“The ‘Ill-Wind’ Squirrel Hunt” by Doug Fincher

February 15, 2021 - Although James Cannon and I were both from the Shelbyville, Texas area, I first met him in 1970 when I became pastor of Fletcher Emanuel Baptist Church in Lumberton, Texas. James was our Youth Sunday School teacher, a member of the Lumberton tax equalization Board, and was highly respected resident in the fastest growing town in Texas. We became close friends and often hunted together.

A hunt we made in the winter of 1970, I’ll never forget. Our favorite woods were located on The Alabama-Coushatta Indian Reservation near Woodville Texas. On this particular day, we were extra excited when we woke up with a surprise snow on the ground. After stopping at the Pitt Grill Café at Woodville for breakfast, we drove to the woods where we built a fire and waited for daylight.

“You take the high woods and I’ll take the low,” James said. It didn’t take long for me to realize that this was not an ordinary day. These woods that were usually alive with vibrant sounds of wildlife were unbelievably silent, not a bird, not a squirrel, not even the usually cawing of a noisy crow did I hear. It was as if all nature had agreed to silence and the only sound I heard was a slow flow of wind sneaking through the trees. A day like this is described by hunters in different ways, but my brother and I always called it “a day of the ill wind.”

After three hours of hearing and seeing nothing, I was returning to meet James when I heard a loud “boom” from his shotgun and when I reached the car, he was waiting for me. In a low, almost whispering voice, he said, “Brother Doug, I’ve done something that I don’t want you mixed up with.” “I’ve shot an illegal deer,” he said. When I said, “Let’s go get him,” James mumbled, “It ain't no him." “A doe shot across the road, and I pulled the trigger on her before I knew it.” I assured him that he could count on my silence and we loaded her into the car. He put the meat in his freezer and his wife and three children ate a lot of venison the next year.

I later moved to a pastorate in Louisiana and didn’t see James again until I became the pastor of The First Baptist Church of Shelbyville, Texas. Our church was located only a half mile from his homeplace next to the Shelbyville High School. One Sunday morning as I made announcements, it brought tears of joy to my eyes when I saw James walk in the door. He told me afterwards that he came up to see his mother and that he would be going back home the next day.

That was the first time I hsd seen him in 25 year and it would be my last. His daughter Cynthia called me one day saying James was ill and gave me his phone number. We talked a while, but his voice was very weak. Two months later, Cynthia called saying her dad had crossed the Jordan and would be brought back to Shelbyville for burial.

Someone anonymously wrote: A good friend knows all your stories, and your best friends helped you write them. When I awoke at three this morning, I decided to write about James and a story he helped me write that happened 45 years ago. James was not just a man: he was a godly man and a good man.

His rewards are stored in heaven.