When the pine straw piled up under the trees, the grapevines went yellow, and the nights called out for a sweater or jacket, Pop and his buddies would start cleaning their old guns.
Even clean, the barrel on Pop’s old shotgun was rusty, and its stock was beat up. But he could still shoot it at a deer, and every couple years, he’d hit one.
Pop would see deer tracks among his battered corn stalks or spot a trail crossing the dirt road and get all excited. “Dem footprints big a