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for me, the ejector spring was weak or broken, or I would probably have gotten smacked between the eyes with the spent shell.
As I told you once before, the shells for that 12 gauge came from my Dad, often in the morning, before he went to work. Now I know there was not a strict accounting for every shell. But I fully realized that if there were too many spent shells, and nothing for the table, my source of ammunition was going to dry up. Fair is fair. That incentive made me a pretty good squirrel hunter, and the lessons I learned from that still serve fairly well today.
Last Monday, I walked into the woods with my bolt action .22 rifle. The first three times that little Remington barked, I had three squirrels. The last three times it fired, I had my limit, and I came home. I will primarily omit what happened in between those series of shots, to save myself some personal embarrassment. But I will tell you it involved a very tall hickory tree, a squirrel that was throwing down cuttings on my head, and several missed opportunities ... and several just plain misses. But, in the field, you know you will never be completely successful, and you try to learn from your mistakes. I am still learning.
The final chapter of this story is that the combread, fried apples, brown broth gravy, and fried squirrel kept a smile on my face for about three days. There are all
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