The Thursday Ramble: Pheasants

This pheasant was at the Abbotsbury Swannery, near Weymouth in England. They are such pretty birds, this one was surprisingly at ease around the crowd of people. Obviously it felt safe and cared for. 

Pheasants played a role in my childhood. My grandfather was raised in poverty. Hunting was something he learned to do as a teen, and was very good at it. Ammunition cost money, and he was the a good shot, and the family relied on him to help put food on the table.  Interestingly he stumbled upon his first honeybees while hunting, a swarm in a hollow tree. A neighbor showed him how to harvest the honey and a lifelong relationship with bees was formed. 

Back to the pheasants. He enjoyed hunting game birds, pheasant and partridge. He had stopped hunting rabbits and squirrels by the time I was born (the season was later in the fall, and they were a lot of effort.) My father hunted a little, but didn't really enjoy it. My oldest brother enjoyed hunting, but his undiagnosed ADHD made it a challenge. My grandfather lived for the October small game season each year. 

Pheasants have very distinctive tail feather. My grandfather would save the best of the tail feathers for the grandkids.  

Even through World War II, the opening of the small game hunting season was the one day of the year, that he took off. He told his boss at Ford that he would be taking that day off, the boss said, "You can't do that!" He said, "watch me!" When he returned to work the job was still there.  

He died in the fall of 1976. His health had been declining for two or three years. He had vascular dementia. The last year or so at home was a challenge. He was easily disoriented, couldn't be left alone and when he slept he had recurring bad dreams of being abandoned naked in a wheat field. My grandmother and I cared for him at home. He had prostate surgery in the late summer, and only returned home for one night, spending his last couple of months in skilled nursing care. He died of a heart attack, in the middle of lunch one fall day. 

His funeral was a bright clear and cool October day. The kind of a day he loved. As we stood by the graveside, I could hear hunting dogs and shotguns in the distance. I checked the date, it was the opening day of the pheasant hunting season.