of Ohio. One of my plans for the trip was to find a decent place to fill the growler back up. An iPhone app, of all things, led us to the Morgantown Brewing Company. Not only was lunch pretty much awesome, I was able to sample ten of their finest brews. I finally settled on the delicious Zack Morgan's Pale Ale to fill the growler. Not a bad choice if I do say so myself.

I still have a few glasses of that left, so I have some time to decide what my next undertakin' will be. I'll let ya know when I do....

Playin' catch-up

Well, by my own stupid doin's, I managed to kill the internettin' capability on my phone just before the new year. Needless to say, a lotta excitin' stuff has happened since then, from huntin' to family and then some.

So between my lack of bloggin', tryin' to find a big-boy job, and just havin' the shits of phone-only internet, I finally broke down and spent the money on an app that should have me up and runnin' again.

That said, instead of jammin' all this cool stuff into one post, I'm gonna play catch-up over several posts over the next few days.

Stay tuned... you'll either find it fascinatin' or borin' as hell. Either way, it'll make me happy.