It was William Shakespeare, I believe, who said, “one touch of nature makes the whole world kin.” I doubt, however, that he was a hunter. If so, he may have added, “There’s something about a gun that unites hunting men like brothers.”
An elderly gent lived down near the end of our woodland road, in a humble little home that almost seemed like something out of a storybook. Every time one of us passed the other’s home we’d wave, but that was pretty much all there was to our friendship. Yard work kept each of us busy throughout the summer. Winters were too miserable for either one of us, old as we are, to get out and about – unless it was deer season, as that in and of itself seems to warm the blood of most predatory men. Adrenaline flow carries strength to our aging legs, hips and backs, so that come the season for whitetails, we ancient ones appear as teenage athletes sauntering up the sides of the Endless Mountains. And hunting season is what finally brought the old man and me together.
I was nestled in a scooped-out section of the mountain I call Big Leek Hill. It was opening day of deer season, albeit unseasonably warm, almost shirt-sleeve weather. Early in the morning, nine whitetails tiptoed by; a small buck in the scampering group was no more than 25 yards away. I was carrying a new Marlin Model 444P in 444-caliber, which at that distance would have killed the buck with nearly a ton and a half of energy. I chose to pass on this first little buck of the new season. At about 11 a.m., I headed down the mountain to the house for lunch. I’d already passed on the second buck of the day, at around 10:30. I was holding out for a dream buck I’d seen near what I refer to as “the lonely hemlock.” I rough-scored him through binoculars one morning as he chased off another buck from the does he was following, and figure he was of 165 Boone & Crockett points. I had called my son Justin out to have a look, and the words from his mouth were, “Oh my gosh, Pop, he’s incredible. Biggest I’ve ever seen. How about you?”
“I’d say so, son, and you know very well that I’ve lived at all four corners of the lower 48. Why, the 8-point he chased away from his does was bigger than any mulie I’ve ever taken. I’ve seen deer with antler bases nine inches around, and the 8-point he chased off was all of that, likely bigger. High tines, too, most about eight, maybe nine inches and straight as sticks. Two incredible whitetails in one morning is almost too much for this old man’s heart to take.”
Justin asked softly, “Ya gonna kill ‘im if ya get the chance, Pop?”
“Won’t know, Partner, until the moment presents itself, if indeed it does. That buck didn’t get as big as he is by being careless. Nor did the 8-point. I’d sure love the opportunity, though. Just to see them during buck season would be award enough, but I never really know what I’m gonna do until the time comes. Reckon I’ve always been a fickle old poop.”
Walking down the mountainside, I spotted a speck of orange at a location I call “the funnel.” It’s a place where the deer almost have to cross to get to another mountain’s cover. I detoured out of curiosity. I wanted to know who this hunter was.
As I got closer, I noticed a scruff of snow-white hair sticking out from under his Elmer Fudd-like hunting cap. It was my elderly acquaintance from the end of our road, whose surname I knew to be Mancini. Not wanting to frighten him, because I felt he, like me, may be hard of hearing, I made the psst sound. It came out well. The old-timer turned toward me, smiled what I felt to be the warmest smile I’d ever seen from a man and softly said, “howdy.”
I smiled in response and whispered “Mornin’ neighbor. Seen anything worthwhile?”
He spoke with a broken and heartwarming Italian accent. An accent I grew up with as I , too am of Italian descent, and my grandfather spoke broken English. His accent, his way of pronouncing English words, made him all the more lovable, and hearing Mr. Mancini was déjà vu extraordinaire.
Grandfather passed away when I was in basic training back in 1960. I got home to attend his funeral, but I miss him terribly. He was my hero. In fact, it was he, my father and a favorite uncle, Buck Budd, who introduced me to hunting back in 1954. I even had a few years’ experience carrying the men’s harvest and no gun and, as I said, there’s something about a gun that brings men together intimately.
“I no see a da one ting cept da doggonit does all mornin’. And dis a new gun a mine, justa bought, anna first new ting I ever have for to hunt wit donna short wort beans. Why you sa neighbor, no?”
“Your neighbor I am, Mr. Mancini. So, you’ve seen nothing with antlers, huh?”
“Nading, young man, nading ‘tall. Justa squirrels a digging da nuts anna couple bigga, fatta does.”
“How about coming home for lunch with me, Mr. Mancini? Perhaps we can work out an afternoon strategy, and if we’re lucky, maybe one of us will score on one of the two big bucks I saw earlier this fall.”
“Shore ting. Say, whattsa you name anyways?”
“Joe. Joe Parry. But long ago, before my grandfather changed it, our family name was Parisi. I’m Italian, too.”
“Well daggonit, attsa nice ting to know. I taught to. You have gooda Romano nose. Giuseppe isa you name in Italiano, ya know it?”
I said that I did, and he got up and we headed for the house for lunch.
“Whattsa dis a ting you calla shratasee?”
“It’s strategy, Mr. Mancini.”
“Pleasa, Joe, donnta calla me a Mister Mancini, my name a isa Luigi in Italiano.”
“Okay, Louie it is. Now tell me, Louie, what’s the problem with your rifle? You mentioned it doesn’t shoot worth beans?”
“Daggonit ting shootsa holes all over da paper targets an not all a dem inna da bullseye. I dunna whattsa matter witta daggonit sing. You tinka you can fix, no?”
“Well, maybe, Louie, maybe. We’ll see what the problem is when we get to the barn.”
He looked at me through proud hazel eyes in which I could see me own reflection and said, “Ya know, Giuseppe, dissa gun a mine is da first ting I ever boughta myself new. I never hadda monies tilla dissa year, an I was alla cited about it until I shotta da doggonit sing. Well she no shoots a too good. Make sa me sad a little bits, you know it?”
“I believe I know how you feel, Louie, but I think I already know what the problem is. Let me see it for a minute.”
It was a gorgeous .308 Winchester in the Classic Model 70 Featherweight. The stock was well-figured and breathtaking. Unusual for a production rifle out of the box. “Well, Louie, this is one of the finest guns a man could own. Called the rifleman’s rifle because of its outstanding reputation and durability under tough conditions without problems occurring. It should shoot well at almost any range. Let’s look at it when we get to the house.”
“Tanka you, Joe, tanka you veddy, veddy much. I’a justa hope itsa nading a too daggon bad?”
At the house we ate sourdough bread, cucumber salad and huge squares of left-over lasagna, then washed it down with a non-alcoholic white wine, chilled for a week. He thanked me dozens of times for lunch, to the point where I was all but embarrassed. We went to the den and I took out my gun kit. I took the action from the bed of the stock, and sure enough, there were several pressure marks. Also, I had a suspicion that someone had tightened the wrong action screw first. Always, but always, however trivial it may sound, tighten the rear screw first. And bear down on it until you feel the beginnings of a hernia. This makes a world of difference in how well a rifle shoots.
I have a friend, Butch Murray from Erie, who bought a Sako in .243 that the owner claimed just won’t shoot well at all. Butch brought it to me after having paid only $150 for it. I took it out of the stock, checked for pressure markings. There were none at all.
“Nothing wrong here, Butch,” I said, “but let’s try this one thing I learned long ago from my Uncle Buck Budd.”
I placed the barrel back into the stock, placed the action screws in their respective holes and proceeded to bear down hard on the rear screw. I then finished tightening the front screw, and we took it to the range that afternoon. Butch had fired it earlier, and his 3-shot group measured nearly 12 inches, however, the Sako shot 1-inch groups.
I sanded out the pressure marks on Louie’s Winchester and smoothed it off with fine steel wool, then carefully set the barrel and action back into its wooden bed. I bore down on the rear action screw until the veins in my forehead looked vividly reminiscent of purple night crawlers. We fired the rifle at my range in my back field. At 50 yards it hit about a quarter-inch high.
Louie said, “Sure, Joe, da ting will putta wonna shot prettie gooda, but a number two, tree anna four will go a every daggonit place. Speshally atta hundred yardsa.”
I decided to use one of my hand loaded 165-grain boattail Barnes XLC coated bullet loads. This is what I used in the first round, and in my .30-06 Ruger, these precision bullets group an inch and under all day if, indeed, I do my part. I set up a new target at 100 yards and fired three of the hand loaded cartridges. The shots formed a perfect triangle just about ¾ of an inch.
“Owl be-a doggonit. I neber seena nading like at, Joe.” Louie said.
We then headed for Big Leek Mountain where I’d secretly hoped and prayed Louie would get a shot at one of the two bucks. I placed him in a good spot and said, “Those cartridges I gave you, Louie will put down anything in North America. Just put the crosshairs where you want ‘em and shoot.” I told him I’d circle the mountain and, I hoped, move one of the big bucks out of the thick stuff and into his shooting lane.
“Ya tink da doggonit ting a comma dis way, Joe?”
“Gonna be a lot of fruitless walking if one doesn’t, Louie. Just sit real tight for about two hours. Give me time to circle the mountain. I feel pretty certain at least one of them is holed up in that acre or two of mulitflora rose on the other side, and if I flush one, he’s almost certain to come over the knoll here and head for the thicket behind the college. Good luck, Louie. See ya in a couple hours.”
He whispered, “Ya know, Giuseppe, I never shota deer inna all da years since I come from da ol’ country. I woulda love ta do dat doggonit ting justa one time before I die.”
I worked my way slowly around the mountain, and not 30 minutes after I’d left Louie, I heard what I thought was his .308. Hoping so much that he had a buck, I continued my drive and returned to find Louie sitting on a big fallen log. In front of him lay the largest 8-point buck I’d seen in 44 years of hunting. “Hey, Louie, you got one of the big ones.”
When the old man looked up at me without uttering a sound, his face was as white as an Ivory soap bar. “Hey ya, Joe. Yep, I gottsa him alright, but I don’t know whatta do now. I never take a gutsa out of one before.”
“Don’t fret, Louie my friend. I’ll take care of that.”
“Boy a boy,” Louie said, “You like a ma guide service man. Firsta ya take a care ma new rifle, den you clean uppa ma bigga buck, da first one I ever shoota, an I gotta paya you soma ting, Giuseppe.”
“Louie, just knowing you, being your neighbor and friend is pay enough for me. Besides, you remind me of my long gone grandfather. Never mind the pay stuff.”
Louie mentioned he would have the deer mounted. We tagged then dragged the deer about 1,000 yards to Louie’s house, and I helped him skin and butcher it. He showed me around his cozy little home and sadly mentioned that his only son was killed in a helicopter crash in Vietnam. “I sure missa him, Guiseppa. I no be a da same since he go to heaven, ya know?”
No, I didn’t know. No parent should live to see their child die, and I had two children at home. It made me think of the unthinkable.
Louie and I became close friends that winter. He was, aside from my grandfather, the kindest, most gentle, lovable, sincere and honest man I ever knew. He often called me his son, Giuseppe Parisi. It touched me in a way I’ve never been touched. Then one dreary afternoon he read one of my older Game News stories, “On War and Whitetails” in the August 1995 issue, and afterward phoned me to come over for a visit, teas and Italian anisette cookies. I could tell from the tone of his voice he was a bit melancholy, perhaps thinking about his dead son. Nevertheless, I threw on my vest and went to his home.
At the door, Louie laughed and said, “Comma inna you besta guide a service man.” I laughed and said I might send him a bill yet if he didn’t stop thanking me for what happened during buck season.
“Ya know, Joe, I no live too much a long. I like you ta know, I gonna leave you soma sing. Somma ting veddy, veddy nice when I go to hunta witta God. I hope you like.”
I spent the better part of the afternoon with him. His wife, Mary, sat with us, quietly knitting him a sweater with huge pockets for “all the daggonit junks I carries arounda.”
Mary had mentioned Louie’s emphysema and heart condition, and sure enough, two weeks later, grand old Louie passed away on the sofa, in his cozy, little cottage, with his newly knitted sweater on. God knew I would miss him, his bright, warm smile, his laughter at the slightest humor and those warm moments when I knew he saw his own dead son in me.
I went to the viewing but couldn’t, for whatever reason, attend his funeral. To my heart, that’s too final to conceive. I watched as they lifted his copper casket into the hearse, went to my car and headed for church to light a few candles in his honor. It was a long, tough day, and henceforth it would be one long, rather lonely life without Louie’s laughter, warm smiles and friendship.
Later that month Louie’s wife phoned. “Joe, do you have time to come by the house for a few minutes?” Certainly I did, and I left within five minutes of her call. She opened the back door and asked if I would sit and drink the tea and eat the anisette cookies she had prepared, and that she’d be back in a minute. When she came back in she had a long box that appeared brand new. “Louie left you this deer head, Joe, and whatever’s in this box.”
Tears welled up in my old eyes, for I already knew what the box held. I wasn’t, however, prepared for the letter attached to Louie’s once-used Winchester. “Giuseppe, I loved you like my own son. I wanna you ta have dissa here gun anna buck head. I know you take a gooda care. Bless you, Joe. Love, Louie.”
I left the house in a quiet mood, thinking, indeed, there’s something about a gun. Something I was very thankful for. Tanka you Louie. Tanka you, veddy veddy much.