Better Listen to Jack

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My grandfather, Jack, was a genuine West Virginia mountain man. He stood nearly six feet tall and was as solid as an oak tree. While he lived in a manner that people today would refer to as "hillbilly", I would say that he was a simple man of purpose. He lived a life of necessity rather than convenience, so he always seemed to have a good reason for everything he did.

When I was a small boy, we used to go visit him during school's summer break. It was always a long journey for an impatient lad, especially when it held the promise of a month long adventure. I have many fond memories of these visits, and of my grandfather, but none are as vivid as my first hunting trip. I was six years old.

I saw Jack coming back from the barn carrying a bucket of fresh milk. The sun was just beginning to lighten up the sky enough to see his leathery face as he approached. "Good morning Billy," he said as he set down the bucket.

"Good morning Jack," I replied remembering that he expected to be called by name.

"I'm going hunting after breakfast, you want to go along?"

"I never shot a gun before."

"And you won't today neither, but you can carry the game poke."

"Sure, I want to go."

Jack picked up the milk pail and headed toward the cabin and I quickly followed behind. Inside, grandma had already prepared some breakfast and the whole cabin was filled with the aroma of bacon and eggs blended with fresh baked biscuits. My mouth began to water.

Sitting at the kitchen table was not a time for discussion. It was a time for eating. As anxious as I was to find out more about this hunting trip, it was all I could manage to try to keep up with Jack at eating. Breakfast only took Jack about twenty minutes.

"I'm going to go get Nellie," Jack said as he gulped down the last of his morning coffee. "I'll see you outside," and out the door he went.

"I'm going hunting with Jack," I told grandma as I sopped up the last of the greasy egg yolk from my plate with a bisuit.

"That's nice," she replied. "You boys be careful."

When I came outside, Jack was standing there with his shotgun broken open over his right arm. He had Nellie, his two year old hound, on a leash as she sniffed the ground around his feet. "You ready?"

"Yep," I replied as he handed me the game poke.

Jack wasn't much for idle chatter but as we walked through the woods he would occasionally point out features I should observe. He told me about different plants and what they were used for. He pointed out tracks and deer rubs and trails of different animals.

We finally came to a thicketed area close to the creek. "This looks like a good spot," he said as he pointed out a rabbit trail through the thicket. He bent over and unleashed Nellie. "Let's see if she'll jump a rabbit."

I wasn't the only newcomer. This was also Nellie's first hunting trip. She began sniffing around and it wasn't long before she picked up a scent. As she faithfully began to track we followed along behind her. After several minutes, a rabbit jumped up and began to run.

As Jack took aim and fired, two things happened. Rabbit fur flew and Nellie, scared by the loud bang, took off running. Jack called for Nellie but she didn't respond. I fetched the rabbit and put it in the game poke. After a couple of minutes, Jack called Nellie again, but she didn't come back.

"Well, I reckon we'll just only have rabbit stew for supper today," said Jack. "Let's head back."

"What about Nellie?" I asked as I followed dutifully.

"She'll probably come back when she gets hungry."

When we got back to the cabin Jack nailed the rabbit to a tree at my height and began to explain to me how to skin the rabbit. While he was talking Nellie came back home and began to sniff around us. Jack stood up and shot her dead.

I was startled by his actions and cried "Jack, you just shot Nellie!"

"I won't feed anything that won't listen to me."

"But you could have given her a chance," I whimpered.

"I did..." he responded, "...I called her twice. Now, are you going to skin that rabbit?"

"Yes sir, I am."


CHARACTER SHEET
Name: Andrew Jackson McGregor Age: Born 1890 Job: Self-employed Ethnicity: Hillbilly
Appearance: 5'11", 180lbs, Medium build, Graying dark brown hair, unkempt but clean
Residence: Lives in the West Virginia Mountains, Self built log cabin
Pets: Draught Horse, dairy cow, three dogs, and he raised pigs and chickens
Religion: Non-denominational Hobbies: Distills his own alcohol Single or married: Married
Children: Four sons, none living at home. Household includes his wife.
Sleep patterns: Sleep early/Rise early Temperament: Curt and purposeful Favorite color: Green Friends: Doesn't make friends - only acquaintances
Favorite foods: Whatever he grows, hunts, traps or gathers Drinking patterns: Daily, but not to excess
Phobias: None Faults: Overly controlling Illnesses: He had Cow-pox as a boy
Secrets: He cheated on his wife the summer he worked for the Railroad
Memories: Skinny-dipping as a boy Nervous gestures: He doesn't get nervous


Wordcount: 758 words