Edub's Homecoming Experience

There are only a handful of people with whom I’ll hunt. Edub is one. He and I have hunted together for more than 30 years.

We met while both of us were working for the Bozeman Daily Chronicle. He later left the newspaper business to teach journalism at the University of Wyoming. Retired now, he still returns to Montana every fall to hunt.

The same age as me, Edub and I also share a few of the same bad habits, along with a passion for bird hunting.

We’re also aging in a similar fashion, our still stunningly rugged good looks belying failing interior infrastructure.

Enjoying a couple of cold drinks on the deck Friday after returning from a hunt, we heard the sound of an approaching band. It was homecoming in Malta, an occasion that always warrants a parade. Actually, almost any occasion here warrants a parade.

I stood in the yard and watched over the fence as the procession passed. There were fire trucks, horses pulling wagons, kids in the back of pickups, Shriners on riding lawnmowers. They were all throwing candy.

Edub, an opportunist if nothing else, left the yard to gather some of the goodies. He returned a few minutes later a bit crestfallen.

“One of the football players yelled ‘Here you go grandpa,’” Edub said. “And then he threw a handful of candy at me.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have worn my house slippers out there,” he admitted.

I thought it was all quite funny until I realized the kid probably knew I lived there and had mistaken Edub for me.

Although I’m very proud to be a grandpa, I can’t say I like being called that unless it’s by my own grandchildren. I suspect Edub feels the same way.

The next day we were back on the hunt, and I watched Edub swing his Model 12 on a pair of rising sharptails and dump them both.

I yelled “Go grandpa!” and he shot me a glare.

Or a grin.

At this age it’s hard to tell the difference.

Parker Heinlein is at [email protected]