1975 CHRISTMAS--DINNER FOR A RECESSION YEAR

On a cold blustery late-December morning, a few days before Christmas, my daughter arrived dressed in her chic jogging outfit.

“You go for your walk yet, Dad?” she asked.

“No, not yet---‘I was just getting ready to do it,” I said, happy with the prospect of some company.

“Wanna go together?”

“Love to!”

In a few minutes we were walking briskly toward the harbor. The Christmas season seemed to intensify interest in the economy and we began chatting about the Great Recession, the 2010-11 economy, our unemployment rate, and Obama‘s tax deal with the Republicans which was to give away $600 billion dollars to the super-wealthy, increase our national debt, but add little to help the plight of the poor or 10% of the population which were unemployed.

Near the end of Pipe Stave Hollow Road, we glimpsed the lovely expanse of the harbor through the bare trees. Out on the edark gray mud flats the forms of several clammers could be seen hunched over their digs. The low, winter sun glistened off the wind-riffled water and brightened wide expanses of drab-brown cordgrass marsh. We turned north at Hopkin's Landing and continued on toward Harbor Beach Road, walking briskly along the harbor edge, bordered here with a stand of wind-rattled Phragmites. The wind pushed up small waves, which rolled in over winter-sheared cord grass stems and foamed through the reed stems at the marsh edge, where patches of last-night’s snow still lay like torn, bed sheet. The wind bent the ten foot tall reed stems into a fishing-pole-arch. Their fluffy seed-heads dipped and bobbed in the breeze like a prizefighter dodging blows. We passed on still chatting, the wind and cold acting as a stimulus to our conversation.

“Boom!, Boom! Ba..boom! Several loud concussions shattered the stillness and silenced us. The sound waves rolled across the open water and reverberated off the low hills that nearly enclose the harbor.

“What was that?” she asked.

I knew that sound well. “Hunters,” I said, looking across to the far side of the harbor out through the reeds. “They’re duck shooting there on the south side of the Harbor,“ I added, my breath made little vapor puffs which were quickly torn down wind.

We walked on silently for a while, each with our own thoughts. The season, the faltering economy, the duck hunters, and walking close to the snow-dappled reeds jogged my memory. My mind drifted back forty-years in time, and twenty miles across the Island to a very similar day just before Christmas.

“What are you thinking’ Dad,” she asked, as a quirky smile worked across her wind-chilled face.

“Oh just thinking back to a time--in 1975, you were only a little tot then, but it was this same time of year--a few days before Christmas, and like now the economy had gone sour, and my job prospects were shaky. We did’t have much to make a Christmas dinner for all you kids.“

“It wasn’t as bad as this recession!”

“Well not the same, but when you are down on the bottom economic rungs, you live on a kind of economic knife edge--so even a little change in the numbers hurts a lot.”

“So tell me about it.

“Well if you walk a little slower, I’ll tell you the story of our Christmas dinner for 1975 a recession year.”

The wind died down and we slowed down to a stroll as I began to reminisce.

I remember, my alarm clock went off about 5:30 AM, and I slammed my hand down over the brass bell on the top. You know the kind, it was one of those old-time wind up clocks. .

I didn’t want to wake Mom up. But she heard me rustling around and got up anyway.

She made breakfast and nagged me--but only a tiny bit.

“I hate to see you go out in the dark…wandrin’ about on them marshes. Alone too. It’s crazy.” she complained, as she poured dark, steaming coffee into a big mug.

I said nothing as I sipped at the hot brew. I puffed gently across the thick, scratched-up ceramic rim at the dark-brown surface, driving a little bubble of foam to the far side.

I put the warm mug down heavily on the oilcloth-covered kitchen table. The pink and green pattern was pretty much worn off.

“I figured if I got out early, I could get us a nice brace of mallards for Christmas Dinner--it‘s only a few days away now.”

“Oh please!”…she complained.

“Remember, last week we stopped at Milowski’s and all we could afford to do was rub our noses on his frosted display window. You’ve seen his prices! He wants twenty bucks for his smallest bird.”

“He’s always more expensive,” she agreed. "But we'll find something....no need to go caveman on us."

"I'm not. It's the economics of it. The game is there just for the taking. and its only a few miles to the Point. And think of those crisply-browned birds with their little foil booties coming out of the oven over there on Christmas day."

"Yes, you know how I love duck," she smiled.

“So what were you planning for our Christmas dinner?” I asked.

“That’s…well….it..ah …it’s still in the planning stages…”

“Well, if I could bag a couple of “greenies” or even a brace of black ducks…” I trailed off.

She looked up from the sink, “But with no dog. How are you going to retrieve them even if you do make a lucky shot.”. I winced at the "lucky shot" quip.

“ Old Kim there, can’t go with you“…she raised her gloved hand from dirty dishes in the sink to point across over to Kim our big yellow Lab, lying on a worn, old bathroom rug in the corner, near the hot-air register.

Kim looked up at us whimsically. His big brown eyes looked sad. He knew we were talking about him. I would swear on a stack of bibles that Kim could think like a human --and had emotions just like us too. I often imagined that if he had a human mouth with lips he’d be able to hold a real conversation.

“Sorry old boy…Doc Goode says you need some rest for a few weeks.” I scratched the old dog’s great wide head between his ears where the yellowish tan fur was turning white.

He settled his big head back down on his great big paws. But his brown eyes continued to follow me as I quickly threw my hunting jacket over my shoulder and walked to the back door.

“See you honey.” I called to my wife.

“Be careful!” she called back, adding, "Don’t worry we’ll think of something fine for dinner!”.

“Don’t worry…be back soon.”

I looked over my shoulder, as I reached the door.

“See you old boy!” I called out to Kim, as I slipped out through the open door and into the dark, cold morning air.

The loose and rusty hinges on the rear-gate of our ’54 Ford pickup complained as I dropped the gate to slide a gunny sack full of well-used wood decoys into the truck bed. I unhooked my my patched up waders from their place on the side of the barn door and piled them on top of the decoys. I opened the action of my beat-up old Mossberg 12-gauge, and slid that behind the bench seat in the cab, with a box of #4 high-brass shells. Then I started up the straight-six engine. As always it roared to life--as dependable as death and taxes. The sound always reassured me that even in bad times--on the simplest of levels, all was right with the world or could be fixed with some effort. With the half-full (now only warm) mug of coffee balancing between my legs, I drove carefully out of the long, dark, potholed driveway and onto Half Moon Pond Road, in Ridge.

In a half hour, I was out on what we called “Duck Point”—a narrow spit of reed-choked marsh that poked out into the western end of Great South Bay. Here one could breath in the wind off the Atlantic and absorb the great vista of the bay and salt mashes of the south shore. That morning a winter breeze off Great South Bay rattled the reeds. The night before, a cold-front rolled over us and left a light dusting of snow. The wind had backed into the northwest and the bay was ruffled with small waves that made the reeds creak and crackle, I had a good view of the bay from my “blind” (it was just an old wood and metal milk bottle container I sat on). I shivered as I watched, through the rattling reeds, the sun rise into a clear sky in the southeast close to the winter solstice. The bay sparkled in the clear light of a cold blue-bird day. These few minutes were the ones when birds seem to fly best in to a “set”. I scanned the sky above the reed tops. I missed Kim who would sit at my feet and stare up into the sky, looking for birds, every bit like any hunter. When he saw a flight he would crouch and get ready. If I missed an easy shot, he would look back at me over his shoulder with great disdain and disappointment. That day--all alone-- I saw a few birds fly past my set, but they didn’t come in even with me calling my well-practiced “hey come on in and visit” chuckle call. Others flew warily over the point but were too far out for my old Mossberg 12 gauge bolt action--or any twelve. Even with the variable choke screwed down tight to “full“, the number four lead shot in the new plastic cartridges with the “shot-carrier” was good at maybe fifty yards out, but beyond that you were just winging game. Any kills would be too far out in deep water to get without Kim. So I didn’t even bust one cap.

The bright sun warmed my face as I stared out into the sparkling bay where I could see ducks on the water, way off and hear the tinkling calls of Old Squaws. I saw a few white wing scaup, and even a small flock of rare Canvas Backs, but nothing came my way. The sun rose higher in a clear cloudless sky-what the hunters call a “blue-bird day”. Disappointed, I finally decided to “pack it in”. I waded out and pulled my decoys from the cold water, wrapped the dripping anchor-lines around each one and placed them in the damp gunnysack. My hunt was over and there was still nothing for Christmas Dinner.

I pulled off my waders, and slipped into an old worn pair of LL Bean shoe-pacs I carry for the long walk through the reeds to where I parked the truck. I slung the waders over my shoulder and tossed the soggy bag of decoys on top, and with my gun in my other hand, I began to follow the narrow foot-trail that wended its way through the ten foot high reeds. I hadn’t gone more than fifty feet from the blind, when I caught the glimpse of something darting through the reeds ahead of me. It dashed across the path. A big cock pheasant was on the run! I could see the iridescent colors on its neck and the white neck-ring. I dropped my waders and bag of decoys and raced after it. As I ran I chambered a shell, hoping it would jump up, and perhaps I would get a shot off at a piece of game ---after all. But not this wise old pheasant. He stayed on the ground dodging one way and another and out of range way ahead of me.

Finally, after chasing him for about fifty yards, we approached a place where the reeds narrowed to a thin wedge, following along a sea-bulkhead that ran on the side of an old inlet of the Bay. Here the bird dashed across the foot-trail again and entered into a small patch of reeds about the size of a back yard shed--and disappeared!. On one side, the reed-patch bordered the bulkhead and the old boat channel with deep water, and on the other was a wide-open sea-side meadow with patches of snow covered sand and brown bunch grass. I approached the reed patch breathlessly. I realized my dilemma. If I flushed the bird, it was likely to fly over the old boat channel where I could not retrieve it. Gritting my teeth in frustration, I only now closed the bolt on the action which slid the cartridge into the chamber. I thought of another problem. It was those number "4s" --all I carried that day. Even if I could flush the cock, I couldn’t take a fast shot, but would have to let the bird fly off a good way before those the closed choke and #4 shot would develop a wide enough pattern. My plan had to be that if it flushed left over the water…I would just watch it fly off. My only chance to bag it was if it went right---over the sandy meadow.

I pushed on, slowly looking ahead of me, searching through the reed stems and the brown patches of soil and dry grass between the snow-covered patches. I pressed into the dense reeds, pushing them aside with the barrel of my gun and slipping along as quiet as I could be, expecting to hear any minute the loud cackle of the cock as he jumped for the sky. The reeds crinkled and creaked loudly in the cold. My feet crunched on the stiff broken stems. I could feel the hard, reedy ground through the thin worn bottom of my shoe pacs.

Then, just about five yards ahead of me, I saw through the vertical pattern of reeds, a dark-brown object, which to me, looked like a piece of old drift wood. It appeared tapered at both ends—it was a big brown bird lying prostrate. That old cock pheasant was smart! He literally went to ground! There he was--- in the dense patch of reeds with his body stretched out flat on the ground. I could have easily walked by without seeing him.

I made a quick field decision. I could be a sportsman and charge up on it to make him flush. But, it was more than likely he would fly to safety over water on the left. But at that point, I could see that bird, all crispy-brown coming out of our oven with two crisp bacon strips over his big chest. Then I saw him on the table, his legs trussed up neatly with little red booties Frances always made for our Christmas turkeys. I could just imagine the aroma, of the kitchen and the happy hungry looks of the kids and my wife, as I raised the old Mossberg and took aim. At that range, I estimated the shot pattern to be at most four inches across. I didn’t want to waste any meat. So I aimed carefully, focusing at a point where I would have enough of the shot pattern just to take off the head neatly and leave the rest of the bird intact. I lined up the elongate red-bead on the barrel-end so all I could see was a small red cross-section and slowly squeezed the trigger.

The gun kicked back sharply. When you are firing at moving game, you hardly ever notice the recoil on a shotgun, but with an aimed shot…a 12 punches back like a “30 30“. Recovering from the recoil and back on aim, I was mightily surprised to hear the sound of the cock cackling angrily and loudly as he rose up to the top of the reeds. I could see his red and green neck stretched out, his big powerful wings beating air downward as they drove him up…up and away. I did notice, as he topped the the reeds he had a very short tail for a big cock bird!

I stared open-mouth over the barrel as the cock flew straight over the boat channel. About 100 yards out he set his wings into two curved arches—then with a few strong beats of his wings he glided off to disappear into the marsh on the far side of the boat channel.

I walked up to the spot where the wily cock had hid. A few reeds lay there, cut in half by the shot charge. Next to them I picked up the six-inch long graceful end of his tail. It was just the very end of a good cock’s tail.

I stuffed it into my game bag to bring home.

I kept it on my desk in a pretty ceramic cup one of my students made for me from Long Island clay. It always reminded me of how easy it was to make a mistake.

Oh yes…I remember now—the Christmas dinner for the recession year of 1975 was an “on-sale” frozen chicken from the Patchogue A&P.