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Of Mallards and Men (I love ya webfoots!)...cont.

Following that early introduction to duck hunting, my entire being became consumed by an
obsession for waterfowl. I lived and breathed and ate and slept ducks. I read every book
about waterfowl and waterfowling that I could find. When other young men hung up their
guns and took up girls at the end of each winter, I buried myself in taxidermy and art courses
to learn to paint the ducks and geese that I loved and to preserve my trophies. Under the
watchful eyes of "Press" Graham , "Pint" Eisemann, Jimmy Singleton and Lloyd Hall, I learned
to carve Decoys and to build layout, rollover and sneak boats. Single-handed, this insane
youth dug enough pit blinds along the Ohio River to hide half of Sherman's Army.

The Gaither household was about two miles from Ludlow High School. During duck season, I
would hunt along the river bank on the way to and from classes. An old hollow tree secreted
away my shotgun and a fishing rod during classroom hours. The rod was used to launch a big
muskie plug for hooking and retrieving any duck unlucky enough to stray into my shot string.
Other hunting and most fishing opportunities took second seat for years to those big birds
that arrived each December to winter in our river valleys. On weekends I would hunt with my
father and his friends or any one else who afforded the opportunity. Before the flight ducks
arrived, time was spent running a trap line and reading about exotic waterfowl that lived in far
away lands. Birds I hoped to pursue during my lifetime.

My mother blamed my father for my affliction. My father blamed the gods. My grand-mother
thought that something was wrong with a boy who spent his Winters hiding in a hole dug
into the river bank, the Springs stuffing more birds to stick on his already crowded walls and
Summers building boats that, "any fool can see isn't safe!" Most just allowed that it was just a
strange youthful affliction that I would soon outgrow, and consequently humuored me most
of the time.

Reaching adulthood, most of my family believed that my insatiable interest in waterfowl would
be replaced by an interest in the pretty Whitaker girl that they all seemed to notice and
mention much too often. I did date girls and later women, and eventually made that judge-
mental error we all fall victim to by wedding a young lady who soon learned to hate duck
hunting as much as I loved it.

Since 1953, I have built thousands of decoys and traded, borrowed, bought and lost or found
hundreds more. Thousands of dollars have been spent on boats and motors, guns, travel,
fees, licenses and blinds and leases. To quote my 95 year old aunt Virginia Hunnicutt, I have
been, "downright foolish!"