Allen Rickenbacker was a pleasant little child. He lived in a
small town in southern Missouri, with his parents Sam and Eva. He was in the
fifth grade at Cameron Elementary School. Little Allen’s mind was a blank
slate, a canvas on which the imprints of life were to be written.
He was a generous little boy. On one occasion, he had been chastised by
his teacher and parents for giving money to his classmates. It seems that he had
a great deal of money that various people - aunts, uncles and grandparents - had
given him. Some of the kids had been talking, and had indicated that their
families didn’t have any money and that times were hard for them. Allen decided
that, having plenty of money of his own, he would simply give the money to his
friends. So, every day, he would load his pockets with change and bills, take it
to school and unpretentiously give the money away.
When his teacher got wind of this, she decided that this was simply
unacceptable and that the behavior had to stop; she called Allen‘s parents, they
discussed it at length, and Allen was told that he had to stop doing this. This
small incident only demonstrates the innocence of Allen’s malleable little mind.
Needless to say, I could have simply said, “He was a good little boy.”
Allen’s aunt and uncle, Timothy and Angela Brighton lived on a 900 acre farm
outside of Allen’s town. Allen worshiped the ground upon which Uncle Timothy,
or as Allen called him, Uncle Timmy, walked. Little Allen spent as much time as
possible on their farm. He loved everything about the farm: He loved the
horses, the cattle, the ducks, the dogs, the cats, and last but not least, he
loved Aunt Angie. He had told them many times that he would rather have them -
Uncle Timmy and Aunt Angie - be his parents.
* * * *
It was feeding time for the animals and Allen had made arrangements to
be there on the farm this weekend. Uncle Timmy always let Allen drive the
tractor. They would load hay and feed on a trailer and pull it behind the
tractor out into the field and deliver the feed to the cows. This was the
highlight of the day for Allen.
Uncle Timmy and Allen road out through the lower field to feed the
cattle. “Just pull ’er up over there, Wildhair,” said uncle Timmy, as he
jumped up on the trailer to dispense the hay and feed. The cows crowded in close
around the trailer in anticipation of the food. Uncle Timmy broke the bails of
hay, pitched it on the ground, and poured the feed into a trough. The cattle
ate heartily in anticipation of having their fill of the usual fare. Allen sat
on the tractor and watched in admiration of uncle Timmy. Allen thought that
there wasn’t anything that Uncle Timmy didn’t know how to do - whatever the
problem was, uncle Timmy could fix it.
“That’ll do ’er, Wildhair. Lets head on back to the barn.” said Uncle Timmy.
Allen pushed in the clutch, put the tractor in gear, and the tractor lurched
forward. Uncle Timmy sat in the middle of the empty trailer and chuckled at
Wildhair as they road back to the barn. “Youngin thinks he’s really something,
driving the tractor.” thought Uncle Timmy. Uncle Timmy considered Allen as the
son he never had. He loved him very much.
“So wacha doin’ there Wildhair?“ uncle Timmy asked as he watched Allen
throwing rocks at a tin can next to the barn.
“Nothin’. . .” replied Allen, “ just throwin’ rocks.”
“What chu need is a slingshot, there Wildhair! Come on over here and
I‘ll show you how to make one.” Allen followed Uncle Timmy over to a small
tree growing at the edge of the field the horses were in. Uncle Timmy took out
his pocket knife and cut off a small limb about a half inch in diameter. He cut
it into a Y shape, the bottom of which was just right to hold in your hand.
“Come on in to the barn and I’ll get some rubber bands and a piece of leather
and show you how it’s done.” Timmy fastened the rubber bands to the two forks
of the slingshot with the leather pouch in the middle.
He picked up a small stone, placed it in the leather pouch, pulled back
and released the stone; it hit the side of the weathered, grey, barn with a
thud. “Here,” he said as he handed the slingshot to Allen, “You try it. . . See
if you can hit that tin can. . .” Allen picked up a small rock, aimed at the
rusty tin can, and hit it on the first try. “You’re a natural at that slingshot
there Wildhair. . . See them sparrows on that electric line up there; see if
you can hit one. . .”
Allen fired several small rocks at the various birds that landed near by, but
couldn’t hit one. They were just too far away he figured.
“Here, let me try to hit one,” said Timmy, as he fired a rock at a small
sparrow on the fence post. He missed. “Dog gone,” he said as he took aim one
more time. . . This time he hit the bird dead on and it fell to the ground.
“Ya got ’im,” yelled Allen, “Ya got ‘im!“ Allen ran over to where the bird
lay on the ground. He picked it up and it’s head fell lifelessly to one side.
The bird was soft, warm, and limber in his hand. It was still breathing. Blood
ran from the birds’ beak, it took several breaths and all movement of its’ body
stopped. It was dead. Allen had a newly found skill for which he could aspire .
. . Anything to be like Uncle Timmy.
* * * *
Several weeks passed and Allen spent his time away from school
practicing with his slingshot; he became quite adroit at killing birds -
usually hit them on the first shot. He was at his Grandmothers house on one
particular weekend when he decided he would show his grandmother his new skill.
“Come on outside Grandma, I want to show you something.”
“What do you want to show me, Allen?” asked his Grandmother.
“I want to show you how good I am with my slingshot,” he replied.
“Well, alright. Just give me a few minutes to finish washing these dishes
and I‘ll be right out.”
Allen left the kitchen and went through the utility room to the back porch
and sat down to wait for his Grandmother. The air was chilly, with a slight
breeze. There were a number of birds in the surrounding trees and even a couple
of squirrels playing on the lawn out at the end of the yard. After a brief
time, Allen’s grandmother came out side. She had a container of seed in her
hands and proceeded to fill the bird feeder.
“So what did you want to show me, Allen?”
Allen had a pocket full of small rocks and pulled one out and got ready to
demonstrate his accuracy.
“Watch this Grandma.”
He zeroed in on a sparrow sitting on the feeder, took aim, released the stone
and hit the bird, knocking it to the ground. “What do ya think of that
Grandma?”
“My goodness no!” she yelled. “You can’t kill my birds. . . Why
that’s just terrible! Give me that thing right now!” She took the slingshot
and headed back into the house, with Allen following close behind.
“You’re certainly not going to do that to my birds . . . “ She removed a pair
of scissors from the kitchen counter and cut the rubber bands into small pieces.
“There!” she yelled, “I won’t stand for that, do you hear me?” She returned to
the utility room and got a pair of pruning shears and cut the slingshot into
pieces and threw them in to the trash.
“Now you march yourself into that living room and sit down on the couch and
wait till I figure out what punishment to give you. . .Go on now!”
“But Grandma, Uncle Timmy made that for me. He showed me how to shoot
it, and he said that there was nothin’ wrong with shootin’ the birds.”
“I don’t care what Uncle Timmy said, killin’ birds with that thing is
just wrong! And I‘m going to have a talk with your Uncle Timmy too!” Furious
did not even begin to describe his Grandmother’s anger. “You just wait till your
grandfather gets home; I’m sure he’ll have plenty to say about this!” Allen
sat on the couch and a tear rolled down his cheek. “Not grandpa. Please, not
grandpa!” he thought.
* * * *
Mr. Rickenbacker, Allen’s grandfather, was a tall man, thin build, with
gaunt cheeks, and jet black hair, combed straight back over his head. A
carpenter by trade, he was a kind and gentle soul, but didn’t accept behavior
other than what he deemed appropriate, and “The way things were supposed to be,“
from his children and grandchildren. He wasn’t an overly religious man but he
had a strong sense of the difference between wrong and right.
Allen was sure his grandfather would be angry with him for killing the
bird, especially after the way his grandmother had reacted. He waited for him to
arrive home from work with worried anticipation. It was 4:30 and he’d be home
soon. He had dried his tearful eyes and had resolved himself to the fact that
he was going to be punished and he’d just have to take what ever the punishment
was.
Jeopardy was on TV; he watched the show, glancing now and then into
the kitchen to see what his grandmother was doing. The noise of his
grandfather’s car was in the driveway; he heard the back door open and he could
hear his grandmother talking to his grandfather, but he couldn’t overhear what
was being said. After a few minutes, grandpa came into the living room and sat
beside Allen.
“So. . . How was your day, Allen?” his grandfather asked.
“Well, it was pretty good for a while, but then this afternoon, I got in
trouble with Grandma for killin‘ one of her birds. . .”
“That’s what she said. . . Why did you kill it?”
“Uncle Timmy said that there wasn’t nothin’ wrong with killin’ birds.
There was so many of them that it just didn’t make any difference . . . He said
they was a nuisance anyway.”
“Well I suppose that there are a lot of them, but that‘s no reason to
kill them. . . Look, if your were out in the wilderness and you were lost and
didn‘t have anything to eat, and you had your slingshot, and you needed
something to eat to survive, then it would be ok to kill a bird, or an animal.
Have you ever heard the word dominion? Well probably not. It just means
to be in control of something. We have dominion over the birds and animals on
the earth. The only reason to kill animals is to have something to eat. Uncle
Timmy likes to hunt, and he does, all the time, so I guess he is so use to it
that it doesn’t bother him to kill animals; after all, he raises cattle and pigs
for other people to eat. So do you understand? Some people in other countries
eat dogs, even some of them eat monkeys, even snakes sometimes. But we don‘t do
that here in the United States. So I guess all I’m trying to say, is don’t kill
anymore of your grandmother’s birds. OK?”
“Am I still in trouble though?”
“Unfortunately, yes you are. I‘ll talk to your grandma and see what
punishment she wants to give you. It won‘t be that bad. . . Just remember what
I told you. OK?”
Allen’s punishment was to rake the leaves in the front and back yard; he
spent all of the next day, Sunday, cleaning it up.
* * * *
The following week at school was uneventful for Allen - with the usual amount
of homework. On Saturday, Allen’s dad, Sam, dropped Allen off at the farm
again for the weekend.
It was early, a little after six AM, when Allen walked in the back door
of the farm house, into the kitchen. Aunt Angie was busy at the stove, cooking
breakfast. Uncle Timmy sat at the table, puffing on his pipe, reading the
paper, and waiting for breakfast to be served,
“Been waitin’ for ya there, Wildhair,” said Uncle Timmy, as a puff of smoke
from his pipe rose above his head. “How was school this week?”
Timmy slide into the chair across the table from Uncle Timmy and replied,
“All right I guess . . . Got in trouble with grandma for killin’ one of her
birds last weekend . . . “
“Heard about that,” replied Timmy. “Heard she cut your slingshot up in
little pieces; is that right?”
“Yea she did . . .”
“Well, that’s alright; been thinkin about that. I got somethin to
show you after breakfast; I think your gona like it.”
Breakfast consisted of salt cured ham, farm fresh eggs, homemade biscuits,
homemade jam and butter. It was quite a feast. They ate in silence. Afterward,
Aunt Angie and Allen cleared the breakfast dishes, and Allen and Uncle Timmy
went out to the closed in back porch.
On the wall was a gun rack with several guns. Uncle Timmy took down a
small 20 gauge shotgun and handed it to Allen and took down a 12 gauge for
himself. He grabbed a box of shells for each gun and said, “Come on out here,
Wildhair, I’m gonna show ya somethin your gonna like.“ Allen followed Uncle
Timmy out the back door, out to the edge of the yard, next to the garden.
There on the ground was a device used to through clay pigeons in the
air.
Uncle Timmy put down his gun and loaded the device with a clay disk.
“Now what I want you to do is pull the string on this thing, and it’s gonna
throw this clay bird up in the air and I’m gonna shot it with my shotgun. When
I say Pull, you pull the string; got it?”
Uncle Timmy picked up his gun, put it up to his shoulder and standing next to
Allen said, “Pull!“ Allen pulled the string and the clay bird rose into the
air. The bird flew off high and to the left. There was a resounding boom of
the shotgun and the bird was shattered into a myriad of pieces. The air was
filled with the smell of spent gunpowder and Allen‘s ears felt a ringing sound.
The sound of the shot echoed up and down the valley in which the farm was
located.
“Wow, Uncle Timmy! That was awesome! Can I do that?”
“Step right up here, Wildhair,” said Timmy.
Uncle Timmy loaded the device again and Allen put a shell in his gun.
“I’m ready Uncle Timmy!”
“What cha need to do is lead the bird . . . You know what I mean?
Just figure out which direction it’s goin’ and shoot just in front of it. Are
you ready?”
Allen yelled, Pull, and waited a little bit, and pulled the trigger.
“Darn! I missed it. Can I try it again?”
Timmy loaded and released six clay birds in a row and Allen missed all of
them.
“What you need to do, is wait a little longer. . . After the bird is
released, follow it up, and wait till it starts to come back down, lead it and
pull the trigger. “
Uncle Timmy loaded another clay bird. “Ready when you are,” said Timmy.
“Pull,” yelled Allen.
The next shot happened in slow motion. Allen followed the trajectory of
the clay bird up in the air; it floated high in the air and began to slowly
come down to earth, he pulled the trigger and bam the bird shattered into a
multitude of pieces.
“Ya got ‘er Wildhair! Ya got ‘er!”
Uncle Timmy patted Allen on the back and gave him a small hug.
“Nice shooting!”
Allen grinned form ear to ear. They had used up almost the entire box of
shells and Allen was hitting about seventy percent of the time.
“We better stop,” said Uncle Timmy, “We’re almost out of shells. . . Now
you’re ready to go huntin’ with me!”
This was, without a doubt, the most exciting thing Allen had ever done. His
shoulder was killing him and hurt like crazy. He removed his jacket and
unbuttoned his shirt. His shoulder was black and blue; but it didn‘t matter; .
“ And now we’re goin huntin!”
Uncle Timmy loaded the dogs in the back of the pickup truck and he and Allen
climbed into the cab. They drove out of the valley, over a very large hill, to
what was called by the locals the “flat woods.” It was an area of farm land the
was obviously very flat, with many fields used for planting crops. They let the
dogs out and got their guns and followed them through a large field with lots of
cover for Quail. The dogs worked in increasingly larger circles in the field
and finally came to a stop, “on point.”
“Here we go, Wildhair . . . Now you stay on the right side here and I’ll
stay on the left. We don’t know how many birds there are, so you take the birds
that come up on the right and I’ll take the ones that come up on the left. Just
remember to lead the bird before you shoot. . .The dogs flushed the covey on
command and the birds arose from the ground, feathers rustling in the wind. The
feeling was of frenzied excitement as the birds flew away. They each took aim
and fired; Uncle Timmy fired twice and got two birds and Allen fired once and
missed.
Uncle Timmy called out to the dogs the command to hunt for dead birds;
he said, “Dead, hunt close, deaaaad, hunt close.” The dogs continued to look
for dead birds and finally each one returned to Uncle Timmy with a dead bird
held gingerly in it’s mouth.
Allen was disappointed that he had not hit a bird, but Uncle Timmy told
him not to worry, he’d get the next one. They continued to hunt for almost
three hours and both got their legal limit of quail. The hunting expedition had
been a success and it was something that Allen and Uncle Timmy would remember
for the rest of their lives - Allen’s first hunting trip. The rest of the
weekend at the farm was anticlimactic, but Allen went home that Sunday evening
with stories to tell all his friends at school the next day.
Allen loved quail hunting, but the most important thing about the
hunting trip was the fact that he got to spend time with Uncle Timmy. . .Now, at
least in one way, Allen was, “Just like Uncle Timmy!”