aeolus -> RE: Coffee (Mar. 5 2014 11:14:26)
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My first hunt was in 1948 and came about through a lucky circumstance: our neighbors in San Antonio had a connection to Judge Lee Lytton (Kenedy county) an office earlier held by my grandfather, and he asked Sarita Kenedy if he could take the neighbor's boy hunting. Sarita told him yes if you take Edward (me) too knowing that we were friends. That was just so thoughtful of her and typical. So for my years of hunting I stayed in Lee's home in Sarita. A few years ago on a local forum a guy gave a description of his first hunt and I was moved to take pen in hand, or more accurately keyboard and word processor to offer my remembrance. Truth at first light With apologies to Papa On the sleeping porch facing south, in the still of early morning, the coyotes now quiet,, with only the drone of a lone long haul semi to be heard, from a far piece, the whine of its engine beginning as a low hum, then building slowly, implacably, irresistibly, obeying the laws of physics, the Doppler effect, to then recede as it came. The muggy heat of South Texas saturated, even in late November, the air, requiring that we must be in the pastures at first light, when it was cool enough for the bucks to emerge before retreating deep into the brush during the heat of the day. At 15, I needed no second call to arise and dress hurriedly, alive with anticipation, for the hunt to begin. But today was to begin with a singular event: seated at the breakfast table, addressing our bacon and eggs, we hear a low whistle from outside. Within, but just barely, the loom of the porch light, an ancient, or so it seemed to me, vaquero, too humble to approach the screen door, informed our host: Señor Johnny es mort. That was news: one of the last descendents of the founder of the vast LaParra Ranch had died. Fortunately it did not alter our plans for the day and we piled into the jeep, still in the predawn hours and headed onto the trackless pastures of the ranch. The way of the hunt was to drive slowly through the brush for deer, who like all animals are curious creatures and are not frightened by a vehicle driven slowly. The thing is to stay silent and search for the pray who with its tan fur, blends well into the semi arid landscape. At last our host stopped and pointed to a buck no further than 40 yards I would say, standing within a light stand of mesquite. Silently I left the jeep and went to a kneeling position to steady the rifle. I fired one shot which was immediately followed by a loud whack of the bullet hitting its mark. The animal turned and ran but as though blind, ran into a bit of brush: It's a gone buck, said our host and guide. Sure enough as we drove up to it, it was motionless but our guide delivered the coup de grâce with a .22 pistol as a precaution. I was numb with the enormity, or so it seemed to me, of the event. The ritual for a first kill is to cut off the penis and wipe the blood of the animal on the cheeks of the shooter but as their was a woman with us I was deprived of this seminal event in my young life. If you are interested in the history of that part of the world you might try: Petra's Legacy: The South Texas Ranching Empire of Petra Vela and Mifflin Kenedy by Jane Clements Monday, Frances Brannen Vick I am a descendant of Petra but as luck would have it she died before Mifflin and wishing to keep the ranch intact bought out his step-daughter's claim to the estate. Bummer.
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