THE SQUIRREL HUNT

Danna Shirley

Part I . . .

            What was I doing in the back woods of Alabama as a 20-year-old newlywed? I had a little bit of country in my roots through my parents (AR and OK) but I was definitely a city gal having been born and raised in the San Francisco Bay Area of California.

            Now it was Christmastime, 1968. I had been married just a few days when my new husband took me home to Alabama to meet his family. This was his first trip home in a while. He wanted to get out in the woods and go squirrel hunting AND he wanted me to go with him because he knew I would just love it.

            Well, I didn’t! I didn’t like getting up at pre-dawn to get out there in the dark, dank, stripped of all leaves, woods. I didn’t like the cold in south Alabama in December. I didn’t like being quiet and still so I wouldn’t scare them off.

I stayed in the car and slept in the back seat. I’ve always been able to sleep anytime, anywhere. After I was fully rested, I opened my eyes to daylight and grunting noises. I rose and peeked through the car window to see that I was surrounded by large, very large pigs. I don’t know if they were wild or not. I could do nothing but sit and wait to be rescued. Ron finally returned carrying a few dead squirrels by their tails.

Part II . . .

We arrived at his grandparent’s house in Glenwood with squirrels in tow to the declaration, “There’s nothing more delicious than squirrel gravy.”  Then we went out on the back porch while he cleaned the squirrels. I watched—ugh! I couldn’t eat the squirrels and I couldn’t eat the squirrel gravy either.

            After 34 years of marriage, we both agreed I would not accompany him ever again hunting or fishing and I never did . . . and that’s why we were married 34 years. J