Uncle Charlie Tales

Looking back on it I can't remember a time when there was a shortage of bird dogs in Uncle Charlie’s pen except when Mac’s only offspring left with Jolene. Ah, she was a cute little thing; Jolene, that is. Five years old, blue eyed, blonde headed – the kind of little girl that every daddy loves more than life itself and the kind that drives a cold dagger of fear right through his heart when he thinks about that day in the future when she'll leave him for another man.

The puppy was cute too. Uncle Charlie had received a request from the kennel in Ohio where Mac had been whelped and they needed his input desperately to reestablish one of their bloodlines.

I got Uncle Charlie's call on an April afternoon in my office.

“Hey!” I heard on the other end when I answered.

“Hey yourself,” I replied.

In his usual immediate manner, Uncle Charlie launched into his instructions. “I need you to do me a favor. I’ll meet you in Macon in front of the Tattnall Square Baptist Church at noon on Thursday. We need to send Mac to Ohio for a spell.”

Now Tattnall Square Baptist Church was the only place in Macon he knew how to get to since he had driven my momma and daddy up there right before the war to get married. Something about how they knew the preacher there and that was what they both wanted to do.

I pulled the details out of him and reluctantly agreed to keep Mac overnight and take him to the air freight terminal early Friday morning. I certainly didn’t regret any time spent with Mac, the best bird dog any of us had ever known, but it was knocking a hole in my schedule that I would have to work doubly hard to overcome the next week.

And of course six months later in early October I had to do it all again when Mac flew back to Atlanta from Ohio after successfully re-establishing his progeny. But this time Mac had company; a little ball of seven week old white and orange fur. She was not a true orange belton as she had almost solid orange ears but boy was she a cutie. My wife named her Madge that night she spent with us. When I told Uncle Charlie the next day he said, “Well, okay, at least I’ll already have my mouth set right when I call her and Mac.”

I got weekly progress reports from Madge for two weeks. “This pup is smarter than any pup I’ve ever owned.” “Madge did this and Madge did that.” I got tired of hearing the phone ring because I just knew it was another Madge report. I must admit to a touch of jealously because she was a darn cute puppy.

And then there was a sudden family gathering down home. A distant cousin, Marlene who lived in of all places, South Dakota, was coming to visit to take care of some family business and Mom called and asked us to come down to see Marlene and her family on Sunday. It had been a while since any of us had seen Marlene so we took off right after the early service on Sunday and made it just in time for the big afternoon meal. There were aunts and uncles, cousins and cousin-in-laws, old family friends there; all the folks that make my life more than interesting and of course Marlene, her husband John Fox and little daughter, Jolene. Marlene had met and married John during the war when she worked at Ft. Benning. After the war she had moved to his home in South Dakota.

I caught Uncle Charlie’s eye about halfway through the meal and I knew something was up. After dessert he walked out on the porch and I followed him. I could hear him muttering under his breath, “I’m a damn ol’ fool. Just a damn ol’ fool.”

I didn’t say anything. I just stood close and waited. He’d tell me what was bothering him soon enough.

And sure enough, it came tumbling out in a torrent. “They came over to the house this morning, the whole lot of ‘em. Your mom was with them. I knew it was a bad idea when I said it but I told the little girl, Jolene, to come with me and I’d show her my new puppy. Bad, bad mistake. She’s cute you know, that little girl. Prettiest blue eyes I’ve seen in our family in a long time. Well we get out to the pen and Madge, She’s a bouncing and yipping and all excited about seeing a little person, so I let her out and Bubba let me tell you, I ain’t never seen the likes of it in my life. That little Jolene she just sat down in the grass and started laughing and that little Madge was all over her. Not nipping, mind you, but licking. I never saw her nip that girl once and you know how puppies are – they nip. She never nipped – just licked and I thought she’d wag her tail plumb off. You never saw instant love before until you saw those two loving on each other right there in the yard.”

I knew what was coming next, I just knew it. He raved on, “I must be getting soft in the head. What was I thinking about? I gave that little girl my puppy!” And when he said it he looked at me like he was confessing to the biggest sin of his life.

I couldn’t think of anything to say except, “Why you lowdown ol’ hypocrite. You’re expect me to listen to your whining about giving your best bird dog prospect in years to the daughter of a woman who is married to a South Dakota farmer who owns and farms over 2000 acres in prime pheasant territory?”

He looked at me, winked, and grinned as he said, “Be damned if I didn’t, didn’t I?”

The Old Man

2006-02-25T08:02:00.001-08:00

Uncle Charlie called me this week and asked me if I’d do him a personal favor. Since he’s done so much for me, how could I refuse? My wife didn’t smile when I told her that last part.

Anyway the favor sounded innocent enough. Would I come down on November 19, and hunt with Mr. Jennings?

“Who’s Mr. Jennings?” I asked.

He promptly filled me in on all he thought I needed to know. “Mr. Jennings is a friend of Widow Smith’s late husband. He’s from Savannah, I think,” he said it as though I should already know it, “I hunted with him one time last year and that’s the day he’s set on going. I told him I couldn’t go and asked if you could stand in for me and he agreed. I think it’ll be good for you.”

“Oh yea, there’s one thing you should know about him. He’s kinda eccentric but safe.” He muttered as he hung up the phone.

“Well, what the heck, I can do it," I thought. "No problem.”

The appointed hour finally arrived and I was there early waiting at the designated farm.

I thought I was in for a long day when he got out of his car, an old 1950 Ford coupe, black of course. A skinny old pointer was sitting in the passenger seat and never even moved a muscle when his door was opened. The man’s pants looked like they were about to fall apart and his old hunting coat was so tattered I fully expected to see shells start squirting out at any second. And for goodness sake's he was wearing a tie!

Then he reached back into the back seat and pulled out a wooden box. The worn wood literally glowed. He laid it up on the hood and opened its triple-hinged lid. The felt inside the box was worn so smooth it looked like silk. In the midst of that out of place gun case rested the most beautiful shotgun I had ever seen.

He picked up the barrels like you’d pick up a baby and smiled as he flicked a speck of lint off the sight. The walnut stock showed only a few signs of hunting and he lovingly fingered some of the scratches before he snapped the pieces together.

When he spoke, I jumped. “I’m ready,” he said and then spoke quietly to the old pointer, “Bob, you can get out now.” The rangy veteran slipped out of the car and heeled up close behind his master’s raggedness as they began to move across the field toward the edge of the big swamp.

I hurriedly grabbed my gun and opened the door of the dog box in my truck. Sixty five pounds of ears, teeth and hair nearly knocked me down as it sailed over my head and went barking into the field. Before I could get my gun loaded I heard his double pop twice. When I arrived on the scene I saw the old pointer trotting toward his master with not one but two birds in his mouth.

The white streak closing in on him at warp speed was my dumb young setter. I barely had time to think, “Why did I bring that idiot?” when the old dog simply stopped and dropped the birds and turned to meet the intruder. Flashing teeth amid much growling sent my setter on a ‘tail between the legs’ run for the safety of the truck bed. I swear the old pointer grinned as he spit out a few dog hairs and turned and picked up the two birds and continued his retrieve.

The old man patted his dog on the head and gently took the two birds and smoothed their feathers and slid them easily into his hunting coat. “I don’t believe your dog saw Bob on point before he ran into the birds,” he quietly explained, “I believe we’ll find the singles just beyond that little stand of pines.”

Blushing profusely I mumbled an apology for my dog, and turned to look for him. He was finally beginning to stick his head out from under the truck to watch our progress across the field. I secretly hoped he would stay put and not bring further shame on our family’s honor. But he took my look as an “it’s all right boy, come and get ‘em” command and he quickly assumed his predestined role in our midst as the “fool with four feet.”

Mr. Jennings was polite. We covered the farm and went from covey to covey, single to single in a silent parade. Mr. Jennings didn’t walk, he glided. I’ve never seen a more graceful man in the field. When his old Parker spoke, there was rarely a time when Bob didn’t have business to tend to. He was gracious and allowed me to shoot over his dog whenever the young setter would behave, which was seldom. And before noon his patient and methodical hunting had steadied both of us youngsters down.

When we stopped for lunch, he told me this.

“Son, I’ve known your Uncle for about two years. From what I’ve observed and heard from Mrs. Smith, he’s a good man. He knows the value of a good gun and he knows the worth of a good dog. He told me he wanted me to teach you what I know about bird hunting so here it is plain and simple.”

“It’s not about you and it’s not about your shooting. It’s all about the dogs and the birds. The birds come first because without them there’s no reason to do what we do. So respect them and protect them. You do that by never shooting a covey down to less than eight birds. Give them time in the morning to get up and eat breakfast before you interrupt their day, and always give them time in the evening to get back together before dark.”

“When you clean them save all the parts, even the gizzard. These are princely birds. They deserve to be eaten in their entirety with gusto. After all they sacrificed their lives for your enjoyment. So eat the breasts. Eat the legs. Eat the gizzard. Suck the bones.”

I felt like I was in church with the pastor describing communion. Then he continued the lesson.

“The dogs come next. I cannot tell you how much pleasure great dogs add to a man’s existence. It is simply something you have to experience to appreciate. Always get the best pup you can’t afford. Money spent at the beginning is money saved in the end. A bird dog lives on the average about nine years. Out of those nine; five, the middle five, will be the best years.”

“Take old Bob there. He’s eleven and beginning to show his age. He’s not as fast as he used to be and he’s not as strong as he once was but where his health is beginning to fail, his breeding and his blood are carrying him through to the end and even now at eleven he’s better than the majority of young dogs in this state.”

“How do you train them? Recognize that they are individuals. Each one has its strengths and weaknesses. Let them go everywhere you go. Let them know you’re interested in everything they do. Never lie to them. Become their best friend in season and out of season. You don’t have to teach them to hunt birds. That’s already in them. All you have to do is help focus their predisposition and encourage them in what they desire to do more than anything else in the world.”

“Remember this. Birds train dogs and dogs train men. It’s really that simple.”

Lunch was over. We hunted two more coveys and filled out our limits and slowly made our way back to the vehicles. He repeated the beginning ritual only this time in reverse and with an added step. He opened the door, pulled out the wooden box, laid it on the hood of the car and opened it. Then he took a rag from the box, unfolded it and wiped down the barrels of the gun, took it apart and carefully laid it in its resting place in the box. A final wipe of the rag, a quick fold and then the box was closed and put away behind the seat. He then shrugged out of his old hunting coat, laid it carefully behind the seat. Only then did Bob who had been sitting patiently at his side move into his place in the front seat. Mr. Jennings closed the door and turned to me.

“Well, it’s been a pleasure,” he smiled, “I wish you well up in the city.”

“Mr. Jennings,” I began, “I don’t know how to thank you for your time today. It’s been a learning experience. By the way could I ask you what you did for a living before you retired?”

“Sure son,” He smiled, “I could tell Charlie hadn’t told you and I wasn’t going to unless you asked. I was the first pastor of the church you now serve in Atlanta.”

“Dr. Jennings, Sir,” I stammered, “I had no idea! I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything son,” He grinned and winked, “By the way, for what its worth, I think the church up there is in good hands.”

And with that he turned and got in the old coupe and drove away.

I got in my truck and just sat there a while thinking. “Uncle Charlie, you really crossed over the line this time,” I muttered to myself as I created various scenarios in my mind on how to get even.

Then it dawned on me. What better way to meet the founding pastor of my current church? And if I had known who he was I would have even been more nervous if that were possible.

“Uncle Charlie, you’re a genius.” And with that I went home a wiser man.

The Dog That Done It

2006-02-25T07:13:00.000-08:00

Speck wasn’t much to look at. He must have been the runt of the litter or else he would never have arrived at our house free of charge. What he lacked in looks, he made up in character and he transformed a hound dog man and his boy into insatiable bird hunters.

I must have been about three when Speck arrived. Old Jim, our squirrel hound, didn’t think much of the young pointer from the start. Tom, the gray cat, never batted an eye or lifted a paw. One more dog meant nothing to him; he was above such trivial matters.

Now what does a grown up rabbit hunter know about bird dogs and bird hunting? Absolutely nothing according to Speck for he took it upon himself to teach me and my daddy some rules and principles I’ve never seen in any of the how to books.

The first lesson Speck taught us was that bird dogs know more about bird hunting than bird hunters. Daddy had no idea how to hunt quail and Speck must have known it from the beginning because he just took over. He insisted upon hunting his way which meant if he scented birds – get ready – because birds were meant for flying else the good Lord wouldn’t have given them wings.

My Daddy wasn’t born yesterday and he had an idea that a bird dog and especially a pointer was supposed to point. So the fight began; the young pointer versus the hardheaded rabbit hunter. After round one, the pup was ahead on flushes. He had flushed more birds than he had received whippings. Round two ended in a draw. In round three the temper of the hunter flared and Speck was out for the count. It was unintentional. Dad had ruined his dog. Speck refused to hunt. Both spirits seemed crushed.

When all seemed lost and the hunter had decided to give up his new sport, Speck gathered that instinct together and began to do his thing again. Only this time it was different. This time when he smelled birds, he would freeze into a classic point. Then he would commit the unforgivable sin according to all the experts. He would begin to look around for the hunter. At first he would roll his eyes backward, side to side, then his whole head would move ever so slightly until he had covered a 360 degree field of view. If he couldn’t see or hear Dad coming, he would begin to move backward, slowly, carefully like he was sneaking away from a sleeping dog-eating monster. When he was safely away from the birds he would wheel and go looking for Dad at full speed. When he would see him, he would stop, turn around and look at Dad with his head cocked as if to say, “Well, don’t just stand there, let’s go!” And then he would retrace his steps to the birds and again freeze into a classic point until Dad walked by and flushed the birds.

It was almost unbelievable. My dad had inadvertently and accidentally created the near perfect bird dog. Not only did he have a bird dog that would find, point and hold birds – he had one that would come and get him and lead him back to the hidden coveys! And wonder of all wonders, Speck would even lead him to another dog on point!

One of my Father’s hunting buddies told him what a lot of men must have thought. “I thought you were the biggest liar I’d ever met when you told me that dog was coming back to tell you that my dog had found some birds. Speck made a believer out of me.”

Speck made a believer out of all of us. He lived out his life with us and saw me through most of my school days. He was kind enough to take me bird hunting with him when I was thirteen. Just me and him.

How It All Came To Be

2006-02-25T07:12:00.000-08:00

Some of you may have wondered how a normally sane person like me could become such a nut when it comes to the subject of bird hunting. I think it’s because of my genes and my associations.

Some of you have even wondered who this Uncle Charlie character is that I write about. I should tell you like he once told me, “Some questions are best left unanswered, to protect the young and the innocent.”

Uncle Charlie is a composite of all the men in my life who contributed to my love of hunting in general and to my passion in particular toward quail hunting and any other feathered fowl that my dogs will point or flush.

Here they are. Family first and then all the friends who meant and still mean so much in the quail covers of my mind.

Uncle Charlie Hogg – Yes there was a real Uncle Charlie. He was my great uncle and he lived in Opelika, Alabama, and was so old when I was little that I don’t remember much about him. I know from talking to my Mom and her brothers that he did hunt quail. The only keepsakes I have from him are two old brass .12 ga. shotgun shells, a hand press and a powder and shot measure that he used to reload shells for his shotgun. I never asked but I think maybe one of my mom’s brothers might have owned Uncle Charlie’s double barreled Parker hammer gun and traded it for a pump gun in the 60’s.

Ernest Wheeler Shaver – My daddy was a bird hunter. Converted from his rabbit hunting ways, he cut two inches off his 16 ga. Lefever and obtained his first bird dog, a little pointer, when I was just a toddler. The puppy’s name was Speck. Daddy would take me hunting and literally carry me in his arms and set me down when the dogs would point. He would shoot the covey rise and then park me under a pine tree and tell me to wait on him while he went and hunted the singles. I would wait and he would eventually return and fill me in on the details. I grew up with Speck and still have a picture of me and him when I was five. At night I slept under the gun rack. The smell of the gun oil from the Lefever and a .22 rifle literally permeated my dreams. I never stood a chance.

Grandpa Shaver – James Pinkney Shaver. He stayed with us every summer after Granny Shaver died and I remember him at age 81 mistaking a fast flying dove for a chicken hawk and dropping it in the garden with my dad’s Lefever. He was a storyteller and I hope I honor his memory by continuing the telling of tall and not so tall tales.

Uncle Charles and Uncle Calvin Hogg – my mother’s brothers. They never married and lived with my grandmother until she died, then kept house together until Uncle Ca passed on in 1987 and then Uncle Charles followed eleven years later. Uncle Charles was the bird hunter on mom’s side of the family. He shot a sawed off .12 ga. Parker hammer gun. Dan was his last real bird dog, so old when I was small that I can hardly picture him now. Uncle Ca was a squirrel hunter and that was about the only kind of hunting he would do. I still remember the squirrel hunts we took by ourselves and especially the family hunts on Thanksgiving day. In later years he bought a deer rifle and I bought him a Bushnell scope for it in New Orleans while I was attending seminary. I’m not sure he ever conformed to the idea or the restrictions of a set deer season.

Uncle Bernard Shaver – My dad’s older brother. He never had any children of his own and we always felt like he was our second dad. After my aunt Minnie died, he began to bird hunt with my dad and they had some adventures in both Alabama and Georgia chasing Mr. Bob. I was privileged to hunt with them several times. Uncle Bernard’s .16 ga. L.C. Smith now rests in my gun safe and sports a new straight English stock.

Hal Gordon – Postmaster of Gabbettville, Georgia, proprietor of the Gabbettville Store, and Timber/Pulpwood contractor. Mr. Hal was a big man and my Sunday School teacher in the Jr. Boys class at the Long Cane Baptist Church. He was also an avid bird hunter. When we moved to Gabbettville, I was twelve, and Mr. Hal constantly borrowed dad’s dogs. That led eventually to a liaison between Man, a great setter stud, owned by a local Doctor and Katy, our former preacher’s bitch, and the result was Frosty and Snuffy, two of the best birddogs I ever had the privilege of hunting over.

Royce M. – My college roommate. Assigned by chance to the same room, we became the best of friends and have hunted Mr. Bob and ruffed grouse and shared stories of our hunting successes and failures for the last forty years. We’ve been known to trade dogs a little bit. Even now as we battle the pains of advancing years we still dream of next season in far away places like Kansas or North Dakota.

Charles Murray – He owned the trailer park in North Carolina where my wife and I moved after getting out of the Army. He was a bird hunter and we became fast friends and hunting buddies. He was already at retirement age and I was only twenty six so we made an odd couple. He couldn’t walk so well and rode a three wheeler and I would tag along behind. He shot a Browning Sweet Sixteen and was the first man I had ever met who could consistently kill three quail on a covey rise. He shared with me his secret that I still cherish and pass along to you today – a wide open choke and # 9 shot.

Robert “Dave” D. – Dave and I never hunted together but once. His wife, Freddie, and my wife, Jackie, worked together and we all four enjoyed each other’s company and would visit them as often as we could. His stories about bird hunting would keep me spellbound. We even did the North Carolina Country Club together one year at a company Christmas party! Talk about a couple of out of place birdhunters!

John L. – John exposed me to the next level of bird hunting. A fertilizer man and a Baptist deacon in Missouri, he took pity on the new preacher with only a flushing dog and took me out several times a season. Being a fertilizer man gave him access to thousands of acres and lots of birds. Believe it or not there were lots of birds in Missouri back then and I thought I had died and gone to heaven. John was and remains a pointer man and with a flourishing business of his own today manages to escape annually to faraway places like Texas to shoot more quail than I’ve ever seen. John just may be the only man I know personally who has killed thousands of quail over pointing dogs. I still treasure his company about once every two years as we revisit some of those old covers together.

Roland H. – Roland was a deacon in my church in the city. He thought nothing of inviting me on a pheasant marathon to North Missouri or Iowa and introduced me to the reality of getting up at 4 a.m. in the morning and driving four hours to be in the field by shooting time, then hunting hard all day and driving four hours back, bone tired. With that kind of inspiration I started doing it on my own every Monday and simply got addicted to the big birds. We were young then, what can I say? If Roland had only started raising bird dogs instead of Black Angus cattle, he might have become famous. His skills however far exceed his bird hunting and dog training prowess and he should have been a writer.

Rick A. – He served on a pulpit search committee in Montana and literally tried to tempt me with all his stories of hunting and fishing in that great state. I played along and even went through my “get thee behind me Satan” routine. To make a long story short, they called me anyway! Big mistake. Georgia and Missouri bird hunter on the loose in Big Sky country! WOW. I checked the regulations. Montana bird season opened on September 1 and ended December 15. And in the middle of all that was sandwiched - antelope, deer, elk and bear seasons. I knew I had died and gone to heaven. Six game bird species and Rick introduced me to them all. I shall be forever grateful. We found that our hunting style pretty much meshed in the field and we were both of the safety school where the cardinal rule is flush first then push the safety and shoot. I just wish we would have owned better dogs. It would have been perfect. But then I would have missed Rick’s rare talent of dog cussin’.

Troy B. – Now at the beginning stages of the closing chapters of my bird hunting life, I find that I have become “Uncle Charlie” to young hunters of whom Troy is a prime example. Like Uncle Charlie, I have the best dogs and I am the best shot. Troy’s got three dogs, young German Shorthair pups with a lot of potential and if they turn out to be great dogs I look forward to “stealing” them while he works. His enthusiasm for going will keep me going and his pups make me want a pup so it’s all working out for the best. Time will only tell if he ever kills a bird on the wing.

Charlie A. - Yes, I know another real Charlie. This one is nine years my senior and can still walk me in the ground. He's had good bird dogs in the past and is also a coonhound man. We get out about twice a year to some places where wild quail still live and have a ball shooting and missing - usually more missing than hitting. We even took a week long trip to North Dakota a couple of years ago with our wives and hunted wild pheasants on public and private land. We had a ball!

If you figure out who he is ask him what he thinks of $250 sandwiches.

* and just so you know - In the late 1970's, I really did find an old timey hardware store in South Mississippi with the tables fixed just like I write about in "Paying Back The IOU". The owner had a fine collection of Parkers under the removable table tops. That day I wound up buying a new Ithaca SKB Model 100 that was out on the common gun rack for $200.

Looking For My Inheritance

2006-02-25T04:15:00.000-08:00

Uncle Charlie has been turned on to grouse hunting and I can’t get him turned off. Ever since that first trip to Cohutta it seems like he’s been going every week. When I can’t get away he takes Will or anybody else he can talk into going. You’d think that an old man would have better sense but he’s got it bad.

Poor Miss Bertha at the library down home is about ready to scream. He’s had her sending off for ever book ever written on the subject. He’s already raided my bookshelf and “borrowed” my meager collection. Even his romance had turned sour until Widow Smith discovered a resourceful antiquarian bookseller over in Savannah who could get her rare “grouse hunting” books occasionally so she could keep Uncle Charlie’s attention focused in her direction.

His latest instruction arrived for me in the mail just this morning. His letters are getting longer now that he’s discovered grouse hunting. Here, I’ll let you read it.

Dear Fellow Grouser, (see what I mean?)

I’ve found through my reading that grouse guns are pretty much whatever gun is best for you. Now I’ve got several guns as you know that fall into the category of light and easy to point quail guns, but I just don’t have a “classic” grouse gun. I’m not talking about an American double, I’m talking English. Specifically I’m talking Purdey. (at this point I spilled my coffee and almost said something not becoming to my profession)

Now don’t panic. I know they’re expensive but I want one. I want you to put out some feelers and see what you can find in Atlanta or if we have to we can even go to New York to get one.

Here’s what I want: A 12 gauge with 27 inch barrels and a straight stock and two triggers. The right hand barrel should be wide open and the left hand barrel about one quarter choke. If you can’t find one try to get the address of the outfit that makes them and we’ll order one.

I know you’re wondering how I’m going to pay for it but I’d already planned to sell some of the river lots. Keep in mind that you stand to inherit all my guns and if you’ll be extra nice I may even let you shoot it before then.

Your Favorite Uncle

I've already called every gun dealer I know of in Atlanta today and can’t find a Purdey for sale anywhere. But I’m looking. Boy-oh-Boy am I looking!

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A Grouse Hunter Is Born

2006-02-24T08:00:00.000-08:00

“Surely you’re joking,” I shouted into the phone.

“Nope,” came back the voice, “I’m dead serious. I figure I’ll be at your place by 4:30 in the morning. Be ready to go.”

And that was it. Uncle Charlie was going to be here at 4:30 in the morning and he expected me to go grouse hunting with him up in North Georgia.

It was all my fault. I should have known better. All my talk about grouse hunting hadn’t even phased him until I gave him that book for Christmas. It was about hunting upland game birds all over America and by the summer its pages were dog eared from constant turning.

He had informed me earlier in the fall that since he was getting up in age he needed to do something big before he retired. I remember thinking to myself at the time “I thought you were already retired. You haven’t done any public work since 1946.” Anyway, what he’d been thinking about was taking some trips to various parts of the country to hunt all the different kinds of game birds. He said he sort of looked at it as a grand slam finale to a lifetime of quail hunting.

I had told him I thought it was a grand idea and had promptly forgot about it until now. Determined to focus on the positive I thought that maybe this was the best thing that could have happened. One day in the mountains of North Georgia hunting up and down those ridges and maybe not even seeing a grouse ought to get this nonsense out of his system.

Sure enough at 4:30 the next morning the doorbell rang and when I opened the door, there he stood.

“Mawning,” was all he said.

I got my gun, the thermos and the lunches and we went out to his old Suburban where Mack was still doing what most sensible dogs and men were doing at this hour. Sleeping. We had agreed the night before on the phone that Mack was the only dog that needed to make this exploratory hunt.

I always have to drive when we’re together so that plus my black coffee kept me awake while Uncle Charlie joined Mack. We pulled off the pavement about 8 o’clock onto the dirt road that runs through Cohutta National Forest and both of them woke up.

“Well, we made good time,” he said after consulting his watch. Mack was now standing on the back seat, tail wagging while he attended to licking my ear.

We always go where he plans to go so pretty soon we were parking by this little stream that he had marked on his map. We opened our doors and got out and started stretching and yawning and scratching and other things that men do when cooped up in a car for several hours.

I slammed my door and two grouse flushed by the stream and nearly took off Uncle Charlie’s hat as they flew upstream. Mack got so excited he mistook Uncle Charlie’s leg for a tree and Uncle Charlie was so excited he didn’t even notice.

We fumbled guns and shells out of the truck with him muttering “hot damn” over and over again. I knew instinctively it was all over. No quail hunter can stand that close to a flushing ruffed grouse, much less a pair of them, and not get hooked for life.

You guessed it. There were birds all up and down that little valley. I was the second dog and assigned the task of going up and down the ridges while he walked by the stream. Mack performed like a veteran grouser and Uncle Charlie killed his limit.

He offered to drive home and I let him. On the trip home, I out snored Mack until we got close to Atlanta and he shook me awake. I couldn’t believe the next thing out of his mouth.

“I’ve been thinking about those Hungarian Partridges out west,” he informed me. “We’ll go after them next fall and then maybe on up to Alaska after those, uh, what do you call ‘em?”

“Ptarmigans.” I sighed and turned my aching body back toward the window.

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Paying Back The IOU

2006-02-24T05:00:00.000-08:00

Earl and Ethel Tatum owned the local hardware and dry goods store down home. It had been in Earl's family for over ninety years and he had inherited it after his father's death.

Earl had literally been raised behind the counter and in the aisles of that dark cluttered store. Uncle Charlie said that machine oil ran in Earl's veins instead of blood. In fact if ever a man loved his work, Earl Tatum was that man. Hardware was his life and that store in particular was his passion.

Now Ethel was a different story. Growing up she had been the dark-haired, green-eyed cause of many a schoolyard fight. According to the local gossip, Uncle Charlie and Earl had been the main combatants in more than a dozen of those midday school brawls. Ethel had married Earl during the war. Everybody said that Earl was the only man who didn't sign up from the whole county. Of course that was a lie, but it made a good story about how Ethel married him because he was the only eligible bachelor around.

Over the years the Tatums remained childless, Earl becoming more involved in hardware and Ethel more involved in keeping Earl straight.

Their biggest battle came over painting the store. Earl wanted to keep it just like it had always been, dark and dusty, and cramped and cluttered.

But Ethel had put her foot down.

And so the paint went on and the clutter and the darkness began to disappear. After a spell, you could almost say that Earl Tatum's hardware and dry goods store had moved into the twentieth century.

You'd think that most women Ethel's age would grow bitter over not having any little Tatums to carry on the family name and the family business, but not Ethel. The older she and Earl got to be, the more lighthearted and joyful Ethel became. If you really want to know the truth, her personality was Earl's greatest asset.

Earl was a friendly sort of person in his own way but he had a stubborn streak that no logic, begging or pleading could overcome when it came to two subjects.

Those two subjects were Uncle Charlie and credit sales.

Earl never could convince himself that Ethel would have married him if Uncle Charlie hadn't been in France. And so he remained jealous and suspicious of Uncle Charlie.

The other focus of his stubbornness was over selling on credit. Earl had one opinion when it came to credit. “Tatum's Hardware has survived for ninety years without it and we'll close our doors before we'll ever sell on credit”, he boasted.

No exceptions. None.

And of course, Ethel didn't agree. So she slyly on the side and out of sight of Earl, kept an IOU file in an old cigar box in the women's unmentionables section, a place where Earl would never dare look.

It had to happen. It was bound to happen. And it finally did. The feed store down the street quit selling guns and ammo. No big calamity but just another tradition disappearing as the old town crept into the 1960's. Earl got the big idea that he'd buy out the stock from the feed store and start carrying guns and ammo himself. So he cleared a corner of the store and transferred the gun racks from the feed store to Tatum’s Hardware & Dry Goods Store. He’d been selling fishing tackle for years so it was a logical move and could prove to be profitable if he played his cards right.

What Earl failed to factor into his new equation for success was Uncle Charlie.

Uncle Charlie during the past thirty-five years had almost driven Joe Weaver crazy over at the feed store with his incessant demands that Joe supply him with all the latest information on any new gun or new ammunition being manufactured in America. Now it was true that Uncle Charlie spent a lot of money on sporting goods but as Joe intentionally overlooked to tell Earl, “He ain't hardly worth the trouble.”

And so Uncle Charlie now began to pick on poor Earl.

“Earl, where's that latest Browning Catalog?”
“Earl, Where's your Remington Catalog?”
“Earl, When in tarnation are you gonna get some #9's in so I can stock up for the season?”

“Earl, you're gonna go broke if you don't stock some quality shotguns.”

Well, Earl was just about sick of Uncle Charlie after a month of being in the guns and ammo business. So he devised a plan.

Only the cheap shotguns, the single shots, the pumps and the automatics and the .22 rifles would be out on display. He'd keep the quality guns, the side by sides and the over and unders in a special hideaway in the store.

Here was his plan. After hours, he would make a special merchandise table with a removable top. Under the top would be a felt lined compartment where about 15 shotguns could lie alongside each other. Earl would put the good guns he had in stock under the table top and then stack men’s bib overalls on top of the table. Then whenever a good customer hinted he was interested in something of significant quality, Earl would escort him back to the dry goods department, get the customer to grab one side of the table and then move the top to one side just enough to slip out the guns.

Well, the plan worked. Earl told Uncle Charlie that it was just too risky to carry fine doubles in stock and that if he wanted to see one he'd just have to buy it special order, cash in advance. Meanwhile Earl began to comb the countryside and bought up quite a supply of older Parkers, L.C. Smiths, A.H. Fox and Ithaca shotguns. In fact he had to modify three tables before he finally decided to slow down. And of course Uncle Charlie was completely kept in the dark about all of this.

Ethel of course, saw through all this subterfuge. She realized that in their old age Uncle Charlie and Earl were still fighting over her. This bothered her because she really did love Earl and she liked Uncle Charlie. He had been a special friend for years. And anyway she was peeved at Earl because this new scheme of his had messed up her IOU hiding place. Now she had to carry the IOU's on her person and for that special task she had sewn a pocket on the inside of her apron which she wore every day behind the counter.

Well, it finally happened. Uncle Charlie got wind of what Earl was up to. Graham Tatum who lived over in Cordele made the mistake of mentioning in Uncle Charlie’s presence how his cousin Earl was buying up all the good shotguns in South Georgia. So Uncle Charlie started doing some super sleuthing. He literally hid out in the drugstore behind a newspaper for a week. Watching and waiting, every time he saw an out of town car pull up in front of the hardware store he’d write down the tag number. If the driver came out of the store with a long package he’d put a check beside the number.

Then it was just a simple thing to call Ruby over at the courthouse and have her discreetly run a check to see who the car belonged to. Uncle Charlie didn’t have to call but two of those drivers to put two and two together. Yes, it was true. Earl Tatum had bought some of the best quail guns this neck of the woods had ever seen.

He had even bought Dr. Parker's little 20 gauge Winchester, a gun Uncle Charlie had his eyes on for years. After some more investigation he discovered much to his chagrin that Dr. Parker's nephew had sold it to Earl for $500.00. When he found out that piece of information, Uncle Charlie swore he'd get even with Earl.

He bided his time. Like a stalking panther he crept up on poor old Earl, one step at a time. Keeping up the complaining that Earl ought to be shot for carrying such trash in his guns and ammo corner, he was slipping up on old Earl and crouching for the big pounce.

Finally attack day arrived. While Earl was in Atlanta attending the Greater Southeastern Hardware Show, Uncle Charlie made his move. By this time he had the whole picture. He'd even talked to the carpenter who had modified the tables for Earl.

Ethel was alone that morning when Uncle Charlie walked into the store.

"Good Morning, Ethel,” Uncle Charlie said with a school boy grin as he leaned on the counter, “I've come to buy Dr. Parker's shotgun. I know Earl bought it from the Doc's nephew last month and I know it's in this store with about thirty-five other guns that I'd like to look at this morning."

"Charlie, you and Earl ought to be ashamed of yourselves the way you carry on with each other. Well, I've never approved of this harebrained scheme anyway. Come on and I'll show you where they are".

For the next two hours. Uncle Charlie “oohed” and “aahed” his way through the best inventory of quail guns in Georgia. Finally he was through looking, and the little .20 gauge Winchester with the fancy stock was resting on a pile of bib overalls. He hadn’t found anything he liked any better than the gun he had coveted for years.

"Come here, Ethel, help me put these tops back where they belong..."

And while they were lifting and straining to get the tops back in place, Ethel caught her apron on a corner of one of the tables and tore that new IOU hiding place right out of her apron. All the IOU's she had been hiding fluttered to the floor. Uncle Charlie sensing that this was something important moved to help her pick them up.

"Ethel, what in the world are these?" And then to his utter amazement and to Ethel's embarrassment it finally dawned on Uncle Charlie.

"Why, they're IOU's! Ethel, I swear. You are an amazing woman! You've been selling on credit for years right under Earl's nose."

“Your secret’s safe with me. I’ll take it to my grave, I swear it. But Ethel I want to buy this shotgun this morning, right now before Earl gets back from Atlanta.”

“Charles, I don’t know the price. Earl haggles with each and every customer. Sometimes they reach an agreement and sometimes they don’t.”

“Ethel how much money do all those IOU’s in your pocket represent?”

“Charles, I couldn’t tell you that. That’s private information. And besides, it’s a secret. Earl would go through the roof if he found out.”

“How much, Ethel?”

“Well all right,” Ethel sighed, “I try to keep it under $500 at all times. I just can’t help selling necessities to folks that need them even if they don’t have the money.”

“Ok, Ethel, here’s the deal. I’ll give you five hundred for the gun and five hundred for the IOU’s and we’ll call it even.”

Uncle Charlie counted out the thousand dollars in hundred dollar bills into Ethel’s hand.

“What will I ever tell Earl, Charles?”

“Tell him you sold Dr. Parker’s shotgun to me for what he paid for it and that I said if he doesn’t like it, I’ll meet him out back of the hardware store any day before quail season at high noon and we’ll settle it man to man.”

And with that Uncle Charlie grinned and winked at her and threw that little .20 gauge over his shoulder and walked out the front door.

Ethel fingered the bills in one pocket and the IOU’s in the other and said to herself, “Not on your life, Charles. I’ll just tell Earl you gave me twice what he gave for the gun and all of us will be happy.”

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Mack's Story

2006-02-23T04:20:00.000-08:00

Almost without exception, bird dogs are a lot smarter than some people I know. Mack, Uncle Charlie’s old setter, is the dean of dog professors, but I’m getting ahead of my story.

I have to be truthful from the beginning. Uncle Charlie obtained Mack through subterfuge and downright dishonesty from the estate of old Dr. Parker. Doc was the ultimate hunting buddy because he had a lot of money and a sense of humor to go along with it. He was also blessed with common sense and an almost insatiable taste for fried quail. But being a doctor didn’t give him any time for dog training or puppy pampering so he usually bought his bird dogs, fully grown and trained, from the best breeders in the country in order to speed up the process of getting coveyed up quail from the field to the skillet.

Doc, being one who never shirked his duty when it came to shelling out hard cash for hunting, laid out $2500 for Mack and had him flown to Atlanta from Ohio where he had been whelped and trained. Being a busy man, Doc simply dispatched Uncle Charlie, his hunting buddy, to the airport to meet the new canine.

The shipping crate was loaded into the back of the pickup and Uncle Charlie headed south. As soon as the traffic had thinned out, he stopped the truck alongside the road and opened the crate. He coaxed Mack out, put him on a lease and walked around a little to get the kinks out of both of them. When they got back to the truck Mack refused to get back in the crate. There was nothing to do but invite Mack to ride up front in the cab. Uncle Charlie told me later that they reached a lifelong agreement that day on the trip home. The lanky young setter and the old briar scarred veteran, saw something in each other’s eyes they liked and by the time they got home that evening they were the best of friends.

That first season with Mack was an eye opening experience for both Doc and Uncle Charlie. After all the careful tallying had been done they were both amazed at the number of productive points and the number of birds they had killed over Mack. The most amazing statistic was they never lost a bird that hit the ground. Mack was good. No, Mack was the best dog they had either one ever seen. That both swore not to tell anyone how good he really was and Doc bought a big padlock for his kennel and gave the extra key to Uncle Charlie.

The dream ended when Doc died suddenly from a heart attack on April fool's day the following year. Before Uncle Charlie could even react to the news, the nearest of kin, a nephew of the black sheep variety, moved right into Doc’s house and set up housekeeping along with his wife and a whole passel of ugly kids.

Uncle Charlie at first tried a frontal assault and approached the nephew claiming that Mack was his dog. No dice. The young whippersnapper said he’d already seen the invoice and besides he was a bird hunter himself and knew his uncle always kept good dogs.

Uncle Charlie was beside himself. This was a totally unacceptable development. A man in his lifetime only rarely sees or hears about a dog like Mack and to have hunted over him for a season and then have to give him up was unthinkable.

He knew he just couldn’t steal Mack and not get caught so he started plotting. Meanwhile Mack was getting jumpy because the kids were picking at him through the fence and the nephew was only feeding him table scraps whenever the notion struck. Uncle Charlie started slipping over late at night and kept Mack’s spirit up by finger feeding him hamburger through the fence.

One Sunday night he fed Mack nearly three pounds of hamburger and left town. Wednesday evening he was back in town with the spittin’ image of Mack sitting on the front seat of his old truck. Over the next few days he made a point to show off his “new dog” all over town. He even said his name was Mack Jr.

If the Doc’s nephew had been smart he would have changed the lock and sat up all night guarding Mack’s pen with a shotgun but he didn’t know Uncle Charlie had a key and he had no idea of how good Mack really was. The switch was made on a dark rainy night and the nephew was none the wiser. In fact around Thanksgiving someone overheard him complaining about the doctor wasting all that money on such a mediocre quail dog.

By January, he had sold him to Uncle Charlie for $100 and was glad to get rid of him. Uncle Charlie drove to the train station and shipped Mack Jr. back to Ohio demanding a refund. When his $500 came in he and Mack celebrated over two of the biggest T-bone steaks money could buy.

After all, It’s not every day you get to buy your best friend, a $2500 bird dog, for $100!

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The Big Fight

2006-02-22T06:16:00.000-08:00

Uncle Charlie got into a fight last week. I heard about it when Billy Estes, my first cousin’s boy, came through town last Sunday on his way back to school. He said everybody was still talking about it down home.

According to Billy it all took place on Monday morning down at Ike Jones’ barbershop. Uncle Charlie was lying down in the back chair with his glasses off getting a shave when Luke Dixon walked in and made some lewd comment about seeing Uncle Charlie’s car over to Widow Smith’s house real late the night before. Of course Luke didn’t know that Uncle Charlie was under Ike’s towel and Ike being the good ol’ boy that he is wasn’t about to mention it to Luke. One thing that Ike loves more than shearing a long haired teenager is a good argument.

Luke kept on mouthing about Uncle Charlie’s love life and how ridiculous it was for an old man to be making such a fool out of himself and Ike just kept on working. If Luke had been an observant kind of man he would have realized that everybody in the shop was holding their breath.

Uncle Charlie and Luke are not the best of friends anyway. Their animosity toward each other stems way back to a day when they were bird hunting together and Luke’s dog ate three birds that Uncle Charlie had killed. Luke almost had to fight that day to keep Uncle Charlie from shooting his dog. Forgiveness not being a strong suit in our family, Uncle Charlie quit hunting with Luke and forever reminded him that he was a fool for not shooting that brainless pot licker on the spot.

Nobody in the barbershop that morning tells the story the same way. Ike says he heard a bellow that reminded him of the night Preston King’s prize bull got hit on main street by the squad car. Some of the other witnesses say they remember the white towel going up in the air and the chair knocking Ike down as Uncle Charlie exploded out of it.

Luke never knew what hit him. He came to, down under the sink, with the glass from a long necked Vitalis bottle tinkling slowly out of his wet hair onto the floor. The way Billy told it, Luke left town on an extended fishing trip shortly thereafter and hasn’t been seen since.

Uncle Charlie offered to pay for the damages but Ike refused saying it was one of the most exciting days he’d seen since the war.

When Billy left, my wife asked me what I was going to do about Uncle Charlie. “Do about him?” I said, “I’m not going to do anything about him. I’m not going to say anything to him either. He’ll tell me when he wants me to know about it.”

She left the room and I laughed softly to myself. "Man, what I wouldn’t have given to have been in Ike’s barbershop that morning!"

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The Art of Baiting

2006-02-01T05:10:00.000-08:00

Will Jenkins made his annual phone call to my uncle the other day. You can count on Will. Every August 25th or 26th Will is going to call and ask Uncle Charlie what he thinks about the three of us getting together out at the Logan place for the opening of the dove season. It’s happened that way for the last twenty years.

Will had hardly hung up when the phone in my Atlanta office rang. Uncle Charlie sort of runs his words together on the phone but I finally got him slowed down and figured out what he was talking about. He wanted me to get him a box of Peters “numbasixduckshells” in the city and bring them when I came down home. I knew better than to ask why so I assured him I would.

High noon on opening Saturday found us out at the Logan place gathered around Will’s old station wagon planning our strategy. Will was to take his usual place in the southeast corner of the field where most of the birds seemed likely to exit. I was to take the northwest corner where most of the birds would come in. Uncle Charlie would be the rover; moving to wherever the action was the hottest.

I should have known something was up when my beloved uncle opened the gun case and pulled out a beautiful engraved model 12 Winchester with a 32” barrel. Will and I just stood there and gawked. Uncle Charlie never said a word, just opened that new box of shells, loaded the gun, and moved out into the field.

Will and I were still standing there when he killed the first dove. A high overhead shot that neither of us would have even tried. Will just sort of looked at me with a raised eyebrow. I shrugged and we went to our appointed places.

By three o’clock I had scratched down two birds and hadn’t seen Will cut a feather. Uncle Charlie had already made two trips to the car and now he was standing in the middle of the field waving us in. He’d killed his limit he said and didn’t want to be tempted any longer but he’d stay and help us get ours if we wanted.

Will never said a word. He just turned beet red and put up his gun and got ready to go. On the way back home Uncle Charlie motioned for Will to slow down. “Pull in up there at widow Smith’s house. I’ve got to leave something with her,” he explained. We stopped and watched as he got out and reached back in the station wagon and pulled out the gun case and carried it inside. We could see him cleaning the Winchester through the window. Will and I looked at each other, both wondering how many other fine guns the widow’s late husband had owned, and just how “deep” Uncle Charlie’s new relationship ran.

Back in the car he told us how he and the widow had been taking drives in the afternoon for about a month and how they’d been stopping out by the Logan place and watching the doves. He went on to say, “I noticed how high they were flying; like they were on their way to a baited field or something.”

Will and I both understood then. A field somewhere else wasn’t the only thing that had been baited this season.

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An Easy Touch

2006-01-23T06:06:00.000-08:00

My secretary was blushing when she came in and told me that crazy man was on the line again. There’s no telling what he said to her. I picked up the phone fully expecting that the urgency of the call was hunting related.

“Hello,” I sang out.

“Hello yourself,” came his reply, “Don’t you ever let that woman answer the phone again when I call. She wouldn’t know a bobwhite from a bullbat. Now listen to me and don’t interrupt. I went over to Cordele yesterday and took a look at Jake Gordon’s pointer. I ain’t lying when I say this. He’s the best bird dog I’ve seen since Mack got off the plane. I’m gonna take the Preacher’s little pointer over there this weekend and breed her. We ought to get some good puppies. Anyhow, you need a good birddog so you can get rid of that little shaggy bobtail thang you hunt with.”

“But…” I tried to protest.

“Don’t but me. Just listen. Jake wants a hundred dollars so I want you to send me a check since you’re gonna get the pick of the litter. I’ll be looking for it by the end of the week. Bye!” And with that he hung up.

I sat there stupidly looking at the phone and then reached for my checkbook.

“Who is that man?” my secretary wanted to know when I handed her the check with the mailing instructions.

“Aw, he’s just an old fool from South Georgia,” I answered. Then after a long pause I added, “Who’s got an even bigger fool for a nephew in Atlanta."

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UnHoly Motives

2006-01-19T04:50:00.000-08:00

Much to the relief of my mom, Uncle Charlie’s sister, he started going to church again. That means of course that he’s back in the good graces of the ladies of the family. I suspected something was going on when I heard about it but decided to wait and let him tell me himself.

Sure enough, he wrote me a letter. How anyone who shakes that much can hit a dove with a .410 is beyond me. His letters are always short and to the point. This one was no exception.

“Dear Birdhunter,

The new preacher is a good one. He’s got a pretty little pointer and a .28 gauge Parker! Can you come Saturday?

Yore Uncle”

I couldn’t so I dropped him a quick postcard.

The next week I got another letter. Here’s the gist of it.

“Me and the preacher had a good time last week. We killed five woodcock and sixteen birds. His dog is as good as Mack at finding singles. Are you coming Saturday?”

I had to cancel at the last minute. I got another letter the next week.

“Me and the Rev. mowed em down Saturday. Six woodcock and twenty one birds. He can shoot rings around you. Reminds me of myself when I was young. And that little dog of his is mighty fine. This is your last chance. I ain’t gonna bother you no more.”

Again it was impossible to get away. So I waited for his letter all week. When it came it was longer than usual.

“I don’t know what-in-the-h___ is wrong with these Baptists down here. They ran the preacher off last Sunday. Claimed he hunted too much. Can you believe that? I’m done with ‘em. Me and the widow are going to start going over to the Methodist Church.

P.S. The preacher gave me his gun and dog. Are you coming?"

I unplugged my phone and left, right then.

I can't believe it. This wouldn't have happened if that preacher hadn't gotten fired. I'm taking advantage of another brother's misfortune. But do I feel guilty?

Nope. All I'm wondering is how that little .28 gauge is going to shoot.

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Yield Not? I Can't

2006-01-16T07:29:00.000-08:00

The old preacher thumped out his favorite “yield not to temptation” sermon and warned against the evils of wild women, the wily devil and white lightning, things that every twelve year old boy needs to hear, right? Uncle Charlie sat beside me, glazed over eyes and a half smile on his lips, and I guess I thought he was caught up in the rhythm of the preaching and halfway to heaven. Little did I know he was pursuing his own feathered temptation through the brushy fencerows of his mind.

I’m grown now. I outran all the dames except the one that caught me. I whipped the strong drink after college and the army. I even pound out some of my own “yield not” sermons when my Atlanta congregation needs it. But mention Uncle Charlie’s little southern gentleman, Mr. Bob White, and I quickly lose all vestments of piety and begin to babble and mimic pointing dogs while fighting an uncontrollable urge to wallow in the nearest weed field.

Now I suppose you’re wondering how a person of my character and reputation can resort to such Pavlovian behavior at the mere drop of a word. It’s really a matter of inheritance. A lot of men have inherited millions of dollars and some even whole corporations but none can compare with the inherited desire to hunt birds. I suppose if you were really lucky you’d get both but somebody forgot to tell Uncle Charlie that dogs and dollars could mix. It was either or at his house and we got the overflow of bird dog puppies.

So there, you know my weakness, my Achilles heel. I confess it. I’m lustful, lazy and a liar because I inherited my Uncle’s genes. I lust after fine 20 gauge doubles. I covet my neighbor’s setter. I simply cannot focus on work between November and February. I make up awful excuses about all the shots I miss. I even cover for my dogs’ mistakes.

I have yielded to temptation. I must pursue Mr. Bob whatever the cost.

“Hello? Yes operator, I’ll accept the charges.”

“Yeah Uncle Charlie, I recognized your voice. No, I didn’t forget it was opening day. I’ll be there early Saturday morning. Have the coffee pot on.”

See what I mean?

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November Dilemma

2006-01-14T07:10:00.000-08:00

I really don’t know why I’m telling you all this. I guess it’s because I need your sympathy. You see, it’s like this. I’ve got this uncle who is a fanatic about quail hunting. Now normally that’s not so bad, but Uncle Charlie is an exception when it comes to any definition of normal.

He’s an addict. Mention bird hunting and he snaps into a point resembling a rangy old pointer and starts slobbering and rolling his eyes while trying to tell three different bird dog stories at the same time.

I had to move. Honest I did, to get away from him. Not because I wanted to but because our close association was ruining my future.

I guess it’s time to confess. I’m a Baptist preacher and my Uncle Charlie is, to put it mildly, an old reprobate. I had to put some distance between him and me if I was ever going to be known as anything other than a bird hunter and Uncle Charlie's nephew. Everybody knows a prophet is without honor in his own hometown.

He understood. In fact, he encouraged me. I still remember his words, “Son, you ain’t never going to amount to nothin’ if you keep hanging around me. Go on up to Atlanta and get yourself one of them big fancy churches where you can make a decent living. These Baptists down here in South Georgia wrote the book on how to keep preachers poor and as bad as you shoot, you’ll starve to death. Besides, church going folks around here don’t cotton much to me anyhow and your bird hunting with me is raising some eyebrows among the blue haired circle, if you know what I mean.”

I knew what he meant. Folks were beginning to talk. Anyway I’d already been thinking about it. I could come back down home and hunt with him during the quail season so I would have the best of both worlds; living in the big city where I’d have more opportunity and still be able to pursue my passion of quail hunting.

Uncle Charlie wasn’t through, “It won’t matter what people around here think after you move to Atlanta, they think all preachers up there are liberals anyway.”

Thanks, Uncle Charlie, that’s all I needed.

So I got the call from a fancy church in the city and made the move. But I keep my shotgun oiled and my bird dog exercised in hopes of spending as much time in South Georgia as humanly possible during November, December and January.

I’ve had some suspicious looks and some folks have hinted that they’d really like to know why their new preacher keeps a Brittany Spaniel in the parsonage. And what in the world, some have asked, does he do with that old pickup parked behind the church?

So far, I’ve kept my secret life under wraps pretty much, at least I think I have. Every Sunday night during quail season as soon as church is over, that old pickup is idling and that stubby tailed dog is barking and quicker than you can say sic ‘em to a coon dog, me and Lady are on I-75 rolling south through the night.

That is, whenever I can get away. You see that’s the rub. I told the church I take Mondays off. They know I do. It’s published in the church newsletter. But almost every Monday somebody schedules a surgery, somebody dies, or somebody gets deathly ill, and my trips to South Georgia are getting fewer and farther between.

Uncle Charlie just doesn’t understand. “Tell them you’ve got a sick uncle you have to visit! I’m not going to live forever you know!”

Yep, I do know and it’s killing me.

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Introducing Uncle Charlie Tales

2006-01-14T05:25:00.000-08:00

These are stories written over a period of 25 years about fictional characters who closely resemble people I have known in my travels, claimed as kin, or grew up with in my home state of Georgia. Events sometimes mirror actual events though mostly they just mirror my daydreams.

You'll meet different folks and lots of bird dogs. You'll even question my sanity at times. But if you like to hunt birds and by birds I primarily mean Mr. Bob, colinus virginianus, then you'll "hear" the story and "see" the covey rise.