Beech Nut Still In His Mouth: An Evangeline Parish Ex-Pat Remembers Squirrel Day of His Youth

 

From my younger years in the 70’s, I remember with distinct clarity, the palpable excitement in the air as the opening day of Louisiana squirrel season approached. Long before Facebook and Twitter, or Budget day, men and boys at schools, stores, and bars, busily chatted of special spots, careful not to reveal exact locations, but trying to figure out locations others were speaking of.  As the season neared, we spent hours in the woods looking for cuttings, where squirrels were feeding, “calling” spots, which gave unofficial stake to a found bevy of squirrel activity. More hours putting thought into, and discussing the “best” hunting clothes and shells, and packing them.

The day before the season opened, the loaded pickups and campers headed to the woods. Supper eaten around the fire, men drinking beer and whiskey, boys overdosing on pop and messing with the fire, anxiously asking each other, “so where’re you going tomorrow?” It was hard to sleep that night, thinking about the next morning, and through the tipsy men’s snoring.
The next morning came with a wave of excitement, not even overtaken by presents under the tree at Christmas. Men chuckled at the boys, who were afraid to get out too late and miss the first movement, and gave them last minute advice. “Move your eyes, not your head, even if a mosquito bites you”. “Listen for the whoosh of the branch that a squirrel jumped on, or the scrape of claws on bark”. “Don’t get impatient and move too soon.”
I remember feeling hurried during the trek through the woods by flashlight, to the prescouted spot of known squirrel activity. “What if it gets light earlier today”. I remember feeling even more hurried as I tried in the dark to pick a sitting spot with the best view of the cutting tree, sometimes sitting at several spots. The whole affair climaxed as first light began to filter through the trees, and tension built as the time neared for gray squirrels to begin moving. I remember being a bit mad when I heard shots before I saw something, worried someone was getting ahead of me, and maybe I picked the wrong spot. Then….that telltale whoosh of a branch with the jumping weight of a squirrel in the still air. My heart would race so much I had to fumble for the safety of my shot gun.
There he is, looking like a thin string flying along the branches in the dim light! Gun comes to shoulder, but he’s gone, bitter disappointment and trembling hands, the gun comes down. There he is again! Gun comes up, but he’s running and zig zagging too fast to find at the end of the barrel. Then gone again. Man, I’ll never kill one today. Then, there he is, shaking the end of the big beech tree I found the cuttings under. A trembling aim, and BOOM! And…..nothing. Oh, man…how did I miss. I won’t cry, but I sure want to. Then, thump, thump, POOF!, The squirrel finally falls, hitting branches on the way down to that satisfying thump on the ground.
I should wait to see if there’s more, but I can’t help but run over to where I think he fell. There he is, with pretty soft fur, beech nut still in his mouth. I pick him up and admire him for a few minutes, noticing all the little ticks on him, before sliding him in my bag. The shooting of other hunters reminds me I need to get going if we’re gonna be eating brown gravy tonight, so I move off, constantly feeling behind me to make sure he’s still in the bag.
Getting back to camp after the squirrels quit moving, we each felt the need to discuss, in complete detail the full sequence of events that lead up to each squirrel seen, complete with dramatizations. Then, that night, there was somewhat of a blissful feeling, eating squirrel and brown gravy, cooked by master chefs. I remember feeling sorry for the women folk who had nothing better to do than go shopping.


Bryan LaFleur, grew up in L'anse Grise, a suburb of Mamou, La. He joined the Marine Corps right after high school, which had a huge and long lasting impact on him. After enlistment, he ended up in NE Texas, though he is not sure how. He has reconnected with his Cajun cultural roots in SW Louisiana through the language and music with the help of his parents and friends. Bryan is an artist who makes incredibly beautiful Cajun Accordions (check out L'Anse Grise Accordions) and is also fluent in Franglais, Cajun French and Korean. Who knew?! Bryan is a fireman in the Dallas metroplex, and, he says, is lovin' it. (via Facebook)

The author with some another catchs, in Lanse Grise 1980 (via B. Lafleur, Facebook)