It takes an Old Crow “W HY DO YOU keep tormenting those crows,” my husband of almost 30 years stated rather than asked. I just rolled my eyes as I walked past him. He was propped in his hickory rocker beside the heatbelching cookstove. “I told you the story dozens of times,” I retorted. “Those crows started it first.” Back in the day (as my daughter would say) it was my job to keep the crows out of the corncrib. At eight years old I wasn’t allowed to carry a gun, so all I could do was yell and throw rocks at the black invaders. They would sit just out of my throwing arm range and taunt me with their cackles. But, as soon as my brother would appear with his .22 rifle they would take off for the big woods and wouldn’t be seen the rest of the day. By Barbara A. McCleester artwork by jim obleski 26 GAME NEWS