Jon Yenulonis
Well-known member
While I was growing up, too young to hunt yet, my father was a hunting machine. I remember I helping him paint old decoys, prepare for the hunts in the cold and then patiently waiting at home for him to return when he would head out with his buddies. Duck hunting was his favorite, and, I have no doubt, that’s where my love of the sport came from. Deer hunting was a close second. He used to hunt in Pennsylvania, Indiana, Ohio and a few times in West Virginia. In about 1966 or 67, I was six or seven at the time, he shot an absolute Monster of a buck in Indiana. As the story goes, this buck had about twenty-two countable points on his head. I never heard what it scored, but even to this day, the old taxidermist that preserved the shoulder mount remembers the deer.
Around the time I reached nine or ten, something happened in his life that dramatically changed his whole being. All I remember is that he spent most of a summer in the hospital, only to return a changed man. To this day, I never really heard exactly what happened.
Whatever it was, he pretty much gave up hunting after that. He still enjoyed shooting and plinking however, and we emptied many pounds of brass in my home aged years. .22s, 30-30s, .243, several different caliber handguns and a couple12 ga. shotguns.
I started officially hunting when I was eleven years old. I used my Grandfather’s old 12 gauge hammer gun. Kicked like a mule and patterned way too tight, even with the old low brass shells. I was able to tag along with several of his old hunting buddies. I even managed to harvest a few wabbits and bushytails back then. In the spring of my thirteenth year, my Father, being an astute Marlin Firearms fan, bought a brand new Marlin model #120, Magnum 12 gauge, pump shotgun. After shooting it a few times, we both absolutely fell in love with the piece. It was a rather large, heavy gun, but me being a little big and tough for my age, handled it just fine. When fall came, my Dad offered to sell it to me for about half of what he paid. Seems like I forked over around $75 of my hard earned, farm hand money.
That gun and I became inseparable. I shot my first Ducks with it that fall. I took a pair of Green winged Teal out of a small flock that attempted to settle in amongst my pair of hand carved Blue wing Teal that I was able to scratch out of some scrap 1X and 2X lumber. I still have them as a matter of fact.
Over the next twenty or so years, I lost count of all the game I harvested with that old slide trombone. Mostly winged animals. Quail, Grouse, and of course-Ducks and Geese. I was about thirty or thirty-five when I figured I had just about worn the old gun out. Empties started sticking in the chamber, wood was bare and cracked here and there from use, and the action became loose and sloppy. With my wife’s permission, I went out and shopped around until I found my present piece. I ended up with what I now shoot, an 11-87 Premier, Light Contour, 12 gauge. Love the gun. (Coincidently, my Father’s favorite fowling piece was an original Remington model 1100). Sometime soon after that, I returned, for free of course, the ‘ole pump gun to my father. He eventually sold it or traded it, I’m not sure.
Over the years, the ‘ole Pump Gun came up in conversation often when Dad and I talked. With me always saying how much I remembered and loved the gun, he saying he wished he never sold it tom me, (I always figured in jest).
On Saturday, we buried my Father next to Mom, under a big, shady maple tree. He finally left us after a relatively short and ugly battle with the “Big-C”. On the eve of the service, my Sister sent me a text message saying she had something to give me the next morning. Sure enough, early the next morning, she approached me before the service and said she had something for me, and that I had to get it from her car. At that moment, I was a little busy, so my Son offered to go in my stead. My Son said when he got to her car her husband opened the trunk, reached in, pulled out and handed him a shotgun. He put it in my truck, hidden under the rear seat. Being somewhat pre-occupied, I didn’t realize exactly what happened until a little later. When we got back home, my Son remembered to pull it out from under the seat. He reached in and pulled out a Marlin, model #120 Magnum Pump Shotgun in nearly new condition, just like the one I had growing up. Even though this one is in a lot better shape than the one I gave up years ago, it still fit me and felt the same when I shouldered it for the first time. It seems that my ‘Ole Dad came across this gun a few years ago and jumped on the opportunity to purchase it from the owner. He then gave it to my sister with the promise to keep it a secret, and that upon this dreadful day, she was to hand it off to me. To say I was speechless is a gross understatement. Before I stood it up “next to” the gun cabinet, I had to spend a few moments wiping the tears from the stock and action.
Thanks for letting me ramble, this seemed like a good place to share…
Jon
Around the time I reached nine or ten, something happened in his life that dramatically changed his whole being. All I remember is that he spent most of a summer in the hospital, only to return a changed man. To this day, I never really heard exactly what happened.
Whatever it was, he pretty much gave up hunting after that. He still enjoyed shooting and plinking however, and we emptied many pounds of brass in my home aged years. .22s, 30-30s, .243, several different caliber handguns and a couple12 ga. shotguns.
I started officially hunting when I was eleven years old. I used my Grandfather’s old 12 gauge hammer gun. Kicked like a mule and patterned way too tight, even with the old low brass shells. I was able to tag along with several of his old hunting buddies. I even managed to harvest a few wabbits and bushytails back then. In the spring of my thirteenth year, my Father, being an astute Marlin Firearms fan, bought a brand new Marlin model #120, Magnum 12 gauge, pump shotgun. After shooting it a few times, we both absolutely fell in love with the piece. It was a rather large, heavy gun, but me being a little big and tough for my age, handled it just fine. When fall came, my Dad offered to sell it to me for about half of what he paid. Seems like I forked over around $75 of my hard earned, farm hand money.
That gun and I became inseparable. I shot my first Ducks with it that fall. I took a pair of Green winged Teal out of a small flock that attempted to settle in amongst my pair of hand carved Blue wing Teal that I was able to scratch out of some scrap 1X and 2X lumber. I still have them as a matter of fact.
Over the next twenty or so years, I lost count of all the game I harvested with that old slide trombone. Mostly winged animals. Quail, Grouse, and of course-Ducks and Geese. I was about thirty or thirty-five when I figured I had just about worn the old gun out. Empties started sticking in the chamber, wood was bare and cracked here and there from use, and the action became loose and sloppy. With my wife’s permission, I went out and shopped around until I found my present piece. I ended up with what I now shoot, an 11-87 Premier, Light Contour, 12 gauge. Love the gun. (Coincidently, my Father’s favorite fowling piece was an original Remington model 1100). Sometime soon after that, I returned, for free of course, the ‘ole pump gun to my father. He eventually sold it or traded it, I’m not sure.
Over the years, the ‘ole Pump Gun came up in conversation often when Dad and I talked. With me always saying how much I remembered and loved the gun, he saying he wished he never sold it tom me, (I always figured in jest).
On Saturday, we buried my Father next to Mom, under a big, shady maple tree. He finally left us after a relatively short and ugly battle with the “Big-C”. On the eve of the service, my Sister sent me a text message saying she had something to give me the next morning. Sure enough, early the next morning, she approached me before the service and said she had something for me, and that I had to get it from her car. At that moment, I was a little busy, so my Son offered to go in my stead. My Son said when he got to her car her husband opened the trunk, reached in, pulled out and handed him a shotgun. He put it in my truck, hidden under the rear seat. Being somewhat pre-occupied, I didn’t realize exactly what happened until a little later. When we got back home, my Son remembered to pull it out from under the seat. He reached in and pulled out a Marlin, model #120 Magnum Pump Shotgun in nearly new condition, just like the one I had growing up. Even though this one is in a lot better shape than the one I gave up years ago, it still fit me and felt the same when I shouldered it for the first time. It seems that my ‘Ole Dad came across this gun a few years ago and jumped on the opportunity to purchase it from the owner. He then gave it to my sister with the promise to keep it a secret, and that upon this dreadful day, she was to hand it off to me. To say I was speechless is a gross understatement. Before I stood it up “next to” the gun cabinet, I had to spend a few moments wiping the tears from the stock and action.
Thanks for letting me ramble, this seemed like a good place to share…
Jon
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