Short Story: Last Grouse for Joey’s Hero

Those things your mentor or children accomplish in life seem so much more important than your own accomplishments. At least it was in this storybook hunt with a grandfather who approached holiness. A grand old man who was a close and constant companion to goodness in all aspects of his simple life, a softhearted man who seemed to enjoy the simple act of loving his fellow man, especially children. To the minds of many families in Greensburg years ago, if ever there was a Santa Claus, old Joe was that man.

A certain young man was blessed to have known him, blessed to have his magical love and gentle teachings mold him as a boy. Blessed to have him teach the ways of a caring, thoughtful, and ethical hunter; virtues that remain with him today at 57 years of age.

Then, one day in August 1960, at the time a young man in the Army, he was beyond brokenhearted to the extreme sense of the emotion, to have carried him to his grave. As his grandson, his namesake, the young man lived to hear his grandfather speak, lived to learn his lessons of life and, yes, lived for those soft, lazy October days in the grouse woods of Westmoreland County.

When Grandpa Joe, his father, Frank, and another hero, an uncle, Buck Budd, of south Connellsville, shared the joys of the hunt together in undiluted happiness, the environment around these four hunting men was never, never cold.

When the old man passed over to the other side, the joyous times seemed to dissolve. The young man continued to hunt, of course, but alone and lonely for Grandpa Joe. I doubt he’ll ever forget the golden memory of one autumn hunt, the time Grandpa took grouse doubles with his old Fox Sterlingworth 16-guage double. His grandson was just 16, the proud owner of a flashy 1951 Chevy Deluxe coupe. The small game season opener seemed forever in coming, but finally the morning arrived with the young man raring to go.

The youngster’s father, having coffee with his brother-in-law, Buck Budd, said to him as he entered the warm kitchen, “Joey, it’s about time to go get your grandfather. How’d you like to go pick him up in your hotrod?”

“I’d love to, Pap. Did ya tell him what time we’d be startin’ the hunt?”

“Yep, he should be bright-eyed and bushytailed.”

As the young man pulled into his grandfather’s driveway the moon shone brightly, illuminating the large backyard. He rolled down his car window, noticing a bright shining spot moving about the lawn. It was Grandpa’s bald head, radiating like a mobile crystal ball, and the young man called as softly as possible, not wanting to wake his grandmother, or his Aunt Isabel and Uncle Marsh, who lived in the apartment above his grandfather’s garage. “Is that you over there, Grandpa?”

The kindly elder hollered in broken Italian, “Yes, yes, attsa me alright. Who in da hecksa you tink it is, a Sandy Claus in da huntin’ suit you big Too-Too?” He forever referred to the youngster as his big or little Too-Too, an affectionate handle that meant something only to the old man. “Ittsa bouta time you gotta here. I’ve been a waitin’ something like 20 minoots already. Where’sa you daddy, Joey?” he asked as he walked toward the car.

There were no fluorescent orange regulations in those days and, innocently, hunters assumed red was a safe color to wear. Grandpa was completely clad in black and red clothing. From riding britches type pants to thigh-length jacket to Elmer Fudd type hat. He looked like a billboard ad for the Woolrich company, but yes, the most atypical looking grandfather God ever created.

He forever wore a warm smile on his pristine face, and that “lightbulb” of a head always smelled of Mennen’s Skin Bracer cologne. The young grandson never tired of seeing his grandfather and always felt those joyous butterflies in his stomach whenever his grandfather entered a room. It was, to this day, the deepest love the young man ever felt for another human being.

He never thought, then, that time would one day remove this man from his life. Still, he seemingly knew enough to enjoy and make the best of every moment with the old man, especially in the woods, where joys came in bunches like wild grapes. Where grandfather and grandson would talk softly and summon past golden memories to fill the odd voids in a morning. Or the two would whip up a fresh batch to add to the vast, precious store they already shared, ones they’d already made together
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On the way to the boy’s home, toward hunting fields abundant with pheasants and thickets alive with ruffed grouse, the boy and his grandfather talked of another time, the time when his grandfather came to America.

“Why did you come to America, Grandpap, didn’t you like the old country?”

The old-timer gently smacked his palms on his woolen-covered thighs, laughed a gentle, tolerant laugh and said, “Joey, I heard so much abouda tings inna dis a country. Da freedoms, da nice a jobs for people inna which a you no needa education. An I have only a two years a school, you know. Things over dare were notta so good den. Money was a hard a to come by, and I tink a one day when I talka to my momma I say, ‘I go to America da beautiful anna make some monies anna send a soma back to my family.’

“I was only 14 den, inna 1903, when I take a da bigga boat from da old country to a beautiful, Missa Liberty statue. I remember like a yesterday, Joey. I cried like a leedle bambino when I see da beautiful Missa Liberty. I was a so proud, anna yetta so scared that I gotta sick juste before da boat tie up onna dock. Oh boy, Joey, your grandpap wassa so proud. Juste like he issa today, my son. You grandpap, he’s a proud of his children anna you, Joey, my good Too-Too grandson.”

From the moment he landed on Ellis Island, the old man never spoke Italian in public, and he flew the American flag high and proud on a galvanized pole he’d made and placed near the front porch of his beautiful brick home in Greensburg. And later on his sons took part in World War II. One son, the young man’s father, Frank, received among other medals, six bronze stars in the European theatre of operations, some for landing on Utah Beach on D-Day and overtaking enemy machine guns in the cement bunkers in the walls of the cliffs.

“I never forget how I felt when I hearda abouda a hunting for game here in America,” the old man continued as they drove to the youngster’s country home. “I think I could feed a family for free iffa tings gotta really bad, you know. But, you grandpap wassa wrong abouda dat, for sure. I didn’t know anyting about hunting. Shoot, I did notta even a have da gun, and when I got to dis country, I only hadda something like $17. Boy, at wassa lots of monies in doze times, but I needed a job bad. I finally got one wit Baltimore Life Insurance Company and didda real good. Well, den, Joey, I meeta you grandma, Mary. We gotta married, buy da bigga house and make a family. American family. You daddy wassa my third born outta five children, three girls, two crazy little boys.”

He told the youngster how he’d bought the Fox Sterlingworth on payments for $39. Today that shotgun’s worth more than $2000, but it’s destined for another young man, the 25-year-old son of the youngster in this story.

He looked to the lighted front porch as they pulled into the driveway and laughed that heartwarming laugh of his when he spotted the boy’s uncle, Buck Budd, and his own son, Frankie. “Looka uppa dare atta those two big Too-Toos. Boy a boy, dey tink dey bigga shots wit da fancy guns. We show ‘em, huh, Too-Too?”

He pointed to the men on the front porch, “You grandpap issa gonna show dem today who da hunter is, by golly, how’s abouda dat, Too-Too? Whada you tink, a grandpap teach dem boys a how ta shoots grouse, huh?”

“Yes I think so, Grandpap. I sure think you should, too. I get sick of them teasing me about missing grouse, so maybe you can show them. I hope you shoot two on a single flush.” The young man had little doubt regarding his grandfather showing up the younger hunters, even though both were excellent wingshooters. But doubles on grouse? Hardly.

The grandfather laughed that incredible laugh of his as he exited the old Chevy. “I’mma lucky if I even a bend a feather onna doggone grouse bird. Dey too daggonnit fast for you old grandpa, Joey.”

The boy told his grandfather not to worry about being too old for the speeding grouse. Just point the magical Fox, swing through the birds and touch the trigger, or triggers, should two flush at once.

After a breakfast of strong coffee with a splash of Italian anisette flavoring, toast drenched in Grandma’s home-churned butter, and concord grape jam and a quarter-dozen fried brown eggs each, the anxious foursome left by way of the back door to their few acres of rabbit and ringneck turf. The four paired off, Buck and the young man’s father, and Joey and his smiling grandfather.

“You bigga shots tink you gonna beat da two Joes, but you seen whose da hunters are in dis family by goodness.” Grandfather was in high spirits that day, alive with enthusiasm, young at heart with anticipation and determination, even at the vintage age of 69.

“C’mon, Too-Too, we go dissa way, through da high buffalo grasses, anna mebbe kick ‘em up da doggone ringaneck.”

The youngster seemed to catch the fever that was overwhelming his grandfather, trying all the way through a grove of pines to get his churning stomach and excitement under control. For all of them back then, the first day of small game season was like Christmas.

“I saw a flock of birds in that high buffalo grass just at the edge of the apple orchard the other evening, Grandpap. Three ringnecks and six hens. Saw a bunch of quail, too. Are you gonna shoot a few of those today?”

The old-timer, smiling from ear to ear, whispered, “Joey, we take a leedle of dis, a leedle of a dat, anna just so long as a we get enough for a nice Sunday dinner, anna beat doze smart alecka Buck anna you daddy, I donna care whata we shoota today.”

The young man said he was anxious to make a good kill for a big Sunday dinner at Grandma’s, where all the family members and a few close friends got together about two Sundays a month.

They’d play penny poker, drink light, homemade wines sparingly, and eat as though tomorrow may never come. Grandma didn’t believe in several course meals; she made at least a half-dozen different main dishes. The family would love and enjoy one another in the most heartwarming manner. In such a deep, sincere way, the young man carries that precious memory in his heart to this day, because, sadly, most of the people who made them what they were have since changed worlds.

The two Joes had no sooner entered the orchard edge than two pheasants, a hen and a rooster, flushed from the high sienna grasses. The old man had the shot, and as the old Fox popped, the ringneck slid into the pine grove and dropped to earth, stone dead. “Hey, dare, Too-Too, whaddya tink of a dat shootin’?”

They crossed an old road at the edge of their property then navigated a steep bank into some brush and thornapple trees that were entangled in the mulitflora rose. A single ringneck burst from the tangles and seemingly got hung up in the lower thornapple branches. His grandfather waited until the bird freed itself and reached the apex of its flight, then he let loose with the right barrel of his Fox, getting his second pheasant of the day.

“Now, Too-Too, we go for da big bunny or two, okeydokey?”

And sure, it was “okeydokey.” Everything his gentle grandfather did was okay with him.

As they approached the wood’s edge, a ruffed grouse burst from the multiflora rose. The boy shouldered his tightly choked, liberated German 16-guage side-by-side and cut loose. First the right barrel, then left, but he didn’t ruffle a feather.

“Attsa okay, Too-Too, they’s a doggone buggers to hit. Be nice if dey was leedie bit more slow.”

As yet, with lunchtime about an hour away, the boy and his grandfather didn’t recall hearing any shots from the other side of the hill, and between them they had taken four rabbits, two ringnecks and five quail. On the last bench before the hill topped out, a sizable wild grape tangle appeared. The grandfather hollered over to the boy, “Joey, you step along easy now anna stop every couple steps anna standa real quiet. Dat make dem doggonit birds a real nervous.”

The boy replied in the affirmative and into the thicket they went. He couldn’t see his grandpa but he could hear him hollering, “C’monna you doggonit crazy birds, old Joe here will show you whooza da boss.”

It wasn’t long until he heard a single shot then heard his grandfather yelling again. “Boy oh boy, Too-Too, dem sings fly like leedle jet airplanes. I tink I missed da bigga one, too.” Just about the time the cover wore thin, and lunchtime was moments away, he heard the old man’s Fox bark twice. Surprised at how close together the shots were, the boy, after field-dressing a big fox squirrel he’d just taken, ambled over to join his grandpa. There, sitting on a stump, he spotted his grandfather, smoothing the feathers of two plump grouse, tears in his warm eyes, and the smile of all smiles on his immaculate face.

Two ringnecks, three quail, three rabbits, a brace of gray squirrels and two grouse. To the boy’s eyes it looked like the harvest of early market hunter and he was, once again, impressed by his grandfather’s proficiency with the old shotgun.

“Well, Too-Too, we better be goin’ anna have somma lunch. You tink a we make dem hot shots looka bad enough?”

Not long ago, the young man now much older, summoned the memory of that morning, recalling his grandfather’s sheepish, ornery laughter. “Well, by golly, Joey, I guessa you grandpa issa da old superman after all. Whadda does Too-Too tink?”

At the house during lunch that day they shared many laughs, and, indeed, the old man had topped all of the young men. But it never really mattered, not to Grandpap. He just enjoyed making a grand time of everything in life, making certain all the world around him was happy. He always said how rich he was because of the people he’d make happy.

The young man not long ago recalled his grandfather’s words one lonely, melancholy day as he sat on a mountainside in Tioga county.

“Joey, azza long azz you always make a da peoples around you happy, God will take a gooda care of you. Remember dat, Too-Too, for your old grandpap, please a remember dat, anna always remember to take a you kids onna hunting trips like we share alla dissa time, okay? Cause dat time inna woods make a dem a good, anna happy kids for you. Anna it a brings you closer to dare young hearts, you know?”

Three years later the old man passed away. In the one year he hunted after the one in this story he never killed another ringneck, quail, rabbit, squirrel or grouse. He mentioned one autumn day that he was through taking life, but so loved the hunts of autumn. And he’d given his life to so many who will forever remember him as a saint of a man, a sort of Santa Claus. And not just during Christmas, but everyday he happened to gently touch their lives. And he was my grandfather. A great, old man who walks the oaken hills every time I do.


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