Shhhh...Qwuiet, I'm Hunting Whrabbits!

Hunting is another passion of my Dad's. He used to hunt small game, rabbits, squirrel and deer. Yes, like the Beverly Hillbillies, we ate rabbits, squirrel and venison growing up. As far as I'm concerned this was child abuse. If I had known they were making me eat rodents, I would have called 911.

Getting back on topic, I can remember the excitement in November when hunting season started. My dad would be out in the back yard for hours shooting his bow. He stacked up a few bales of hay, and attached a white and red target to the front. He looked so cool in the hunters "stance". He stood sideways, pulled back the string of the bow, as far as he could. His 3 middle fingers tips rested on the corner of his lip, his left eye closed, he lined the arrow up until it was perfectly aimed at the bullseye. He was so good, he would hit it almost every time. I remember my sisters and I standing behind him until he shot all 4 or 5 of his arrows. He would let us pull the arrows out of the haystack and return them to him. We ran back and forth for hours. Now that I think about it, he had it made, all he had to do was stand there, and we would run like little slaves for him. Honestly, we didn't mind a bit, we loved it.

Saturday and Sunday mornings of hunting season, my dad would get up before the sun. He would make his breakfast of coffee and cereal. After breakfast, he would start preparing for the hunt. He would fill his thermos with the left over coffee, put some oreos or chocolate chip cookies in a baggy for his snack/coffee break he would enjoy later in his tree stand. Once his little knapsack was all set, he would start the ritual of transforming himself into Rambo. Dad dressed in layers. First, extra large long-johns, also known as thermal underwear. They were so big on him, the crotch hung down to his knees. Dad tucked all the extra length material into knee-high wool socks. Next came the big camouflage one piece suit. This suit, also way too big for him, just swallowed him up, but he was warm and cozy with lots of room to groove. Then came the camouflaging of his face. He had this huge cork board, he would rip off a hunk of cork and heat it over our stove's flame. Once it turned black, he rubbed it on his face, in parallel little lines. He looked like an Indian getting ready for battle. Finally, he would sling the bow over his shoulder and around his little body and off he went.
We used to watch out the window for his van. If we saw his van backing in, we started yelling and cheering like little Indian squaws. Backing in meant a dead deer was in the van. We rushed to find our shoes and coats so we could go see it. Even though they were dead, I used to think of them as my new pets. I would go to school and brag to my friends. "My dad got a deer yesterday, it's hanging upside down in my garage. I named it Bambi." Man, was I warped. It would hang in the garage for a few days, then off to the slaughter man. Dad had two deer heads stuffed and now they hang in my dads "man cave", also known as the back room. He was a great hunter.

I used to love when my dad went hunting for rabbit and squirrel. Once in a while he would bring me to his favorite rabbit hunting spot. Just me and him in a really fun wooded area with large rocks to climb on. He would head towards the woods, and tell me to stay and play on the rocks. I know...leaving a child unattended is not good, but it was the 70's and it was my dad. He would check on my once in a while, especially if I was making too much noise. He would come over and say, "Lori, stop yelling, you're scaring away the rabbits." I would explain, "oh, sorry dad, I was playing alligator."

Alligator was one of my favorite games. The rules are, jump from rock to rock without falling on the grass, if you fell in the grass you got eaten by the alligtors. (This game also worked in my moms living room, we would throw her couch pillows on the floor for our rocks). So there I was, a perfect little girl, playing alligator while my dad was hunting for our dinner. He is my hero. He can do no wrong...right?

Think again - just imagine my horror when I grew up and realized Dad's favorite rabbit hunting spot was actually the Churchville cementary, and the rocks I was so happily playing "Alligator" on were dead people's tombstones!!!!!!!!

No wonder I am warped!