I still remember the day vividly in my mind. It was 1954. I was eight years old and walking around Grandpa and Grandma’s farm.
It was where I was born and grew up.
My Daisy Red Ryder BB gun is in my hand. I had been shooting at a piece of old, rusted tin hanging on a fence post. A plinking sound told me when I hit my target.
Birds were singing and flying around. Even back then, I loved to watch and listen to them. One bird landed on the fence a little ways from me.
I swung my BB gun toward it, looked down through the iron sights, and fired. The little bird fell to the ground. I walked over to where it lay, dropped to my knees, and picked it up.
Tears came to my eyes as I held the lifeless little bird. It was the first live animal I ever shot. I told it I was sorry. Tears flowed.
My dad heard me and came to see what happened. He told me it was just a bird and did not try to comfort me. Before walking away, he said, “Big boys do not cry, so quit it.”
