Pennsylvania Game News - December 2014 - 28

picture on the front page of the Free
Press," Mom continued to josh.
I didn't hear any more of their conversation, for I was in my room getting
warmly dressed. Of course, I was too
young to hunt, but Dad sometimes honored me by letting me go along. See, my
mom wasn't too crazy about having a dog,
especially a hunting dog - to be exact, she
wouldn't let Dad keep any dog. Well,
anyway, since he didn't have a dog, he
sometimes took me along, mostly just for
companionship.
Before leaving the house, I shoved
several sandwiches into my jacket
pocket.
"I put rubber bands around each
wrapped sandwich," Mom said, "don't
want mustard inside your pockets."
"Thanks, Mom," I said, as I stuck several of Mom's leftover homemade biscuits
into my pocket. "A man gets mighty
hungry when he's hunting."
She laughed, but I considered it an
honor to go along - whether I was a
hunter or not!
For several hours we roamed the
Haycock. Squirrels and rabbits darted
here and there - but no deer. Finally
lunchtime came; well, Dad's watch didn't
tell us it was noon - but our stomachs
did! We found an old log to sit on and
started to eat.
Just as I was removing a rubber band
from a sandwich, we heard the snap of
twigs and we looked up. There it was!
That buck was even taller than the tallest story I had ever heard! His rack had
so many points it looked more like trees
growing right out of his head.
My sandwich dropped to the ground,
and the rubber band hung dumbly from
my finger. I was too amazed to move,
to breathe, or even to shut my mouth,
which hung wide open. My dad regained
his senses. I watched from the corner of
28

my eye as Dad reached for his .30-30,
loaded and took aim.
Now, let me tell you, my dad is no
amateur with a gun. He had at that
time the record of seven bucks in seven
straight years of hunting. You know, a
.30-30 isn't exactly a BB gun either.
Well, Dad took careful aim and fired.
At that moment Dad was probably
seeing that rack hanging in our living
room. That old buck didn't even bat an
eye. Dad aimed and fired again, another
perfect shot! I guess Old Phantom was
tired of being stung, anyway he reared
on his hind legs and came for Dad. In
that split second my heart began to
beat again, my mouth snapped shut,
and I grabbed a biscuit from my pocket,
stretched the rubber band over my
fingers and zing, snapped that biscuit
straight into Old Phantom's left eye.
He stopped dead - no, he wasn't dead,
just stopped all at once, turned around,
leaped 12 feet into the air and took off,
swift as Donner or Blitzen. In the wink
of an eye he was gone.
Dad and I looked at each other and
for moments we didn't speak.
"Wait 'til I tell Mom," I shouted.
"Are you nuts, kid? She'll say, 'Johnny,
quit your telling stories.' And Johnny,
what of my marksmanship reputation?"
"Oh, but Dad, we gotta tell someone."
"No, Son, we can't; what if it got back
to your mother about that ammunition
you used? What of her reputation as a
good cook?"
That's right, I thought. If I told what
really happened, I'd be a 10-year-old who
tells whoppers; Dad would be a bad shot;
and Mom would be a cook who makes
biscuits harder than bullets.
But, remember, if you're ever around
Haycock Mountain, and see the
Phantom, I'm betting he has a bloodshot left eye.
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Pennsylvania Game News - December 2014

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