Quail and pigeons

When I was a kid I lived in a somewhat rural area and so routinely spent time in woods, fields, and barns. A friend up the road lived on a little horse farm next to his grandparent's dairy farm.  He trapped muskrats and rabbits for their fur, and we used to shoot small game fairly often.  Whenever we caught or shot anything, except barn rats, his mother would clean, and cook, and serve it.

One Saturday Tommy and I had shot about twenty quail. Which you pretty much have to do as they dress out to about the size of cue ball. <g>  His mother then cleaned and cooked them. On a tray in the oven with some other things; maybe garlic and some herbs. Tiny little things, but very tasty. While we sitting around eating, and while a few quail were still left on the serving plate, Tommy's father came in with some business friends. I think they had all come from a horse race somewhere. Tommy's father was a big blustery guy.

His friends were amazed that we were eating quail which had just shot. But they were soon sitting down raving about the yummy-ness of the little
birds. They each ate one or two and then, almost before we realized it, Tommy and I had been 'volunteered' by his father to produce another feast of quail for the following weekend.

So the next Saturday he and I set out with small shotguns and the idea of kicking up whatever we could find; especially quail. But, being twelve or thirteen year old boys we did every thing But shoot quail: We checked his traps, walked the shallow parts of the creek, wandered ere and there, shot at peeking squirrels, etc. etc. etc. And before we knew it;  the shadows were a bit too long and the sun was getting low.

Wow! What Time Is it???? We were supposed to have a bunch of quail and it's almost dinner time!

We knew that bad things would happen, at least to Tommy, and maybe to me, if we showed up with no quail. We were down by the duck pond behind his grandfather's barn when this realization hit, and as we walked up the lane towards the barn we saw a big flock of pigeons wheeling overhead;  headed for the hayloft in the barn.

I'm no real country boy - what do I know?  I say:

What about pigeons? They're something like quail.  How about if we shoot a bunch of pigeons and take them back to your house?

Who would eat a pigeon? You can't eat pigeons.  And sure as hell nobody is going to think a pigeon is a quail!

Better to take back something instead of nothing, right . . .

So we climb up and in about fifteen minutes we have shot a basket full of pigeons. They are pretty dumb - they just sit there looking at you and one being killed barely bothers the others: They fly and then come right back and perch where they had been before. As we are climbing down Tommy's grandfather is coming in - to see who is shooting holes in his barn.

He's not happy until we tell him why we are shooting the pigeons. Then he laughs a big belly laugh and jumps right in -

Come on! he says and picks up the basket.

So we walk up to the house while he bellows for his wife to come help. He is still laughing but in a really short time they have them all gutted and plucked with the heads and feet cut off. To me they look pretty close to quail.  But Tommy and his grandmother both look pretty doubtful.  His grandfather is Still chuckling.

Take 'em that mess!  he says with a big grin.

It's about a quarter mile back to Tommy's house and we hustle the whole way. His mom sees us coming out the kitchen window and when we get close she comes out to yell that we're late;  she'll never be able to get dinner served in time, etc.

Tommy's grandmother has put some kitchen towels in the basket and the birds are all neatly covered with more towels. As soon as his mother can see into the basket she stops dead:

What's all this?  What do you have in there?

I don't know what to say and Tommy just stammers;

We cleaned the . . . quail for you mom.

She pulls back the top towel and then we both get that mother-look that goes right through you.  But she doesn't say anything else.  She just picks up the basket, heads into the kitchen, and tells us to get cleaned up  "before your father gets home".

We clean the guns and then wash up.  The whole time we are whispering back & forth over just what will happen to us.  Will they know?  What will his father say?  Will Grampop Bud and Nanny rat us out?

Tommy and I nervously sit in the warm kitchen and drink sodas and talk to his mother as she hustle-bustles around getting dinner.  We carefully skirt any issues which might lead to questions about the birds or how we got them. <g>

Dinner is half out on the table when Tommy's father comes in with several of his race horse friends.  There is a big oval plate piled up with the roasted birds in the center of the dining room table.  As his father swings his coat off and walks by the table I see his look:  first lingering a bit too long at the birds and
then to Tommy and finally to me.  But he never misses a beat as he says:

Looks like you had a good day's shootin boys!

Tommy stammers:  Yeah; we sure did kick up a lot of . . . . quail . . . today dad. (he can barely get the word quail out <g>)

Tommy's father and his friends all get seats and his mother brings a few more things; mashed potatoes, turnips, and some vegetable; string beans I think.

Everyone digs in and although the pigeons were obviously not quail, even to me, no one mentions that and the horse racing friends are all busily exclaiming over how wonderful, and tasty, and meaty the "quail" are. After dinner they all head off to the living room for drinks and smoking cigarettes. Tommy and I avoid them. <g>

I think it would have gone badly for us except that Tommy's grandfather came over the next morning and told the story with Tommy and I as the 'heros' while laughing so hard it made the story twice as long.  He just got the biggest kick out of us having tricked those guys.  He called them "sharpies".

Old Bud told that story right up until he died.  Apparently he didn't like his son's friends. <g>