October 15, 2018 - In 1947 my English teacher (Mrs. Stanton Memefee) called me to her desk and told me that “Sleepy” Hughes said I’d found a covey of quail. When I told her I had flushed a covey near the East Center airport, she asked me to shoot her one and bring it to class. When I said I didn’t have any 12 gauge shells, she said she’d bring me some the next day.
The box she brought me were Remington High Power Super X’s. Earlier that month I had bought an old Iver Johnson Single Shot shotgun from Gus Barnett’s Grocery. It was so old that it kicked like a mule and would unbreech after every shot. I was afraid that the high powered shells might damage the gun… and maybe even me.
After school one day, I walked all the way through the airport field and found neither the birds nor their roost. But on my return home, the covey suddenly exploded in front of me with a noise that was nothing short of electrifying. As they flew down toward the woods, I singled one out and pulled the trigger. A puff of feathers burst into the air and I was left standing in a cloud of smoke with my shotgun barrel and forearm in one hand... and the stock and receiver in the other. I raced down the hill and found the bird perfectly camouflaged in a pile of leaves.
The next morning I chicken-fried the quail and excitedly took it to Mrs, Menefee. “Oh, thank you Henry,” she stuttered. “Thank you so much, but if you can shoot me another one, Honey… just bring it to me… and let me cook it myself.”
Since I never found the covey again, she gave me the box of shells. And even though she never showed any disappointment in me, it took me a while to get over my failure to find the covey again… and to take another one to Mrs. Menefee...
... one of my favorite teachers.
