A Wild Evening


Rural Arkansas has lots of hunters, and our town is no exception. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a place that has more avid hunters and fishermen. People one would hardly expect get involved. One woman I know, very petite and quiet and ladylike, looks as though she could hardly lift a rifle and would flinch at the sound of a gunshot from a mile away. This past season she killed three deer.

One manifestation of local hunting culture is our church’s annual Wild Game Supper. Unlike most church events it is purely a social occasion, a time for the church family to meet and spend some time together. Sometimes prospective members come as well and get to see the congregation let their hair down a bit. It is a potluck (or as the pastor likes to call it “pot providence”) dinner where each attendee brings what they see fit.

We went to this year’s game supper with two nephews in tow. Unfortunately we had no wild game to take. So we stopped by Kentucky Fried Chicken on the way. I felt a little less like I was copping out when I found myself in line behind a fellow church member doing the same thing. The yardbird would at least be welcome. There are always unadventurous souls who want to stick to the tried-and-true at these game suppers.

Three rows of tables seating about thirty people apiece occupied most of the church’s fellowship hall. Over on the long room’s kitchen end sat additional tables for the food and drinks. The dessert tables were located on the far end of the room. We had to keep the boys from heading that way prematurely.

The hall had been decorated especially for the event with appropriately-themed items. The decorators had strewn the tables with wooden duck decoys, pine cones, sets of deer antlers, and a scattering of ammunition. One wall bore a somewhat bizarre-looking wreath with shotgun shells worked into it. Beside the dessert tables stood a large inflatable moose and a camouflage tent.

About seventy or eighty people attended. That was a very good crowd for an evening event like this. The hall had close to a full house. Some of the attendees wore their camouflage. Most were dressed very casually. I was one of the few who had on a normal Sunday outfit. At least it was forest green.

The pastor called for everyone’s attention. He welcomed everyone there and thanked all who had brought dishes. He announced that he would provide entertainment by singing “Old MacDonald.” “Wait till after supper!” called a voice from the crowd (The pastor’s not noted for his singing ability). After the laughter had died down from this, we had the blessing.

Then we all got in line and saw what there was on offer. I sampled as much as I felt I could without making a pig of myself. I had wild hog, some excellent rabbit, wonderful fried venison steak, fried catfish (most likely pond raised and not wild), and a tasty dish made from a quadruped that I couldn’t identify for certain (I think it probably went moo at one time). I also got some delicious wild rice, scalloped potatoes, a couple of hushpuppies, and some nice cornbread. I hardly even glanced at the dessert table later.

I sat with my meal beside a decorative box of twelve-gauge shells. The boys, picky like most children their age and also city-bred, did not even try any of the delicacies. They each got some KFC, a roll, and a ridiculous amount of chocolate cake. I knew that their mother, at home with the baby and a sick two-year-old, would appreciate the feast much better than they. I got a to-go box from the ladies in the kitchen and assembled a good sampler platter for her. A woman we knew did something similar for her husband, a particularly avid sportsman who had the misfortune to have to work at the mill that evening.

After a while the pastor announced the drawing for door prizes. Every child present got a chance to pick something. The boys were disappointed at not being allowed to choose from the adult door prize pile. They had to content themselves with toys. The older nephew thought to get an additional toy for his youngest brother at home.

Next came the adult prize drawing. I found myself the startled winner of a turkey caller. Now all I needed to go with it were something with which to shoot the turkey and a new pair of eyes to see well enough to do this.


After the prize drawing the window flap on the camouflage tent near the dessert table opened and two puppets emerged. They put on a silly skit full of hunting jokes. The performers managed to work in good-natured digs at several church members while they were at it. One said he was taking up a collection for a chronically unsuccessful turkey hunter whose wife had announced that she was no longer going to subsidize his hunting expeditions. Everybody recognized the unfortunate hunter as the pastor. A bit of additional entertainment came from a toddler at one table who kept trying to rap a wooden decoy on the table while quacking.

After the show the pastor thanked everyone again for coming. Then it was time to arise and begin collecting leftovers and heading home. We actually took almost as much KFC home as we had brought. Our fellow chicken bearer gave us much of her leftover chicken, saying that her family would not eat all of theirs. I assured her that the boys would find a use for it.

The boys had a great time. We all did. My main memento of the evening is a turkey caller for which I have no practical use. I feel the spirits of mischievous ancestors urging me to find a way to incorporate it into a practical joke of some kind. We’ll see what happens.

I thought this story was going to be about something completely different!

In that case, it would have had a parental advisory!