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CHAPTER TEN
The vacation period, after the third year of gymnasium, at the age of twelve, is the one more clearly fixed in my memory. Perhaps it is due to the fact that, for the first time, I was restricted from associating with my old pals in the town. Being then deemed a full fledged student, my dignity had to be guarded and no more of the rough games and childish pastimes permitted.
My older brother had passed away and, with the restriction imposed on me, I felt terribly alone. The curbing of innocent pleasure hurt my natural sensitiveness. I became morose and disagreeable.
It was decided that our whole family spend the summer on one of our two farms nearer to town. The first day I was more lonesome than ever and that evening, before supper, I disappeared in the woods and stayed out till very late, brooding over what I considered an unfair and undeserved punishment. The night was bitterly cold, as summer nights usually are in the mountains, and I walked back to the farm, sleepy and hungry. A good hot meal followed by a deep slumber put me in a better mood. My mother and father handled me with tact, knowing that it would have been unwise to scold me I listened to reason; but only after I was informed that one of my mother’s uncles, whom I revered, was coming to stay with us.
Zio Giuseppe (Uncle Joe) was in his late fifties, tall, slender, with Bourbonian grey whiskers, a man of very modest means, but happy as a lark. He was one of those good souls everyone is attracted to, because of their innate simplicity and kindness. His hobby was hunting, which was an excuse for his tireless, roaming around, as fishing is the alibi for those who love to day-dream on the bank of a river, holding a rod and a pipe. I had followed Uncle Joe on many of his tramps. He carried a long, one-barrel shotgun, which was loaded from the muzzle, an old fashioned powder horn and all the paraphernalia, but never looked for game. He was an interesting story teller.
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Uncle Joe’s arrival made my life happy again. We started for the woods early next morning. He allowed me to carry his gun by a strap running across my chest and it felt as light as feather. I saw a bird lazily perched on the top of a tree and asked Uncle Joe to let me take a shot. He said the gun was too heavy and it might kick me back; but he was anxious to please me and after cautious maneuvering. I was aiming at the apathetic bird and pulling the trigger. A red flash, a terrific boom and a black cloud of smoke which obscured my vision. In the next instant, the bird was dropping to the ground and I was jumping at Uncle Joe’s neck, overjoyed by the thrill of this first hunting adventure. From then on, I was the hunter and my uncle the escort. Years later, nearing death, Uncle Joe legated his gun to me, as one of his most precious possessions, and I cherished the gift. The following summer, my father gave me the use of his double-barreled small gauge gun, which could be loaded with shells. In my waking hours I was never separated from that gun.
It would take a long chapter to recount my hunting experiences, including the stirring pursuits of wild boars in a national forest near my town, allowed twice a year by special government license.
I shall limit myself to one little story which fascinates my grandson Tony and who insists on having it repeated at every opportunity. I am writing it for him as well as for the other members of our young flock. I hope they will be amused.
Let me first give the background. It was midsummer of f 1899. I was fourteen years old. We were spending August on the same farm. It was the month of harvest, activity and enjoyment. After a final ripening under the canicular sun, the sheaves of platinum headed wheat were loaded on ox carts and hauled to a large plateau, opposite the farm house. There the threshing began by a team of oxen, dragging a millstone over the sheaves. A number of helpers, with long forks, loosened the bundles and shoved forward the ones that had escaped the grinding. The mashed whole would be pitchforked into the air, with snappy rhythmic swings of many hands. Shimmering clouds of fine, golden dust followed in consecutive volleys. The gentle summer breezes carried the chaff to one side, while the wheat flowed down in a steady, swishing cascade. A final screening, with large sieves, completed the operation and the wheat was put away in sacks. Then the festivities began with eating, drinking and dancing to the tune of bagpipes, tambourines and accordions. Nobody was ever tired!
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Now, here is the story. On a slope, below the farm buildings, there was a pear orchard bearing delicious fruit. One morning, I noticed that every pear on the ground had been freshly dented as with a four pronged knife. They were fox bites. Foxes are known to have a sweet tooth for pears and grapes, venturing out just before dusk. I didn’t understand why the prowler didn’t consume whole pears, instead of half eating everyone of them. It seemed like sheer viciousness and I decided to ambush the trespasser.
There was a large oak tree with dense foliage, overlooking the pear orchard. It was an ideal sniping post. In the afternoon, I removed all the bitten pears and shook down a fresh crop, as foxes don’t seem to bite on the same fruit twice.
When the sun was sinking behind the western hills, I mounted the oak tree with my double barrel gun. Having found a comfortable spot in a well hidden crutch, I got set for my vigil. But before long, gnats and mosquitoes started to buzz around, needling my hands and face. Any motion on my part might have been noticed by the waiting fox and I stood the torture, until it became unbearable. I jumped down from the tree and went home.
Next morning I again found all the pears fox-bitten. In the afternoon, I gathered them and provided a new supply. At the appoint time, after saturating my hands and face with wet salt, I again mounted the tree and waited. The stinging insects droned, alighted on my nose and ears, recoiled, came again, backed away and finally resolved that my skin was too salty and left me in peace. Oh, what a relief! The sun was setting, the shadows were lengthening, cow bells were dangling, dogs growling, chicken cackling.
I was crouched in the oak tree, as still as one of its branches. Only my eyes rolled around slowly, encompassing the ground where the bait was set. Nothing happened for a long time and my eyes were feeling the strain. But I didn’t give up hope. All at once, about two hundred feet away, at the edge of a furrow, I see a slight motion. It looks like a dry leaf or a chipmunk. I wait. The brownish object moves forward, it stops; it moves forward again and it stops again. Instead of one, I see two vibrating things and I know the are animal’s ears. This motion I describe to Tony by twiddling my index and medium fingers, in V shape. Tony is electrified in expectation as I was on the oak tree! The…
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…quivering ears come nearer and I see a small triangular head, sniffing the air. My heart drums at my ribs. The luxuriant back of a fox is in full view. Very slowly, I lower my right cheek to the breechblock. The vision is perfect, but I want to be certain of the distance. The fox seems reassured, crawls out of the furrow and stalks in the direction fo the first batch of amber and scarlet pears. This is it. Any slip now will ruin the whole plan of action. At the end of the gun I see the side of the golden brown fox, from its pointed nose to its bushy tail; the target is full, I can’t miss. I squeeze the trigger; a blast, a pall of smoke and the quarry is wiggling on the ground. I wait to see if a second shot is necessary, but it is not.
With a victory cry I leap to the ground, I rush downhill to the spot where the fox lays bleeding from its right shoulder. I stand there in ecstasy. I try to pick up the victim, but it is quite heavy. I start to drag it when our farm foreman runs down clapping and shouting. He gives me a vise-like handshake, throws the still bleeding fox on his back and we march to the waiting crowd that has stopped threshing and gleefully examines the sleek beat, which had probably eluded many hunters and trappers. When the next day, our farm cook prepares a fox stew, the canine small is simply nauseating. An inglorious end!!
(Photo)
Faded print our farmhouse living quarters and century-old walnut tree, under which summer meals were often enjoyed.
Next: Chapter 11
