It was in the fall of 1942 when my brother, Rod, approached me with an offer to take me hunting. “I will teach you how to hunt squirrel,” he said. Wait a minute! Where did he get off using such a big word? Rod could take school or leave it. He wasn't an educator. Not at all. I did figure I was teachable, however.

I should have been suspicious, but was eager to learn something new. I liked fried squirrel as well. Never having put a gun to my shoulder and now having the first opportunity would be a good learning experience for me. I was raring to go. It had been a good year for acorns. The oak trees in our woodlot were loaded. That was where he was planning to take me hunting, he said.

I stood by as Rod removed the guns from the closet. He handed me the 12 gauge and he took the .22. “ Yours is a bigger gun. It will be easier to shoot,” he informed me, as he handed me one shell to carry in my pocket. “Safety first.” Rod warned as we walked out the door.

Excited, I would really be learning how to hunt. I surmised that Rod had forgiven me for all the dirty tricks I had pulled on him when we were younger. “It's nice to have a brother who cares about you,” I mused, yakking on and on as we walked back to the woods.

When we reached the trees, Rod explained what we were going to do. He described how the squirrels quickly gathered the acorns and took off with them, hiding them here and there. “You have to be quick,” he said. I listened intently, trying to absorb what I needed to know. Rod loaded his .22 and put my one shell in the chamber of the shotgun. I was ready to hunt.

We sat down under the spreading branches of a big tree and waited. Sure enough! A squirrel appeared. Rod quickly raised his gun and shot. He missed. “You can't expect to hit them every time,” he informed me. “We will have another chance.”

Rod nailed the next squirrel. One squirrel down. It was my turn. I had to be quick, he repeated. I saw a squirrel, but it was gone before I even raised the gun to my shoulder. He reminded me again that I had to be quick.

“There's one!” he whispered. “Shoot!” Standing up, I pulled the trigger and fell over backwards, feeling a sharp stabbing pain in my shoulder, missing the squirrel by a country mile. What did my dear brother do? He doubled up with laughter. Rod hadn't intended teaching me how to hunt at all. He knew what a kick that old 12 gauge had. Not knowing it and not expecting it, I hadn't had a good grip on the gun. That wasn't the only thing that hurt. I have never before or since sat down so hard.

That was the end of my hunting lesson. “I wasn't teachable,” he roared. Rod laughed all the way back to the house. I now understood that he hadn't forgotten or forgiving me for the dirty tricks of the past. Nowadays, if some one asks if I have ever shot a shotgun, I reply, holding up one finger, “Yes, once.”