THE HUNTER

I am left with pictures in an old photo album. Sepia. Faded. Roughened edges. There she is: A hunter’s cap shrugged close upon her darkened locks. A vest; the pockets filled with shells. Long pants, ballooned around the thighs and then tapered and tucked into leather boots with their eyelets and laces. The boots traveled all the way to her mid calves. And last, the unnerving image–a twelve-gauge shotgun resting against her broad shoulder.

She was a hunter and a gatherer. Stalking small game. Pheasant, squirrel and rabbit were her prey. She gathered berries: blueberries, raspberries, blackberries, and black walnuts, toting them home in a knapsack.

My mother was not one who took killing lightly. This was not a game of sport; rather, this would help sustain us through the long winter months.

Memories of our cold cellar haunt me still: A padlocked room in the darkened basement under the low eaves. It couldn’t have been more than a space of ten feet by ten feet, and at eye level, an opening about two inches high running the length of the room revealed a clear view of the outdoors. If I stood on a wooden crate and squinted, there was the front lawn and a scrubby maple tree. I assume that is why it was called a ’cold’ cellar, for in the winter, the blustery winds blew in through this open space and I could see my breath in the frigid air. A hard-packed dirt floor, and overhead. hanging from the rough-hewn timbers, gossamer cobwebs eeerily bobbed and swayed. A dusty, dim light bulb dangled from a short, skinny chain. The room smelled of dead things and must.

There were wooden planks which held row upon row of jars, and bottles of all sizes; and strangely, although the light was subdued,, mama’s canning looked festive. Purple jams and jellies, bright green beans, lush and glorious red tomatoes, bottles of home-made ginger ale, rusty-colored in the darkened glass, and then—the quart containers of pheasant, squirrel and rabbit.

After the plundered game was brought home, very cautiously, a steaming cauldron of boiling water would be dragged into the cold cellar, and the gruesome (but somehow exhilarating,) process of shedding the bounty of their clothing, and de-gorging them of their entrails would begin: The pheasants were plunged into the boiling water, left there to bathe for a few minutes, and then removed to have their feathers plucked. The squirrels were shorn of their fur, (although I would be gifted with the tails for my bicycle’s handlebars.) The rabbits would be stripped as well; however, one excised little foot would become a good luck charm for my well being.

My dad wielded his hunting knife deftly, leaving a deep gash in each body from stem to stern. He would thrust his paw into the cavity, exit with blood and gore dripping from and in between his fingers, fling the putrid mess into a bucket and repeat the process. Then it was time for my mother to take over: sterilizing the jars, cutting the deceased into parts the exact size to fit into their little glass coffins, and lastly, anointing them with her ’embalming fluid’ before she sealed the sarcophagi.

Oh yes, in particular I remember the rabbits. Somehow, mother packed them just so in the jars, and I am left with the stark and vivid memory of skinless little bunnies. Glossy, pink, shiny bodies with their amputated arms and legs folded into embryonic positions. They looked like they were sleeping–albeit without their heads.

* * *

The year was nineteen thirty-eight. I was in first grade. My teacher, Mrs Cunningham, was a doleful soul, with a pitiful and sorrowful countenance which was evident even to one as young as I.

In the Fall, I mentioned to Mrs Cunningham that my parents had gone to southern Ohio to hunt for squirrel, rabbit and pheasant. “Oh really,” a bored Mrs. Cunningham replied. “I’ve never eaten pheasant. I can’t imagine how it must taste.”

“I’ll ask my mama if you can have some,” I eagerly replied.

That evening, I approached my mother. “Mama, Mrs. Cunningham said she’s never tasted pheasant. Can we give her some?” Mother mulled over my request for a few moments, and then said to me “Well, tomorrow, you’re going to take a pheasant sandwich to Mrs. Cunningham.”

Early in the morning, my mama brought up one of the jars from the cold cellar. Reluctantly, she opened it, possibly regretting her generosity for this loss of a winter dinner. The pieces of herbed and salted pheasant were tossed into a lightly buttered cast iron skillet, quickly browned and removed to cool.

I watched while she took two slices of home made bread, and although it was in short supply, slathered a generous portion of butter on each. She thinly sliced mounds of the pheasant and piled it high, higher onto the sandwich. A little sprinkle of salt and a dollop of mayonnaise were added. Then, to catapult the creation above and beyond, she went back down to the cold cellar, lifted the lid off the earthen crock, chock-full of pickles, brined in vinegar, spices, sugar, large heads of garlic, and long, stringy vines of dill weed. She fished around and plucked out one fat, juicy pickle, catching the drippings in the palm of her hand as she climbed the steps to the kitchen.

After meticulously slicing the pickle, she artistically arranged it on top of the splendorous sandwich. Mama then topped it with the second piece of bread, folded waxed paper loving around it, wrapped it in yesterday’s newspaper, and tied the package with twine.

I proudly carried the sandwich to school and presented it to my teacher. Later in the afternoon, she gave me a note to take home to my mother.

Mama read it:

Dear Mrs. Stanford:

Thank you for the sandwich. Where did you get the pickle? It was very good.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Cunningham

 

Jan Chapman

March, 2012