Having grown up in the country, we hunted in the winter time. My Grandpa taught me how to hunt at a young age. We hunted mostly small game, such as rabbits and squirrels, for they were plentiful around our farm. I used to love to squirrel hunt. The squirrels that lived along the creeks were very smart. There would be a lot of hollows running along the creeks, and when they saw or heard us coming, they would run up the hollows and hide and would not come out until we were gone. The squirrels on high ground would build their nest high up in the tops of trees. A lot of them would build nests at the end of very long thick vines. My Grandpa taught me how to grab the vines and pull until the squirrels came a-runnin' out of their nest. They were easy pickings. Grandpa would do all of the pulling of the vines while I stood back and did all the shooting. 

In the Fall of 1977, I was spending a weekend in November on the farm, and it was a cold, brisk and windy Saturday. I asked Grandpa if he wanted to go out hunting for squirrels, and he declined. This was the first time ever for that. So, I went out by myself, back to an area which was always loaded with nests and vines. I pulled on the vines until I returned to the house with five dead squirrels. I can still remember thirty-four years later the smiles on my grandparents' faces when I came through the door. Their little boy had grown up, and now he was the hunter. 

After Grandpa and I went hunting, we would bring the game home for Grandma to cook for us. We didn't need it, though, but it was a way of life when my grandparents were coming up in order for them to survive. But, as I reflect back now, shooting a poor defenseless critter does seem pretty cruel and maybe reflects our society as a whole.