Debutante Ball

The debutante ball of the fall hunting season has always been the opening day dove shoot. A time to dust off the old fowling piece, and hone in on wing shooting skills for the up coming season. I had a very unique opportunity this year, and this past weekend I made a major pilgrimage back to my red dirt homeland to attend a shoot, I had last attended a quarter century before.

The field itself, lies alongside the Chattahoochee river, and has been the site of many memorable dove shoots over the past thirty years or so. As a teenager I craved a seat in that field, to be considered part of that crowd of hunters, men whom greatly admired.  I felt like I had earned that spot back then, and was blessed to be welcomed back twenty-five years later.

A lot of water has traveled past that field in twenty-five years time, but still it flows on toward the Gulf of Mexico. We have done our own share of traveling in that time as well.  Some of the original members of that cherished crowd of hunters have gone on to the happiest of hunting grounds, others now move a bit slower, have hair a bit grayer, but the smiles for the hunting season still endure. Water and Gatorade now seem to be the drinks of choice, where once it was Budweiser. Talk is of the dermatologist visits for spot checks after lives spent outdoors. and of grown children and grandchildren.

Barbecue is still prepared by the same sure hands, after all this time, and served up in the cool shade underneath the bridge. A throw back to the beginnings of this shoot, when freezers would be emptied out, and the last of the bounty from last years deer and duck harvest would be consumed.

I have learned so much from this bunch, both good and bad, most importantly to stand on my own and be accountable for my own shots in life. I have traveled the world several times over, have been to war, have been a husband, a father and a widower, and still I'm blessed to return to this old field by the river to kick off hunting season.

With trepidation and much emotion, I entered the field once again.  But all that changed to excitement when the first shot rang out and I was twenty years old again , and though I missed some shots, I made some too.  It's going to be a good season.

In my view of heaven there is a red dirt field by a river with lots of doves and my prayer is that the greatest Huntmaster grants me a seat on that field, close to my Dad and my other old bird shooting buddies, who already drew their spots.

For John, Old Captain sends.