Home Forums Hunting & Shooting Ask The Gunwriters Ok, .243 on moose

Outstanding thread!

Growing up in Northern Ontario, we only hunted moose with the rifles that we could afford. Me, Mike Fike and our native friend, Injun Joe-Seppy (yeah, that's the correct spelling) used anything that we could lay our hands on - bows, spears, 22 single shots - whatever. My favourite was a 22 Hornet. Injun Joe-Seppy liked his father's 25-25 Stevens.

Before I go any farther, let me explain my friend's names. I know that you'll pester me with questions if I don't. Mike Fike got his name because when Mike was born, his father was sitting in the delivery room of the hospital, drunk. For some reason, he started singing that song called "The Name Game". The older ones among you will know it,

Come on everybody!
I say now let's play a game
I betcha I can make a rhyme out of anybody's name!

He took a flask out of his pocket when the nurses weren't looking, took a healthy swig, stared into the mirror and started laughing. Then he sang this.

Michael, Michael, Bo-Bichael
Banana-fanna fo-Fichael, Fee-Fy-Fo-Fichael.
Michael!

That's how Mike Fike got his name. It resulted from too much Canadian Club.

Injun Joe-Seppy came from a mixed family. His father was a full blooded Mohawk and his mother was from Italy. His father loved Mark Twain books; The Adventures of Tom Sawyer in particular. He said that his first born would be named after his favourite character in the book - Joe. Joe-Seppy's mom didn't speak very good English and thought that her husband wanted to name the boy after her father, Guiseppe. Somehow, the message got mixed up at the courthouse and the clerk recorded the name as Joe-Seppy. Go figure. Damn government people...

Anyway, with that explanation out of the way, back to the guns. We were at my farm just before hunting season, cleaning stuff up and dreaming about our big adventure. Mike, Joe-Seppy and me were all fourteen, so we had a lot of planning to do. It was our first hunt as men. We knew we were men because Joe-Seppy's dad told us so. We had to go out and get a moose by ourselves, skin it out with a pocket knife and bring what we could back home. It was our time. So we did. I shot a calf with my 22 Hornet.

Thanks for reading.

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Speaking of the farm, here's something to completely throw this thread off track.

We got indoor plumbing in 1962. It was a banner year for my mother, finally having a place to sit down inside the house. Mind you, dad and I missed the outhouse. Staring at that brand new, shiny porcelain chair brought a tear to dad's eyes.

"Son, it's a sad day today. No longer will we know the joy of doing our business in the privacy of the two holer. Damn, it's over! We're going to have to spend more time at your uncle's farm, okay?"

The idea of going for a dump in the same building where you cook food has always bothered dad. Me too, I guess. Anyway, on with the verse.

The Devil and the Outhouse

Disaster struck the farm
When Uncle Olaf left the barn
He felt a movement coming on
And pretty soon
But not knowing where to go
When it's 38 below
Can make a man do crazy things
Or, so I'm told

Far off on the horizon,
Where the sun was gently resting
On the blessed hills we were proud to call our own
We could hear a jet like rush
And saw a fireball as such
Flying hell-bent for election towards our home

Uncle Olaf disappeared
And it was much too late, I feared
To try and track him in the snow and frigid night

Dad said, "Run for cover!
Don't you worry 'bout your mother
She'll meet up with Uncle Olaf in the sky."

So we slogged through waist high snow
And I was feeling aw'fly low
I thought the devil had arrived and we'd soon die

In the pitch black yard,
I was sloggin' pretty hard
For to hide from Perdition, or so I thought

And as the light grew brighter
And my fear grew brighter too
I was confused and lost track of where I was
I couldn't see a thing and loudly I began to sing
The blessed hymns of old I knew so very well

"Tis Beelzebub himself!" cried a disembodied voice
From somewhere way out past the great beyond
"Get down! Get down! Get down and hug the ground!"

�Uncle Olaf, is that you?� I yelled around

Lord Thund'ring Grace! I could see the devil's face
He'd come to take us straight to hell. Do not pass GO!
And the fear inside me mounted and through the air
I quickly vaulted
Feeling nothing but the ache of impending doom

I could have sworn the wind had lifted me
And the devil must have shifted me
For when I struck the ground, no ice and snow

In the darkness of the place I felt all warm
My hands, my face
But the gentle ground soon coughed up another dread

Satan's plans be damned
For I was not in God's good hands
But in the pit
Where once the outhouse barely stood

And as the foggy memory of the afternoon's activity
Cleared up and recognition took its place
I suddenly remembered why,
The day had flown so quickly by
Our two holer was being moved to a new space

Lucifer just laughed
And cried, "Young man, please take a bath!
You smell so bad that I won't claim your wretched soul.
Consider yourself charmed,
You've escaped today unharmed
And I'm content to wait and try another time.�

And I told the preacher that
After I came out of the bath
But he just scolded me for telling such a fib

Then Uncle Olaf winked and said, "Boy, I ain't no fink.
I heard you talkin' to the devil. That's no lie.
And I woulda helped you too,
But you was covered up with poo
And lord, I was reviled and stayed away

So, I got a little secret and my uncle, he's got his
And to this day I'm so very proud to state
That was the day I ducked the devil,
Who trod our farmyard damp and level
By getting into lots and lots of schitt.

- 2007