A Boy's Right of Passage to Manhood

When the frost is on the pumpkin
And the fodder's in the shock
And you hear the Kyouck and gobble
of the struttin' turkey cock
And the cluckin' of the guineas
And the cluckin' of the hens
And the rooster's hallylooyer
As he tip toes on the fence;
O, its thens the times a feller
is feelin' at his best...

-James Whitcomb Riley

Hoosier Poet James Whitcomb Riley inspires nostalgic feelings in the hearts of all who have experienced rural America in a less stressful environment. Growing up in Southern Indiana had unique advantages for a ten year old boy searching for a passage to manhood. The rolling cornfields, woods and lakes around Warrick County yielded an endless supply of wholesome adventure.

Our home was directly across the road from a big red barn, corn crib, and silo. The corn crib supplied me and my friends with countless hours of hunting and killing rats for sport. Me and my friend Bobby sat in the rafters of the corn crib holding our pellet rifles. We waited for the chance to draw aim on a rat like a safari hunter on a Water Buffalo. One day Bobby challenged me to a rat killing contest. He said, “We'll shoot 'em, measure 'em and lay 'em across a beam, and at the end of the day, the largest rat wins.” At the end of the day we had a whole pile of rats. We didn't win a trophy, but we did earn the right to brag.

An old farmer named Ted made our adventures in the barnyard a reality. We were given the privilege because we helped Ted put up hay and corn in the summer and fall. Ted was a rough old coot with white hair and coke bottle lens glasses. He couldn't see well enough to drive a pick up truck around the block, but he could drive an international Harvester plowing his hundreds of acres of farmland.

Old Ted wore blue jean bibbed overalls in the heat of summer, and a white long sleeve shirt. He took a bath religiously every Saturday night. My grandmother told me the old folks used to do it that way. I am sure glad tradition has changed because it wasn't funny working near Old Ted on a hot summer day. Nevertheless, the times spent working for Old Ted helped to forge us into rugged young men. We transitioned into our teens with broad shoulders and farmer's tans from slinging hay bails in the Indiana sun.

Summer time in Indiana was full of activities for country folks. My dad and uncle had a passion for camping and fishing. Our families could be found camped on remote areas of coal mine property most any weekend. The spring fed mine pit water was clear, deep and cool. Bluegill and largemouth bass were plentiful. We usually caught enough fish to have a fish fry on campsite. There is nothing quite like a crispy fried fillet of bluegill or bass along with some corn bread, beans and slaw.

My mom and aunt brought enough food to feed a regiment and we all loved their grilled hamburgers. The girls patted them thick, and placed them over a hot charcoal grill. The smoke from the burgers drifted over the lake where we were fishing like a fog. No dinner bell was needed when it was time to eat. We followed our noses back to camp. There was always plenty of dessert to follow and the men took a nap afterwards in the shade of the trees.

After a delicious evening meal it was time to prepare the fire pit. My dad and uncle knew how to stack the wood like a tepee with the right amount of kindling to get the fire roaring. After dark we encircled the fire with our lawn chairs. The burning wood crackled and popped as the sparks flew upward. The fire had a hypnotic effect as we gazed upon it and talked about the good old days.

There was a small folding table near the camping trailers with a butane stove on top. A dimly lit Coleman lantern hung from a nail on the tree above casting light on the table. An old fashioned percolator blooped in succession. The smell of fresh coffee filled the air while we roasted marshmallows over the camp fire. Later on, the night was black with millions of stars twinkling in the sky. We kept entertained by looking for zooming meteors as they streaked across the sky. A few yawns later it was time for bed. As we lay in our campers, the sounds of whippoorwills, frogs and crickets lulled us to sleep.

As the “dog days” of summer evolved into fall, the air gradually turned cool and crisp with the arrival of late October. Smoke rose from chimneys in our neighborhood with the distinct smell of fall. An instinctive awareness possessed our beagle dogs. Their bugled cries indicated they knew rabbit season was near. The restlessness of the dogs stirred our anticipation as we prepared for the first rabbit hunt of the season.

My dad always provided us with beagles for hunting, but the pair he provided in our teenage years was special. Joe was black, white and brown in color and John was a black saddle back colored beagle. Together, Joe and John made a well-oiled rabbit running machine. Joe was a jump dog. Put little Joe under a brier patch and he pushed out a cottontail every time. John was just the opposite. John stood on the edge of the brier patch letting Joe do all the work. If you observed John for the first time, you would swear he was a good for nothing, no account dog. When Joe bounced a rabbit out of the briers John transformed into Super Dog. Something clicked in his little brain and he got on the trail of the rabbit in hot pursuit with Joe bringing up the rear. If one lost the trail the other found it. We very seldom returned home empty handed rabbit hunting with Joe and John.

When I reached my twenties, I married and moved away from home. Soon after, Joe started having seizures and died. In just a matter of weeks John passed away in his sleep. Dad said the two were so connected as a team that one could not live without the other. Dad buried them in our back pasture. Thus ended an era of hunting that could never be duplicated.

As a boy I almost believed those wonderful moments in time could last forever. Yet like the change of the seasons, men change and go new directions. That is the way with life. Nothing ever stays the same. Some how, deep within my heart, I find the boy from Southern Indiana still anticipating the next season of hunting with my dad and brother. They are both gone now and I am 51 years old. Yet, every season, when the air begins to chill, I still get restless. If I listen closely, I can almost hear the bugle calls of old Joe and John beckoning me to happier days when the frost was on the pumpkin.