One Thanksgiving back in the '40s, my Grandma Vi and Grandpa Pete opted for true tradition and bought a live turkey. Grandpa had grown up raising rabbits on his family's acreage and had always fished, but must've been quite a stranger to proper bird hunting, killing and dressing. "Go out and kill that bird, Pete," Grandma Vi said. Roughly nine hours later, Grandpa was putting the final touches on a turkey guillotine. "Jesus Christ, Peter!" she yelled as she walked over to that bird and broke its neck.
That's the closest I come to a childhood hunting story -- and it wasn't even my childhood or legitimate hunting. But we certainly grew up with bouts of country. Our aunt and uncle owned the only bar in Benedict, Nebraska, a farm town outside of York. We'd visit and our aunt would fry up giblets and gizzards for me, which I washed down with Grape Welch's (a beverage that never touched my lips in the 'burbs -- we were a 95% Coke family with Dr. Pepper and A&W rounding out our pop - yes, pop - repertoire). One year, she entered me into two contests at Benedict Days: frog jumping and greased pig. Guy Leaf, a farmer with the best farmer name ever recorded, brought me a bullfrog from his property. That little bugger jumped like a champ. I won. The pigs were much cuter and much, much harder to control. What a workout. A perfect way to burn off bacon. (That's me washing off the pig grease, summer '82).
Now that it's almost BBQ weather, tell us your best childhood hunting (or interaction-with-non-domesticated-animals-that-will-eventually-land-on-a-plate) stories...they've gotta be better than mine.