CityView Magazine

12 | October 2016 McFadyen's Musings Dove Poppers: On Hunting, Memories and Friendship T he transition to autumn inspires a change in culinary fare for North Carolinians. For exam- ple, the state fish is the red drum. ese fish, known for their reddish-bronze color and the fact that during spawning time males produce a drum-like noise by vibrat- ing a muscle in their swim bladder, make their way down the coast chasing bait that is looking for a warmer place to winter. Wrestled from the fall surf, their fillets are the key ingredients in a fish stew that is a generational staple in the Outer Banks. is recipe has migrated inland to at least one particular kitchen in Eastover, NC. We ladle it over rice and dare cold weather to try to negate the effect of the hot stew. In the same establishment, the veni- son chops prepared year round come from exploits afield during these same autumn months. Lightly floured and slowly fried picatta-style with its tangy gravy and caper- topping, they are butter-knife tender. Being a regular consumer of wild game, I still do not stubbornly purport that venison is better than beef. ere is a very good rea- son that Man domesticated the cow. Well, two reasons. Cows are easier to fence. Still, it has less to do with the athleticism of the beast than it does with the end product. I suppose the down side to beef is the marbled fat, but the significantly outweighing upside to beef is the marbled fat. When I was a kid, where Cross Creek Mall now stands, I was let out of Granddad- dy's Oldsmobile with an Ithaca 28 gauge and told to walk alongside the combine harvest- ing soy beans. When br'er rabbit jumped out of the way of the thresher, I was to see if I could swing the gun faster than the rabbit could run. at day, there was indeed one slow one. I watched as Granddaddy showed me how to "shuck" it in preparation for the stew pot. We ate it at his dining room table the next weekend. Where we now have high-end apart- ments and profitable strip malls on Reilly Road, I used to shoot doves on the Hub- bard Farm. Jack Hubbard was one of those legendary Ben Cartwright figures from my BY BILL MCFADYEN childhood. His sons Johnny and Bill were like Hoss and Little Joe. Somewhere before my time, my uncle Reg Barton and Jack Hubbard had become friends. ey spent countless daybreaks and late aernoons to- gether with dogs named Crow and Beulah and Buck hunting deer around Bone Creek and on the wooded areas between Morgan- ton and Fillyaw Roads. At the age of 12, I was invited on my first deer drive with a cast of a half-dozen patriarchal men that took me into their fold as a child, but who never for a moment treated me like one. I shall never forget the roaring laughter of those men as they imposed the penalty of cutting off the shirt tail of anyone who missed a deer. ere was a phone pole by the skinning tree in the Hubbard's yard adorned with those faded remnants. Nor will I forget the same roar of those men when I shot a catbird unconscious, but not dead, with a slingshot while they were dressing a deer. e height of revelry was aer every deer had been butchered. Jack refereed the meat being sorted into equivalent piles matching the number of hunters. A half of loin was mixed with a side of ribs. A third of ham was coupled with neck meat. e piles were numbered and each hunter drew a corre- sponding number from a hat to determine their winnings. Before my time, small boy Bill Hubbard once sidled up to Jack during the numbering and said, "Daddy, let's us just take that hip right there." Several years back, I was sitting in a tree in Eastover one fall aernoon admiring the unique buck I had just felled with my bow. My phone buzzed with a text message from Stuart Williams. Jack Hubbard had died a couple hours earlier. I wept in my tree. Bill called the next day and asked me to deliver a eulogy for their fallen giant. In front of Jack's family and friends and in the pulpit of a traditional Presbyterian Church, I hol- lered out Jack's deer dog call to the best of my ability, the one I had heard so many times during my childhood on frosty morn- ings signaling that the hunt had begun. Only, my call echoing away in the church sanctuary was for a hunt ended. FOR ALL OF YOUR SODA POP AND CANDY CRAVINGS The gigantic selection will launch you back in time to when you were a kid! Marketfair Mall • 1916 Skibo Rd. • Unit A7 Fayetteville, NC 28314 910.867.6032 • www.rocketfizz.com Tickets online at www.cfrt.org or call 910-323-4233 ON STAGE @ PRESENTS wILlIaM ShaKeSPeARe's SEPT 8 - OCT 2, 2016 MAY 11 - MAY 28, 2017 APR 6 - APR 23, 2017 MAR 2 - MAR 19, 2017 JAN 19 - FEB 12, 2017 OCT 27 - NOV 13, 2016

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