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Bob-bob White: the distinct and affirmative call of the Bobwhite — a proclamation of wildness — is an important part of my growing up years in rural North Carolina. I don’t hear it often these days.
My father was a hunter of this fine bird. For this, he had two well-trained dogs, a pointer and a setter. Though it was my job to feed them in their fenced lot, I was forbidden to pet them in any way. They were bird dogs to be fed and cared for specifically for those autumn months when my father went hunting. The Bobwhite, or quail, were referred to simply as birds during the hunting season.
My mother lightly floured the birds he killed and fried them in a cast iron skillet to a point of perfection; they were crusty on the outside, moist on the inside. The birds were always served with rice and gravy and often accompanied with green beans cooked with com, both canned by my mother during the summer. Those autumn suppers were splendid.
Now, decades later, I find myself trying to imagine my father in a world without birds.
He could imitate their calls perfectly. He had knowledge and respect for Bobwhites even as he shot them through carefully orchestrated, lawabiding, hours in the field with his dogs. I am glad he is not around to mourn the disappearance of quail.
I learned early that shooting quail with a gun brought no pleasure for me. Hunting with a camera was another matter. My focus on bringing in the birds was different from that of my father but no less rewarding.
Much of the Northern
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