My Dad, Tom Hudson, tolerated no nonsense. As children, we feared him and the fiery, penetrating look in his eyes that meant we were doomed, guilty or not. As serious as he was, having come to visit my parents with my young family in tow, I found myself wondering how he and I came to be in his truck, a smile on Dad’s face as we bounced across a freshly plowed Georgia cornfield chasing a bobcat.
It was the beginning of September, the opening day of dove season. Soon after our arrival at his home, Dad and I climbed into his pickup and headed to the nearby plantation where he was the game manager. It was early in the day when we arrived, with plenty of time to take a look around before the arrival of the day’s forty to fifty shooters. As a sportsman, Dad was the local leader, whether fishing or hunting. He was dead serious in the pursuit of game and an amazing shot with a rifle or shotgun. Looking across one of the plantation fields Dad showed me where he took a whitetail buck with a shot I thought impossible, even for him. I asked him the range. “Don’t know. I aimed about six feet over his head and pulled the trigger. Thought I’d missed him. Suddenly, he jumped up, twisted, and fell over.”
That story of marksmanship took my thoughts back to a day spent fishing the bank of a small pond with my cousin as Dad paddled a canoe into its middle. We heard a squealing noise coming from the grassy area from which Dad had launched. As we walked over to investigate, Dad hollered for us to stop as he furiously paddled back toward the landing. About fifty feet out from the bank, he quietly stowed the paddle and, as the boat drifted closer to the bank, he drew his .357 and fired a single shot. Without a word, he holstered the pistol and turned the canoe back towards the middle of the pond. My cousin and I walked to where he had shot and found a big moccasin with his head missing and a lump in his belly. I stepped on the back of the snake and out popped a bullfrog, still alive.
Continuing our plantation tour, Dad and I spooked a bobcat in the next dove field. The cat charged into the center of the open field, and Dad began the chase. Turning into the field’s second furrow, at speeds not meant for plowed dirt, my head hit the top of the cab. Dad yelled, “Hold on,” and slid, careening across furrow after furrow. I held onto the dash, then the door, looking for anything that might help hold me down. I even thought about crawling on the floorboard. Nothing worked. Every time the bobcat saw a potential escape route, Dad saw it first and headed him off, bouncing through the field in ever-tightening circles until he stopped the truck. “You see him?” I did not. “Go find him.”
I was glad to get out of that truck but was only out of the cab for a second before poking my head back in the window. ”He’s under the truck behind your right front tire. I think he’s too tuckered out to move another inch.” Dad got out and grabbed his big fishing net, scooped that bobcat up, and into a croker sack it went. He tied the sack with baling wire and set it in the bed against the cab. He looked at me, “Let’s go son, it’s nearly time for the dove shoot.”
When we pulled up at the house, men gathered around Dad’s truck, hoping to ride with him to the dove field, knowing he would put them out at the best spot. One man took the liberty of climbing into the pickup bed before Dad could assign men to trucks. He perched on the sideboard near the cab, very close to the bag holding the bobcat, almost touching it with his legs. Something in the bag moved, startling him, and I chuckled, thinking it served him right. The presumptuous man moved away from the bag and asked, “Tom, what you got in this bag?”. Dad ignored him. Again, “Tom, this bag is moving, what the heck you got in there.” This time the whole hunting party heard him and all fifty shooters came to see. Dad waited a few moments for all the men’s attention. “Open it and see, it won’t hurt you,” he said. The man hesitated, but the others egged him on. Curious, and reluctant to show fear, he untied the wire and opened the bag. He moved close to peer into the bag and the bobcat stuck out his head. Nose to nose with an angry bobcat, the man froze. The bobcat sized up the situation, saw his gathered adversaries, and before that second came to a close, the cat was literally out of the bag. He took a single step in the truck bed and leaped into the air. Then all I saw was the butt end of the cat flashing into the distance and men with eyes as big as moons ducking and running. I looked at Dad and saw a rare grin on his face.
The dove shoot, as always, was a great success.
About the Author
Van Hudson grew up near the Wade Plantation in Screven County, Ga., a long time ago. There is a seven-acre lake on that plantation bearing the name “Tom Hudson Lake” in honor of his dad. Van studied hard over the years to be able to put some stories of his Dad down on paper for his grandchildren. This is one.
