We were rolling and tumbling toward our dorm. C Suite in Scott Hall.
I was fuckin’ drunk. I was dizzy and couldn’t stand up. I collapsed on the floor.
Somebody put my blanket over me. A Hudson Bay 4 point blanket it was.
I puked all over it. It was ugly.
“Where are you going for Thanksgiving?” Scott McGill, my roommate asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you come home with me to Springfield? We’ll go quail hunting with my Uncle Bob.”
“Cool.”
McGill’s Dad was a WWII pilot. He flew a P-51 Mustang. Now he was an Episcopal minister.
He had a buddy who had a Piper Cub and they fl;ew up to Fulton and landed on the athletic fields and we boarded and flew down to Springfield. I had never flown in an airplane. It was great.
Uncle Bob arrived at 6:30 AM the day after Thanksgiving. He had a pickup with a German short haired pointer named Zeb in the bed.
I had a single shot twenty gauge gun, McGill had a Remington Model 1100 autoloader in 12 gauge. Bob had a fancy over under 16 gauge trap gun.
Bob said, “When the covey rises, pick a single bird, don’t just shoot into the group. Believe me, you
will be surprised and scared shitless when those birds rise.”