“Sharing” will end next Saturday, 1/31. It has been a valuable experience for me. I find that I remembered more than I thought I would and less than I wanted to. For one thing, I wish I could remember the names of all the fellows who took me hunting for my first and only time. Somebody loaned me the 20-gauge, single-shot shotgun and I managed, miraculously, to get a pheasant. As I cleaned the bird to ready it for Jean to cook, I can still see the beautiful feathers up close and personal. (They are magnificent birds!) It was, I think, in the summer of 1955 or 56. I seem to recall that one of the best pals (contemporary) I ever had, George Killinger, was along. (I do know that he SHOULD HAVE BEEN.)
I couldn’t help but recollect the voices yelling to me that it was “Yours, Jim…it’s all yours,” or something to that effect. Sort of sounded like the Captain on the intercom when he yelled, “NOT OURS, Big Dog… NOT OURS, CEASE FIRE!” (Or something to that effect) when I almost shot down one of our own bombers in 1944.)
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