Growing up in Colquitt

submitted by a close friend

Though I have long since given up hunting, each fall as hunting season approaches I think of the wonderful years of coming of age in Colquitt, Ga. Hunting seemed to be the natural thing to do for a boy growing up in Miller County in the late 40s and 50s. Most of us grew up around guns and became familiar with them at an early age, learning such basics as not pointing a gun at another person; all guns are always loaded; don't shoot your 22 toward town; and don't shoot it level.

Most of our hunting was along Spring Creek, where it was almost universally unquestioned that the landowner didn't mind if you hunted there. About the only thing comprising litter back then was a spent shotgun shell or a 22 casing, and we were taught to be respectful of fences and livestock. Except for an occasional dove shoot or quail hunt with the grownups, most of our hunting was confined to the creek swamp where our expected quarry was a squirrel or a rabbit, and, once and a while, a dove or quail flushed from the briers or broom sedge in Miss Tempie Wilkin's pasture which was at the end of Cuthbert Street, past Billy Cook's house, bounded by the Joe Hole, the sewer plant, the drain, and the Brinson Road. We didn't deer hunt back then for at least one very good reason: there almost weren't any.

Alone or with a buddy, we hunted the familiar Spring Creek woods that bounded our town to the west. Another favorite spot was the woods behind the cemetery leading down to the Adams Hole. This was a five-minute walk from our house. There was a huge hickory tree just where the path began descending, and if you got there right at daylight there were almost always a couple of squirrels in it working on those hickory nuts. But it was hard to get close enough to get a shot there; they seemed to always hear me coming through the cemetery, or climbing the fence. I remember seeing my first great horned owl in that tree, its huge eyes following me as its head seemed to turn all the way around.

Sometimes we'd walk down to the bridge past Dr. Young's, the veterinarian, and Roddie Everett's house, and hunt on the west side of the creek, always stopping on the bridge if we were hunting with our 22s and do a little target practice from U. S. 27, with the target being finned rather than feathered or furred. Our favorite target was a jackfish which, from the bridge, could easily be spotted down in one of the eddies, well hidden and patiently waiting for his unsuspecting prey to come swimming by in the main stream or one of the two tributaries. We had no compunctions back then about shooting fish, or, should I say, shooting at them, because we certainly didn't endanger any species. Most of us learned about shooting fish around 1948, the year of the high water when there were ponds everywhere, and water filled ditches and covered many roads. There were fish everywhere. We shot them at night by shining a flashlight on them, sticking the 22 barrel under the water, aiming under them, and with a very modest noise, especially if you used a short instead of a long rifle, "ploop"--one dead or stunned fish was white side up. This must have been against the law, but I never heard of anyone getting arrested for it.

Back to the creek bridge. As I was saying, we sometimes went across the bridge to hunt. On the south side of the highway was the city dump, which folks now call a landfill. We'd go there with our 22s hoping to get a shot at the wharf rats that lived there, but they were much too smart to show themselves long enough for more than perhaps one shot. So we shot cans, bottles, and jars, even learning the trick of tossing them into the air and shooting them, sort of like those experts from Remington who had come to town and put on a shooting exhibition. When I see the prices of old jars in antique stores today I wonder just how rich I'd be if I had just stuffed my jacket pockets with those old medicine jars and taken them home and saved them these 50-odd years. One great treasure I still have, however, is the privilege of having grown up in Colquitt in the 40s and 50s.

Editor's note: My friend wrote: Terry, I wrote this a few years ago to send to Joy for Colquitt stories for Swamp Gravy. I don't think I ever sent it. Use it if you think it worthwhile, provided you attribute it to "Anonymous." My feeling won't be hurt if you don't use it.

Glad to see some law enforcement action--finally. May it continue.

Very best regards, "Anonymous."