Somewhere, lost in the mists of time, was an era of free-spirited hunting. I was fortunate to spend my shaping years surrounded by pheasants and fireweeds. Our only connection to the world was Paul Harvey on the radio and a black and white TV broadcasting daily news of the war in Vietnam and Apollo missions. They were simple times with simple pleasures.

My childhood introduction into the world of hunting centered around a Daisy Model 36 BB gun. Mert, one of my older sisters used the gun to shoot black bugs. She handed the gun down to Shirley, who in turn handed it down to me when my folks deemed me old enough to handle it. Maybe just being strong enough to cock it was the deciding factor. I felt like I reached my first level of manhood when I shouldered the plastic stock and took aim at a tin can. Little puffs of dust flew up around the can as I adjusted my shots according to the visible BB arching downrange. When one of the BBs finally clinked the can, I smiled at my accomplishment. I was now ready for live game.

Every kid toting a BB gun in the 20th century had one quarry in mind. Birds were small and plentiful, the perfect game for a puny gun. The National Audubon Society, I'm sure, frowned on our hunting, but what eight-year-old farm kid ever heard of these folks? I may have, but then I simply wrote them off as a car insurance company. Farms back then were much smaller and diverse than the monolithic ag corporations of today. Chicken coops and hog houses graced every barnyard, and these wood-framed structures were the perfect habitat for house sparrows. To a beginning hunter, these prolific little birds were public enemy number one.

Mom was an outdoorsperson for sure, but she had strict rules for what species of birds were fair game, and which ones were illegal to shoot. Two of her most protected birds were the cardinal and the mourning dove. If she caught me killing one of these cherished creatures, it would probably end my short-lived hunting career. I could tell by the somewhat cross-eyed look accompanying her warning, that I was to take her words with grave seriousness. 

Among all my brain impairments, memory ranks toward the top. But I will never forget the day that I made my first kill with a gun. It was a summer Sunday afternoon. We had just finished our noon dinner and I exchanged my church duds for some "everyday" clothes. Then, I headed out to the shop where I took down the BB gun that was propped in the corner of the tool bench. I gave the barrel a little shake, ensuring a full load of BBs, then headed for the tree break behind the house. The tree break was a small forest of Siberian elms that Dad had planted a couple decades earlier to protect our home from howling north winds. This forest was home to our outhouse, tucked away in the shadows of the tall elms. Birds of all colors and size also called this place home. Peering up into the tree limbs, I spotted a head protruding from a branch.

This was my chance. I took aim, squeezed the trigger, and to my utter astonishment, watched the bird flutter to the ground. I was ecstatic. I grabbed the flopping bird and ran to the house to show it off. My excitement turned to horror, though, when Mom took one look and screeched, "You killed my mourning dove!"

Bird identification became a serious study after I murdered one of Mom's pets. I set out to learn the colors and calls of every bird on our farm. Some birds were easy, like the red-headed woodpecker and the magpie. But there seemed to be a lot of nondescript gray and brown birds that didn't make much noise. I spent hours hunting the house sparrow and learning their ways. I knew where they roosted in the chicken coop. I learned their escape routes. I figured out how to sneak up on their treetop lookouts. I was becoming a hunter.

One evening I noticed a large gathering of sparrows in a cottonwood tree in the hog pen. The opportunistic little gluttons were stealing from the hog feeders and having a bash in their lofty retreat. They barely gave me a smug look as I sidled into BB gun range below. I took my time and let them think that I was just another dumb animal wandering around the pen. Then I stopped and eased the gun to my shoulder. I settled the front blade sight into the rear vee, compensated for the amount of BB drop at that range, and pulled the trigger. The great thing about spring action BB guns is that the shooter can watch the BB fly down range. I watched the tiny, round ball ricochet off the intended target's head and careen into the chest of a bird that was perched higher. Two birds fell from the tree from a single BB. I was all of ten years old and just achieved one of the greatest accomplishments of my life! 

As is the case with most things in life, I thought that I had to move on to bigger and better targets. Ring-necked pheasants were common back then and considered the main objective for bird hunters. My problem was that pheasant hunters used guns that shot a fistful of pellets at once. My Daisy only shot one, minimizing my chance of actually hitting the bird. To make matters worse, that one BB had to hit it in the head to give me any chance for a kill. Mulling over my dilemma one day, I got an idea that bordered on genius. I just needed to slide a couple more BBs down the barrel after it was cocked and I had an instant shotgun! This setup, although fruitless, gave me the means to learn the art of pheasant hunting way before I was old enough to carry an actual shotgun. I imagined each bird folding in flight as I watched the string of BBs fall helplessly behind the fleeing bird. I was learning that there was also a thrill in missing. I learned that nothing worth having comes quick and easy. I was learning patience and perseverance, two of the most important aspects of hunting.