Doug & I Hunting Woodchucks

Hunting Woodchucks


Doug & I
Hunting Woodchucks

Doug and I took Dad’s old car out hunting one spring day
To hunt woodchucks with a .22 on the road toward Conesville way
Me fourteen and Doug was ten in a Buick ‘38
An old pump action .22 with the feed tube not quite straight

No air bags, seat belts, padded dash, soft steering wheels back then
Just a metal box and rigid steel, cast iron and plated tin
We started over the “cross” road, the day was bright and still
Turned right by Raymond Goodfellows then on down Fancher’s hill

Doug was fooling with the gun trying to load some shells
As we came up to Bob Cammer’s place, that farm he kept so well
As I looked over toward the gun and turned my head to see
I drove that damned old Buick straight into a big Oak tree

The horn popped out and hit my face, the steering wheel jammed my chest
And Doug bounced off that metal dash, then all just came to rest
Smoke and steam poured from the hood, the motor screaming, rough
Then I reached down and found the key and turned that damned thing off

Alton Brand was driving by and stopped and pulled us out
He said, “ It was the damndest thing I’d seen or thought about.”
“That car was going down the road as straight as straight can be
“It didn’t brake or make a curve, just drove into that tree”

The State Police came out that night to make out their report
Dad had to say I stole that car to keep us out of court
The trooper took me to the porch and said his terse, brusque talk
“The next time you go hunting things, I think you’d better walk”

So at aged 14 I’d wrecked a car and hurt my brother’s eyes
And I guess the thing I think about as years & months fly by
Malaria, bike accidents, close calls in cars and trucks
Living long and getting old takes lots and lots of luck