A boy’s first hunt in rural Georgia, and a memory that still looms large sixty years later.
Now that I’m in my sixties, I’ve been on many hunts, but no trophy looms larger in my memory than a little rabbit and riding with the great beagle “Buck” in the middle seat of a pickup truck. To a five-year-old boy in rural Georgia, it was as grand as any whitetail buck I would ever bring home.
The other day, sitting with a friend and talking about our outdoor sporting memories, that experience came back as clear as ever; my first big hunt, that little rabbit, and the moment I felt I’d become accepted by my stepfather and into the world of “Men”.
It was early fall in 1969, and I was five years old, just starting first grade. I wouldn’t turn six until December.
I was a small, wiry boy with white hair. Junior Samples gave me the nickname “Cotton” at the local trading post. Yes, that Junior Samples of The Hee Haw tv show fame. I was skinny, and that white hair must have made an impression.
We lived on five acres in then-rural Georgia; what some folks around there might have called a small farm. We had one horse and a very angry Shetland pony, quite a few chickens and guinea hens, turkeys, and hogs. But the pride and joy of the place were the twenty-eight beagles bred and raised to hunt rabbits.
My stepdad, Roger, took great pride in training that pack. We often built rabbit boxes to catch rabbits to use in training the dogs. He would take me out when he ran the dogs and he knew each one by its bark or howl.
Twenty-seven of those beagles lived in a large kennel enclosed with chicken wire, with doghouses inside. But one dog, named Buck, lived anywhere he wanted, including our house.
We had one horse and a very angry Shetland pony, quite a few chickens and guinea hens, turkeys, and hogs. But the pride and joy of the place were the twenty-eight beagles bred and raised to hunt rabbits.
Most of the time, we never saw Buck. He was off doing whatever Buck did. But the minute one of us headed toward the truck with a shotgun or rifle in hand, he’d appear out of nowhere and jump into the front seat. Buck knew what that meant. He wasn’t about to get left behind.
I remember coming home from school that Friday and Roger telling me we were going rabbit hunting down south in Cochran, Georgia. We’d have to get up mighty early the next morning.
This would be my first rabbit hunt, and my first hunt of any kind where I wasn’t just a spectator. I could hardly contain myself. That night, I barely slept, waiting for morning so we could take off.
When Roger woke me, I climbed down from the top bunk of the bunk bed I shared with my half brother and scrambled to find my clothes, boots, and coat. Mama made us a couple of biscuits and some coffee to take along for the drive. My uncle Ray lived next door, and he was always there when it was time to go hunting with Roger.
We loaded the dog kennels into the back of our old red Studebaker truck. I couldn’t tell you what year that truck was, but I could tell you about the whipping I got for shooting out one of its headlights with my BB gun.
Then we rounded up the dogs we were taking and settled them into the kennels.
By then, Buck was catching on. As soon as we started putting the guns in the truck’s gun racks, he came running and jumped into the front seat.
I was sitting in the middle, and I was told Buck was a little jealous that I had taken his spot. Still, he settled down right in front of me. There I was, going hunting with the men, with the number one beagle sitting at my feet. I felt mighty special.
It was about a three-hour drive to the hunting land we leased in Cochran, but the time seemed to fly by. I seem to remember Roger and Uncle Ray listening to Jerry Clower on the radio. Growing up, I wasn’t always sure whether we were part of the Ledbetter family, but we sure seemed to be.
I can still remember the smells inside that truck: Buck at my feet, Mama’s biscuits, coffee, and gun oil. To this day, the smell of gun oil takes me right back to that morning.
We finally arrived at the hunting grounds, a stretch of flat country with big, open fields surrounded by pine and oak woods. The dogs were whimpering and howling in the back, ready to get out. When Roger opened the kennel gates, they came pouring out. Of course, Buck was already out and getting down to business.
I don’t remember every part of that day, but I know we brought in quite a few rabbits.
What I do remember is when my moment came.
Roger had spotted a rabbit tucked into its bed and slowly guided me toward it. I had a little Belgian Browning .22 rifle, but even that was big for my small frame. I had to tuck the stock under my arm to take aim.
I remember his hands on my shoulders as he quietly pointed toward the rabbit.
“Do you see it?” he whispered.
All I could make out was a little brown patch through the brush. Just as I’d been taught, I took aim and gently squeezed the trigger.
Roger let out a cheer, and a big smile spread across my face. I had gotten my first rabbit. Having my stepdad so proud of me felt mighty good.
We carried the rabbit back to the truck and laid it on the tailgate. Roger showed me how to skin and clean it, then handed me the knife so I could help. Afterward, we put it in a small bag and tucked it into the cooler alongside the supply of beer he and Uncle Ray had brought.
Mine turned out to be the last rabbit of the day. I remember Roger telling me what a good job I’d done and I slept the whole way home.
Mama was there to greet us when we pulled in. We had several rabbits, but she made sure to get mine first. That evening, she cooked rabbit and dumplings, and I sat down to a meal I had helped put on the table.
When I went back to school on Monday, I told anybody who would listen about that little rabbit. To a five-year-old boy, it was a mighty big victory. As far as I was concerned, I was a real hunter now.
And all these years later, I’m still telling the story and smelling gun oil ever so lightly!