Those of you that read this regular series know that I am from Hackett, Arkansas, just a mile or so from the Oklahoma border, and just about 10 miles south of the Arkansas River. It was a rural sort of place that did not particularly appreciate education, and just zoom onto my previous posts to understand a bit about it.
This actually occurred after the former Mrs. Translator and I had married and moved away, but it still is quite a story. Dad was an avid hunter, mainly upland birds, bobwhite quail in particular. Our traditional Christmas breakfast, after the gifts were opened, was fried quail, biscuits, gravy, and grits. Dad always fried the quail and my mum did everything else.
In western Arkansas there were lots of quail except in the rare year that was either really bad as far as the weather goes or if a disease outbreak had occurred. In my 20 years of living at home and decades afterwards, there were always quail for Christmas breakfast. In scarce years Dad would freeze enough to assure that there were plenty for Christmas morning.
Dad, in addition to being a deadeye shot, was also a gunsmith. He also had impressive woodworking skills and often would buy gunstock blanks of fine American black walnut and create his own gunstocks.