"Times Tables"

When I was in second grade, well, at least I think it was second grade I learned my multiplication tables.

I believe this must have been in the latter half of the school year, because my dad and grandpa were always bribing me with some sort of reward if I did something good in school.

For instance, one time I got two dollars for helping pick Okra in the garden. I hated the Okra, because those little stickers were impossible to get out and Gaga, that's my grandma, she insisted on using monkey blood or merthiolate any time we had a scrape or open wound. Monkey blood, as we called it burned like fire when she put it on, and it always stained the skin like blood.

But anyway, back to the multiplication tables. I think it had to be just before spring turkey season in Oklahoma when we were working on our "times tables," because I was promised if I learned my times tables I could shoot papa's shotgun, papa was my grandpa.

His shotgun was special made, with intricate carvings of ducks and pheasants on the sides of the metal parts. It was also a light weight semi automatic shotgun, made by Ithaca. Momma and daddy bought it for papa as a gift after he helped build their new house.

I finally learned my times tables, just before turkey season opened.

I will never forget papa, daddy and me got up way before daylight and headed south. We went way down in the Kiamichis and turned into the woods on the Cucumber creek road.

Once on the Cucumber creek road we would stop every so often and dad would blow the hoot owl call, slam the truck door or cough real loud. Sometimes a turkey would gobble at only one noise, all three, or as this morning was going not gobble at all.

It was partly cloudy and just a little breezy, but not so bad you couldn't hear if a turkey gobbled fairly close by. I think this morning the turkeys must have had a rough night, because they sure weren't making any noise.

About mid morning dad and papa finally decided it was time for me to shoot the turkey gun. I tried to hold it up, but it was long and to heavy, so dad stuck the barrel in the fork of a persimmon tree and told me to hold on to it real tight and squeeze the trigger. Kaboom, and I went rolling backwards.

The kick of the number four magnum in that ultralight twelve gauge knocked me smooth over backwards, knocked the air out of me and scared me to death.

I was gasping for air, crying and dad was showing signs of being scared as well, which didn't do much to calm me any at all.

He nervously asked my grandpa if he had swapped out the number fours for a low brass number eight, which wouldn't have kicked nearly so hard. Papa said no, he didn't think about swapping out for a number eight.

A couple swigs from a Pepsi and a honey bun and I was good to go. I will never forget dad saying we were way to far from a hospital to be doing such foolish things as that.

The next year, with a different one of dad's hunting and fishing buddies I would finally get my revenge on old Tom turkey, but that's a story for another time.

I've always warned my family when we were way out in the woods to be extra careful, because it's a long ways to the hospital.

I inherited that special made shotgun and more importantly the stories that accompany it.

I'm still undecided on which life lesson was more important, learning my times tables or learning to be careful in the back country.