Harvest of Memories: Grandpa and the Pup

By Phillip Sinclair Hill

Left without a father at only three years of age, a young pup of a boy finds hope in a caring grandfather. Time and patience are needed to train such a young mutt as the pup grows and tries to find his place in the great outdoors. His true adventures begin where a father is removed and the teacher, mentor, and godly figure steps in. This all from a higher power who already knows the path He has designed. Follow along as a wild-eyed little boy becomes a man and ventures out on his own as he explores fields and streams of yesterday. The hunting and fishing trips all come with lessons and set a course that will lead him home one day.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781635256895

Book preview

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Harvest of Memories

Grandpa and the Pup

By

Phillip Sinclair Hill

ISBN 978-1-63525-688-8 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63525-689-5 (Digital)

Copyright © 2017 by Phillip Sinclair Hill

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.

296 Chestnut Street

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

I would like to thank all land owners who graciously allowed me to hunt and fish on their properties.

Illustrations provided by Artist

Shannon Forbis

Dedication

This book is dedicated to grandpa, George Luke Sinclair, 1902-1977. His endless dedication to the Lord, me as an upcoming outdoorsman, and all those who he came in contact with, will forever be remembered. He was a quiet, humble little man who looked after his fellow men as if they were his own family. His love of God’s creation was second to none and its wonders never ceased to amaze him with each outing. His adventures and good deeds could fill a book by itself. Here in these pages is but a few samplings of my adventures with and without him. All stories here are true.

My hope is that you too may find the peace that can only be found in God and His son Jesus Christ; and enjoy the great outdoors He created, to the fullest extent, just as I have.

May God bless each and every reader as you follow me into the great outdoors. My prayer is that you can find the fullness, success, and contentment that I have with each outing.

Phillip Sinclair Hill

Grandpa and the Pup

Grandpa was the eternal optimist when it came to hunting and fishing. Each day was a dream world of slipping away from his and grandma’s country store and roaming the woods or fishing a neighbor’s pond. All land and ponds were at his disposal due to his care for each person in his small mountain community. His generosity when others were in need gave him a reputation of a man who truly cared for his fellow man. During the Great Depression, he provided food for those less fortunate from his store, with only a promise from each that they would pay when times get better. My grandmother told me after his passing that he never lost a single penny, as all had eventually came back and paid their tab without any pressure from him. I’m sure his faithful tithing to his little mountain church played a major role in this.

Grandpa had only two children, two daughters, my mother being one of them. This left him little hope of a young partner to explore with him and share all he had learned and had to share. That was about to change.

My dad was a hardworking man who prayed like no other, hunted when time allowed, and provided all he could for his little family. This hard work ended up pointing him towards heaven much sooner than most at only thirty-four years of age. My mother remarried some years later and provided me with two younger sisters, for a total of four. This too plays a part in my name and the trails that lay ahead.

Stepdad was a great substitute dad but was on the road for work most of the time and had little time to hunt as he did as a youngster.

Grandpa now had an apprentice to share his love of the outdoors with since I was in such great need of a teacher. In steps the Pup.

I spent each summer with my grandparents and all days that I could on winter breaks from school. We fished every chance we could in the summer and hunted every day I spent with them in the winter. Each outdoor session taught me the way of the woods and the art of fishing, all seasoned with Godly morals and lessons that would carry me through life.

My two younger sisters would often tag along on my self-guided adventures back in central North Carolina since their dad was working much of the time. One went on to raise a wonderful family in Texas, the other in Florida. Ironically, the oldest little sister—a great outdoors woman herself—could not pronounce my name when growing up. Phillip came out Pup, thus the name stuck. I knew this little girl would someday be a hunter when she kept nosing around in my shotgun shells each time I turned my back. She’d often be on my heels when I grabbed my hunting coat and I’d see that look in her eyes that all hunters have. It’s still there today at the slightest hint of a hunt.

Grandpa now had a loyal pup by his side in every sense of the word. There was no river too deep or mountain too high for us to explore. There was a rod or gun in our hands with each outing, just like in the old west days. No little boy ever had such an adventure and good fortune as to grow up in this environment.

School was always in with grandpa and his lessons held my attention with every detail. To his credit, I never heard a foul word or any words spoken against another person. Many family members later added that they too had never heard a harsh word from this gentle man. God did a true masterpiece when He made him.

Grandma was the glue of the family and tried her best to keep us two loafers at bay. Try as she would, the stables couldn’t hold these two who were drawn to the outdoors with a passion for adventure that kept us up many a night. Grandma often commented that grandpa was planning his next fishing trip while she helped him clean fish on the picnic table out back.

Grandpa grew older as the pup trailed and pulled at his pant leg. I was part pointer when squirrels bounced from limb to limb in the tall oaks or when grouse were on wing in the lush green laurels. But mostly, I was a retriever in the beginning. After all, someone had to sane the creek for minnows, turn rocks to find crawdads to fish with, and night crawlers; that was my true talent. No worm was safe from my flashlight and rusty can on rainy summers night. All part of the training needed for days ahead.

Eventually, the pup is weaned and the leash loosened, ready for the golden fields of fall and woods of winter.

A Deer Hunter is Born

At only three years old, my blood ran full with a desire yet to be understood. It was a hunter’s blood, instilled by my creator who makes no mistakes. It courses through my veins with each approaching fall and fills my mind with hopeful anticipation.

At that tender age, I remember a large deer—its side red and white—being skinned on the Chinese Elm tree out back of our small mountain home. It was one my grandpa killed and had my dad track for him one blustery afternoon. Grandpa, like me, was color-blind and struggled with light blood trails. Dad made short work of the trailing job and found the buck easily after frustrating grandpa for the longest. Mom tried her best to make me come in as it was very cold outside that afternoon, but it was to no avail. She finally gave in with a sigh and left me wrapped in Grandma Dot’s homemade quilt on the picnic table near the men. I remember I stayed for the whole show, not knowing what I was seeing, only that I had to watch. I was drawn to it like a moth to a flame and could not understand why.

That start led me here; my first real gun, a BB gun. It was a hand me down from my uncle Ken who lived only a short distance down the road. I hunted sparrows from my grandparent’s yard each day, as if on safari on the plains of Africa. No fowl was safe from my pump gun as I canvased the lawn on those lazy summer days. I often dreamed of bigger game as I searched the trees for prey. The elms and maples held countless targets where I sharpened my skills. I could only imagine squirrel and rabbit hunts with a big gun, as I counted my brass shot supply. BB’s were carried in a round, black and yellow tube back then. A true bird man of that day could give one shake and report the remaining ammo. A trip to town was a must when these supplies ran low and I monitored my supply carefully. Fortunately for me, the hardware store was next door to Red’s Barber Shop where I was sure to end up.

At seven years of age, I remember taking the squirrels from my grandpa’s hunting coat, almost before he could get in the door. I would hold, count, and smell each one. Yes, smell each one like a coon hound would a tapped tree. For anyone who has ever squirrel-hunted, they know that scent. It’s a pleasant blend of hickory, oak, and fresh air. It smells of the woods as it should. I watched intently as each one was dressed for our super. Biscuits, fried squirrel, and squirrel gravy were all that was on the menu. There was no need for anything else with this feast. Grandma’s black skillet prepared a five-star meal at every outing. Grandpa and I were the fortunate recipients.

Three years later, after many small game hunts, I awoke on Thanksgiving Day to my grandpa’s soft voice beckoning me to arise and get ready for the hunt. My family had come back home to the Blue Ridge Mountains for the holidays that year. It was 4:00 a.m. and all the men were stomping around in the kitchen, drinking coffee, eating biscuits, and making grandma’s life unpleasant. Uncle Hunter and Double George joked as grandpa and I finished our coffee. Grandma fed us quickly and rushed us out of her domain so she could move on to preparations for her Thanksgiving feast. Before she did though, she loaded my pockets with jelly biscuits and apples to make sure her little man didn’t get hungry. I took that lightly at the moment but truly appreciated it later that cold morning. Grandpa ended up with boiled eggs, his favorite, as he kissed her on the cheek.

After arriving at the old cabin site of Uncle Lewis, we unloaded our gear and loaded our guns. I heard bolt guns locking rounds in and levers working brass into position as I fed three sixteen-gauge buckshot into dad’s old