Every so often someone writes to me and remarks that I tend to go on about missing the "good old days." Well, I don't mean to. I don't miss them, what little I knew of them, but, like most of us, I have a rather selective memory.
It all depends what the conversation is. I'm glad that my girls had the chance to go to a much better school than my eight grades in one room. I'm romantic about farming, but that's because I don't have to get up at 4:30 to milk cows and then do another 12 hours of back breaking work before falling into bed for a few hours of sleep before all the same chores start again.
I miss the old bird covers that I could get to by walking or riding my bike, and later on in my Model A Ford. But now I have the jetliners. Old-timers never dreamed of hunting much more than an hour or so away from their own backyards--except for maybe a once-in-a-lifetime trip to some exotic spot like Maine or South Carolina.
I find it a little hard to believe that I never saw a Canada goose until I was about 17; now I have a couple of dozen in my pond almost all year long. And when I shot my first deer at age 11, local whitetails were scarce enough that all the successful hunters got their names in the paper. I guess I do miss the kind of adventure and excitement that goes with turning 11--the borrowed gun, hanging around with the grownups, Mom always worrying and Pop being somewhat surprised that I didn't get lost or fall in through the ice, since I was rather notorious for doing both with a fair amount of dimwitted frequency.
Since the time of my 11th year and my first hunting license, I have had my share of deer and Canadas and a lot of other fish and game adventures in places more exotic than our old woodlot, but few of these adventures were all that more honestly exciting--all things, including being 11, considered.
The good old days were good to me and I treasure them, but I don't miss them. They really weren't anything special, just the more or less normal excursions and outings of a rather typical country boy. I do dwell on the high spots when I have a captive audience, but there are no moments unique to me, only my personal places and private times.
To keep a balance, I don't miss the outhouse, the garden weeding, or mending stone walls. I don't miss waking up in midwinter before the kitchen stove was lit or having to go to church twice on Sundays, or cleaning chicken coops, or being terrified about catching polio or scarlet fever, or a few other similar horrors that are, thankfully, no longer with us. I don't miss having to work a churn, push a lawnmower, or carry water from the brook to the garden.
I do sometimes miss, as much for other little kids as for myself, sweet things like hay mows, sleigh rides behind horses, cutting bee trees, running trot lines for eels and perch, and maybe most of all, having a fine brook almost to myself and a very understanding series of dogs to explore it with me.
But, these are small things, meaningful to no one but myself. My daydreams were unambitious and common--catching a big bass or pickerel, having my own .22, enjoying a successful day now and then on the trapline, or having my father take pity on me and filling the kitchen woodbox while I dug for worms or went rabbit hunting.
What I do miss most--at the risk of being called cranky--is something I was brought up to take for granted: good manners. I suppose I ought to use the popular word--"sportsmanship"--but I think that a lot of people who ought to know better, and probably do, are confusing politeness with servility, or being "taken." I'm sorry to see this happening.
In what has come to be called the "good old days," when you went fishing or shooting with someone, you took turns, trying to give your pal the equal or the best of it, knowing that he would do the same for you. The phrase "taking turns" means a lot of things to me. I'd rather take turns with you in a duck blind than shoot the same duck you were looking at. I appreciate your willingness to let me run my dog a little more because it isn't as good as yours and needs experience. I'm delighted to row while you cast, or just wait and watch until you're finished with that special spot. I like knowing that you won't pull over on my side of a covey rise, so I can take my time and pick my shots the way I want to take them.
Taking turns is a bit more leisurely approach than we seem to favor today. It's being a bit less competitive and says more about why we're out there together in the first place.
A perceptive reader reminded me recently that much of today's writing about field sports--mainly hunting and fishing--is concerned with the importance of manners and conduct and ethics, as contrasted by sportswriters who harangue us with reports on which athletes make the most money and who ranks where at the local, national, and international levels. Does this mean that as a group hunters and fishermen have better manners? I leave that to you. But think what we would have (or not have) without such self-imposed and, I like to think, gratifying attitudes.
Taking turns is a way of being able to give someone something special--a few more minutes to fool around with a fish, another cast with a dog, a chance to see why he missed the last shot, or shot so well. I wish we'd get more competitive about seeing that our partner has a better day rather than concentrating on who has the bigger bag.
In the good old days, we seemed to have more time for one another. Maybe we're beginning to believe we don't have that kind of luxury anymore. I once ruined a pretty fair dog prospect by pushing him too hard and expecting too much. I've always been a bit ashamed of myself for that--and I hope I have never done the same thing to a friend. How easily a little greed or ego can turn us into petty tyrants.
Maybe the thought of taking turns--putting somebody ahead of yourself--is old-fashioned. But then again, as the kids like to say in somewhat different context--if it feels good, do it!
This story originally appeared in A Listening Walk...And Other Stories by Gene Hill.
Copyright (c) 1985 Gene Hill. All rights reserved.