Cory Jackson
New member
Hey folks,
I used to write articles for my small town paper and figured that maybe this one I wrote might resonate with one or two of you and a piece of your gear. It's not up to par with some of stories I've seen written here, but it's mine
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As a sentimental person, there was a moment of fleeting sadness as I ripped open the bag and was overwhelmed by the smell of a new shirt. I looked it over and the tag proclaimed it did everything a duck hunter could desire besides set out the decoys. The old long sleeve tee really had nothing on this marvel of modern day clothing technology (which has buttons, making it suitable for formal occasions) besides 5 seasons of memories.
When I bought the long sleeve tee in 2011, I duck hunted, but I wasn't yet a duck hunter (a big difference). Most of what I knew about it was that it was priced right (cheap & on sale) and in a wetlands pattern. In all honesty, it was a horrible shirt. There's likely a case or two of shells out there that fell out of my breast pocket 3 at a time every time I leaned over. It was the thinnest cotton that mosquitos could bite through with ease, and being cotton, forget about drying it by hanging it in a tree, you needed a dryer on high for 90 minutes.
It paid it's dues though.
I wore that shirt every single time I left my house with waterfowling on my mind (over 177 times, exact is unknown to a missing journal) as either a base, middle or top layer depending on the temperatures.
In that shirt I called in a flock of geese so big and from so far away that local 'fowling legend (who's status I can only hope to someday attain, call him the Bobby Orr of Atikokan waterfowling) Weatherby stopped me at the diner and said it was a ?privilege? to witness it.
That shirt taught me how to hand wash laundry because it was ?too filthy? to go in the washer with the rest of my family's clothes.
In that shirt I cleanly folded two teal with one shot using my Ithaca 37 in 16 bore.
Wearing that shirt I finished every season with my last shot dropping a bird, which incidentally have been some of my furthest (and luckiest) shots.
That shirt was with me when I learned to row because I'd stupidly froze my outboard (along with some choice curse words).
I've pushed my limits in that shirt; dragging a canoe in waist deep water because the whitecaps had already flipped it once once.
The shirt was also with me when I learned sometimes it's okay to say ?That's enough? and back out of a hunt due to weather and/or circumstances. Taking a half hour to break through ice and only making it 30 yards sticks out in my mind.
In that shirt, I saw both my parents shoot their first goose.
That shirt saw me take my first bird dog on a walk in the lull in the action and he bounded into a patch of cattails and came out with a Mallard duck in his mouth (unshot by any of us)
I was wearing that shirt the first time I drank camp coffee and when I asked the Old Man about the grounds, he looked over the rim of his cup and grunted, ?The only filter you need is your teeth? (I was also wearing it when I purchased a percolator when I got home from that trip.)
That shirt jump shot Smiling Mallards in Manitoba, folded Black Ducks in the rice of my favourite spots and hunted Canada Geese out of layout blinds in South Western Ontario.
I didn't take Uncle Percy's subtle (for him) hint last year when he gave me two camoflauge shirts for my birthday. However, in Manitoba last fall when one of the guys snickered about my shirt being more holes than camo and I threw up my arms in disgust, a rip went from my shoulder to nearly my spine. Unlike some people, I know a losing cause when I see one. I figured it would've been bad luck to switch shirts halfway through the season and I managed to limp it through and finish the season.
With great regret and care, I put it on a hanger and stuck it in my closet. I doubt it will welcome another sunrise from the blind or see a flock of Northern Bluebills shoot by close enough to nearly deafen me with their roaring wings. I do it with the hope, no, surety that when they open up the Cory The Cowboy's Heritage Museum that the future caretaker will thank me for my thoughtfulness.
-----
Cory
I used to write articles for my small town paper and figured that maybe this one I wrote might resonate with one or two of you and a piece of your gear. It's not up to par with some of stories I've seen written here, but it's mine
-----
As a sentimental person, there was a moment of fleeting sadness as I ripped open the bag and was overwhelmed by the smell of a new shirt. I looked it over and the tag proclaimed it did everything a duck hunter could desire besides set out the decoys. The old long sleeve tee really had nothing on this marvel of modern day clothing technology (which has buttons, making it suitable for formal occasions) besides 5 seasons of memories.
When I bought the long sleeve tee in 2011, I duck hunted, but I wasn't yet a duck hunter (a big difference). Most of what I knew about it was that it was priced right (cheap & on sale) and in a wetlands pattern. In all honesty, it was a horrible shirt. There's likely a case or two of shells out there that fell out of my breast pocket 3 at a time every time I leaned over. It was the thinnest cotton that mosquitos could bite through with ease, and being cotton, forget about drying it by hanging it in a tree, you needed a dryer on high for 90 minutes.
It paid it's dues though.
I wore that shirt every single time I left my house with waterfowling on my mind (over 177 times, exact is unknown to a missing journal) as either a base, middle or top layer depending on the temperatures.
In that shirt I called in a flock of geese so big and from so far away that local 'fowling legend (who's status I can only hope to someday attain, call him the Bobby Orr of Atikokan waterfowling) Weatherby stopped me at the diner and said it was a ?privilege? to witness it.
That shirt taught me how to hand wash laundry because it was ?too filthy? to go in the washer with the rest of my family's clothes.
In that shirt I cleanly folded two teal with one shot using my Ithaca 37 in 16 bore.
Wearing that shirt I finished every season with my last shot dropping a bird, which incidentally have been some of my furthest (and luckiest) shots.
That shirt was with me when I learned to row because I'd stupidly froze my outboard (along with some choice curse words).
I've pushed my limits in that shirt; dragging a canoe in waist deep water because the whitecaps had already flipped it once once.
The shirt was also with me when I learned sometimes it's okay to say ?That's enough? and back out of a hunt due to weather and/or circumstances. Taking a half hour to break through ice and only making it 30 yards sticks out in my mind.
In that shirt, I saw both my parents shoot their first goose.
That shirt saw me take my first bird dog on a walk in the lull in the action and he bounded into a patch of cattails and came out with a Mallard duck in his mouth (unshot by any of us)
I was wearing that shirt the first time I drank camp coffee and when I asked the Old Man about the grounds, he looked over the rim of his cup and grunted, ?The only filter you need is your teeth? (I was also wearing it when I purchased a percolator when I got home from that trip.)
That shirt jump shot Smiling Mallards in Manitoba, folded Black Ducks in the rice of my favourite spots and hunted Canada Geese out of layout blinds in South Western Ontario.
I didn't take Uncle Percy's subtle (for him) hint last year when he gave me two camoflauge shirts for my birthday. However, in Manitoba last fall when one of the guys snickered about my shirt being more holes than camo and I threw up my arms in disgust, a rip went from my shoulder to nearly my spine. Unlike some people, I know a losing cause when I see one. I figured it would've been bad luck to switch shirts halfway through the season and I managed to limp it through and finish the season.
With great regret and care, I put it on a hanger and stuck it in my closet. I doubt it will welcome another sunrise from the blind or see a flock of Northern Bluebills shoot by close enough to nearly deafen me with their roaring wings. I do it with the hope, no, surety that when they open up the Cory The Cowboy's Heritage Museum that the future caretaker will thank me for my thoughtfulness.
-----
Cory
