Bear Grease - Ep. 240: This Country Life - Collections

Episode Date: August 9, 2024

People collect all sorts of things for all sorts of reasons. We know all about Brent's collection of knives, but this week, he's sharing a story about how he acquired a special shotgun for his gun collection, as well as telling stories of other people's collections. From old guns to loose change, we're talking Collections on this week's "This Country Life" podcast. Subscribe to the MeatEater Podcast Network on YouTube Connect with Brent and MeatEater MeatEater on Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, Youtube, and Youtube Clips MeatEater Podcast Network on YouTube Shop This Country Life Merch Shop Bear Grease MerchSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

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Welcome to this country life. I'm your host, Brent Reeves. From coon hunting to trotlining and just general country living, I want you to stay a while as I share my experiences and life lessons. This country life is presented by Case Nives on Meat Eat Eater's Podcast Network, bringing you the best outdoor podcasts the Airways have to offer. All right, friends, grab a chair or drop that tailgate. I've got some stories to share. Collections.

It's all about the things folks collect this week. I'm going to talk about some of the things I collect, some of the things my family has, and give you a little background on some of them as well. But first, I'm going to tell you a story. Back a few years after the turn of the century, and I know that sounds like a long time ago, but it really wasn't.

Or I like to think it wasn't, because the reference used to me like 80 years ago. But not anymore. Now it's less than 25. Anyway, I was kicking it around the southeast Arkansas and was the special agent in charge of the five county, 10th Judicial District Drug Task Force. My office was in Monticella,

a booming little metropolis of about 9,500 humans on the edge of the Mississippi Delta region of Arkansas in Drew County. The University of Arkansas at Monticella is there. Go bo-weevils. That's right. I said bowl weevil. And like they say, ain't nothing more evil than a dang bull weevil.

It's also the birth home of Ensign Rodney Shelton Foss. Ensign Foss is considered by many to be one of, if not the first American casualty of World War II, having been struck by strafing Japanese planes during the initial attack of the United States in Pearl Harbor. Insin Foss, we thank you for your sacrifice. And the current mayor of Monticella is my old partner from the Drug Task Force. Jason Acres is my brother in blue and one of the very best friends I have on this planet.

He's the kind of guy that if he got thrown in jail and I couldn't get him out, I'd get in there with him. But this story takes place long before he was elected the town mayor and has absolutely nothing to do with him. I enjoyed my time in Monticella. Back in high school, some of my friends and I would make the 16-mile trip, east across the Saline River to go to the walk-in movie theater or stop at the fish place just on the edge of town that my grandparents frequented every Friday. So when I wound up there as the Drug Task Force commander some 15 years later, I was quite familiar with the folks and the area.

It would be the place where I started a collection, a collection that I also lay the foundation of at the feet of my father. It's not knives this time. It's shotguns. Browning shotguns. Belgium made A5 semi-automatic shotguns to be specific. Those shotguns have been revered in my family like a lot of other families since John Browning had to wear with all to design and patent that metal and wood-framed example of exquisiteness. My dad had several.

I have several. And so do a lot of the members of my family. They are works of art and how they operate is the thing. of genius. My admiration for them did not match my ability to afford them early on. And I didn't become a policeman to get rich, and that plan worked out. For me, buying them came on the rare occasion. I found some disposable income. At the same time, I found a good deal on an A5. Those two things hardly, if ever, came about concurrently. But one Friday morning, I was in my office in Monticella, and my secretary popped in and said she was

taking her lunch break and getting an early look at an estate sale that was taking place not far away. Buy me a shotgun was the last thing I told her as she beat feet out the door. 15 minutes later, she came running in and said, hey, they got an old shotgun down there for $150. A $150 shotgun wasn't much even then at the turn of the last century. And I asked her what kind it was. She said, I don't know, but it's real pretty. It's in a case. It looks like it's leather, but I think it's imitation like vinyl. It's cracking in places and tore. I told her I wasn't interested in a 150 shotgun and a cracking vinyl case.

I was doubtful it was a very good one for that kind of money. And at that time, I actually had the extra funds. She said she was going back down there, and as the door was closing, I told her to see what kind it was and give me a call. A short time later, my Nokia cell phone started to be. it buzzing. And when I answer, she said, it says browning on the side of the metal. And I said for $150. She said, well, that's what the tag on it says. I asked her, is it all rusted up? She said, no, it looks new. But the lady said it was old. She said it was her husband's bird gun. Now, where I grew up, if you said bird, you meant Bob White Quayle. And if you were to draw a picture

of a bird hunter, he'd have a pair of leather lace-up boots, a flannel shirt, and a matching set a duck's back canvas breeches coat and a hat. Just like the one that my dad shot the pieces that belonged to his cousin Wayne Fry. He'd also more than likely have a Browning Auto 5 shotgun in 12, 16, or 20 gauge, not everybody, but a lot of folks. Coincidentally, it was a Brown and A5 that my dad used to obliterate Wayne's hat back in the Father's Day episode number 2.23. When he said her husband's bird gun, I'm pretty sure I jumped over the desk to get down there. When I drove up, she was sitting on the porch, talking to an elderly lady who was overseeing a yard full of antique furniture and items that no one would call junk.

I remember her being not unlike my own grandmother, an absolute walking definition of a southern lady. Her hair was beauty parlor fixed, and her dress and shoes looked like they came right out of my grandma's closet. She invited me to sit down on the porch with them, and I did. I introduced myself, and she asked me about being a policeman and said that I didn't look like any policeman she'd ever seen with all those whiskers. Well, I showed her my badge and ID, and I told her the nature of my work. She said, folks ought to be ashamed to themselves, and that I should be very careful dealing with that meanness. I told her I would. She said, do you want to see that shotgun? I said, yes, ma'am. She said it's right in yonder on the kitchen table, help yourself.

While I walked in her house and that was immacately clean and tidy as any home I'd ever been in, everything in there was old, but well taken care of, in its place, and served a purpose. The old wood floor was creaked under the big oval oriental rug she had in the living room as I made my way toward the dining room just ahead. Laying on the table was a faux leather shotgun case just like my secretary had described. Tied to that zipper was a tag that was marked $150. The zipper was rusted in spots and wouldn't go all the way down. I opened it as far as I could and then I saw the butt plate on that shotgun.

FN, which stood for Fabric Nacional. That was the gunmaker in Belgium. Or up until the mid-1970s, all the A-5s were produced. After that, the barrels were inscribed made in Japan when production was moved to there. The Belgian brownings were what true browning folks wanted, and I was holding one right now. I slowly pulled it from the chamois-lined case waiting for it to turn into some. something that would warrant the $150 price tag, but it didn't. It only got better. There wasn't a blemish on it. The blue one was intact, no scratches on the wood. Jackpot. I couldn't wait to

show my dad and Tim the deal I'd gotten, but before I got to the front door, I had a bad feeling in my stomach. There was no way I could give that lady $150 for a shotgun that was worth three times that. I've stolen watermelons and done other nefarious deeds in my life that I hope and pray I have atoned for. But no way was I going to beat a sweet old lady out of a shotgun that belonged to her husband. Did you like the gun? Oh yes ma'am, I liked it just fine. And I'd like to buy it from you, but I'm afraid I can't give you what you're asking. She said, well, how much would you like to give me for it? Your secretary says you, like to hunt and I'd like to see it go to someone who likes to hunt as much as my

herald did. I said, oh, no, ma'am, it's not too high. That shotgun is worth more than that. It is? I said, yes, ma'am, quite a bit more. She looked thoughtful for a moment, and she said, well, that's the price on there, and that's what I'll take for it. I told it was worth more, and she said again, no, that's the price.

Take it or leave it. Well, I wrote her a check, and I folded it up and I handed it to her. She smiled and stuck it in her apron pocket, and without looking at it and said, I guess I can take a check and trust a policeman, even a hairy one like you. I hugged her neck and thanked her, and she told me, I hope you get as much enjoyment out of that gun as my Harold did. I left there with a clear conscience and a piece of history. Now, 20-plus years later, I can see that shotgun sitting in my safe every time I open it up.

and I have no idea if it even shoots. I've never loaded it, much less fired it. It was meant to be and has always been a bird gun. And the Bobwhite quail have all but disappeared in South Arkansas. The gaming fish, man, they're working hard to bring them back and I'm thankful for it. I hope to have the opportunity soon to take my brother Tim and his sons and mine on a quail hunt, maybe out west somewhere where you can still walk them up behind a good dog. shoot into a cubby rise so they can experience what Tim and I did when we were younger,

birds were plentiful. I've been saving that shotgun whose serial numbers revealed it was manufactured in 1958, just for such an occasion. Then that portion of its story will be complete. Its journey from Harold to Harold's Witta to me will end that chapter of the $150 shop, shotgun that coincidentally in 1958 sold new for $150 that I bought with a folded check that I made out to her for $250. And that's just how that happened. Last spring, Clay Newcomb and I collaborated with Jason Phelps at Phelps Game Calls

and building each of our own favorite turkey diaphragms called prime cuts. Now, I'm going to tell you, I love mine because it's easy to use. I'm not going to win a turkey calling contest. It's just not going to happen. But when I run this call, I get the sounds that gobblers are looking for. I have a great turkey hunting track record. If you go listen to real turkeys out in the woods, they're not going to win calling contests, right? That's who I listen to.

I can make those sounds on my cut. I also hunt with Phelps's cut, and I hunt with Clay's cut because they're all three great cuts. Check out Prime Cuts at Felps. I think you'll be glad you did. And you'll find out that the Steve Ronella cut is an easy-to-use cut for beginning callers who just want to start making good turkey noises and getting action.

Collections can be as varied as the collectors. From fishing baits to beanie babies, there's someone somewhere that likes to stack them up and proudly display them for others to look at or keep them hidden from sight, only enjoying the ownership and the satisfaction that comes from owning quantities of the object of their desires. Like my wife's shoe collection that would rival that of Amelda Marcos.

Don't know who Amelda is? Google is your friend. Well, maybe not your friend, but you can see who that woman is I just named by using it. Anyway, I come from a long line of collectors. My mama likes anything that's connected with depression glass dishes, antique furniture, quilts and the like. and while I just talked about my dad's affinity for brown and shotguns, it is along that same vein that he had another collection.

Bicentennial Quarters For all you folks that don't know what one is, I'm going to suggest you Google it. And if you have to Google that up, may the Lord have mercy upon your ill-informed soul. 1976 wasn't that long ago. Never mind. Apparently it was.

But starting 48 years ago and every year thereafter, my father snatched up bicentennial quarters like they were gold. He could sniff one out quicker than wailing can of Bandito. There wasn't one safe anywhere close, and when he passed away, there were gallon jars of them on shelves in his closet. I carry one in my pocket from that collection, along with the sundry of other items I don't leave the house without. What was his fascination with him?

I don't know. I never asked him. I asked him, and he said the same thing. He just liked him. His affinity for Bicentennial quarters was surpassed only by his desire not to spend quarters of any kind. My dad was notoriously a tightwad when he came to spending money on anything he thought was frivolous. $1,500 for a dog, no problem. Boat motor, okay.

Fishing poles, hunting boots, shotguns, horses, saddles, and tack, take my money, said Buddy Reeves. Dad, I'm hungry. We'll get something when we get to the house, but I'm hungry now. Guess what? You'll still be hungry when we get home. Case in point, he and I took a trip out west in July of 2001. He'd never been past Oklahoma, and he wanted to see Mount Rushmore. I'll relate the details of that trip and another story. Trust me, it can stand on its own without any poetic licensing.

So I'm just going to fast forward to us standing in the Black Hills of South Dakota at the Crazy Horse Memorial. We walked all through the visitor center admiring the historical photographs and information not only about the memorial, but about the man himself. We walked out to the visitor center on a big deck out back, and there in all its grandeur was Chief Crazy Horse's likeness being carved out of a mountain. It was absolutely enormous, and like most places there, there were those big coin-operated binoculars that would give you a magnified view of the scenery. I saw a small yellow speck on the outstretched arm of the chief, and I realized it was a bulldozer. Now, that really put the size of that relief carving in perspective, and I dropped a quarter-in to get a closer look, and it really took my breath away as how big that thing really was. Dad, you ain't going to believe how big this thing is. He was like a little kid trying not to run on the pool deck after being warned by the lifeguard for the final time.

I went back to gazing at the mountain, and I caught him in my peripheral vision, turning that big set of binoculars to where he could see what I'd so excitedly described to him. Where's it at, son? Right there. Where? I can't see nothing. I looked over at him and staring through the viewfinder, and I was like, Dad, it's pointed right at the mountain, just looked through it.

He said, I don't see nothing but black. This thing is broke. I said, no, Dad, it ain't broke. You got to drop a quarter in that slot and make it work. He drew his head back and looked at me like I'd lost my mind. A quarter? I said, yes, sir. Put a quarter in that slot and it'll turn on for you.

His face turned into a portrait of what someone looks like when they smell sired milk. You already put one in? Yes, sir. He said, oh, heck, I'll just look through yours. A quarter. 25 cents. 25 cents is what separated him from seeing a sight he'd only dreamt of seeing before today. And he wasn't about to spend one.

wanted to see it. He collected quarters, but he didn't spend them. Not for that anyway. My brother Tim collects a bunch of stuff very reminiscent of my own, but he's got a lot more of each from knives and firearms and Indian artifacts from where we live and a collection of memorabilia from a local battle from the war between the states. Musket balls that had been dropped on the field of battle along with fired ones that held the deformity of being fired and striking something or some one. Down near the river there were camps occupied by soldiers, and just like any place where people gather, people lose things, even back then.

Bullets and buckles and spurs and knapsacks, horse tacking the like. Less than a hundred years later, our older relatives talked about scratching around on the banks of the river when they were down there fishing and picking up the lead bullets from that battle to hammer into fishing weights. A practice the soldiers themselves did any time they were stationed near water. That's quite a collectible. A piece of lead that was built for taking a life

being fashioned into something to catch a fish. The most remarkable item from that struggle is a handful of coins. Not unlike what a lot of us towed around today. These, however, belong to a soldier who lost them on the field of battle 160 years ago. Five cent pieces back then were called half dimes, and there were two of them, along with 23

dimes, and seven quarters, $4.15. Mended from 1860 to 1863 that is equal to about $80 today, but in 1864, a union soldier's pay was $13 a month. My brother had found in the area about the size of a kitchen table A Falling American's Wages for a Week of War Now this battle took place on land that belongs to Tim's father-in-law, Mr. Billy Bryant By Turkey Hunting Mentor, who turned 91 this year He was raised there on that piece of land that was given to him by his father

His father told him a story of when he himself was a little boy and was squirrel hunting one day. While walking through the woods, he walked upon something that caught his eye, and after looking closer and moving leaves, he found the skeletal remains of a union soldier near the base of a tree covered in leaf litter and the passage of time. The ragged wool of his uniform was still somewhat visible. He ran all the way home and was so shaken

that he couldn't find that place again to show anyone where he'd found him so they could bury the remains. A not so gentle reminder that some collections are not to be taken lightly, and the story of their existence is important to document, to be told and not forgotten. I dare say there is no better self-taught historian on the Battle of Mark's Mill than my brother Tim. To our family and other descendants of that terrible time who still reside there, it is a place to be revered for the human struggle of all involved. I'll share some photos of the items on my social media pages. Slide on over there and give those pages a follow if you'd like to see them. Also, for you folks are starting to think about whitetail season and are so inclined,

check out First Light's new whitetail kits over at the firstlight.com. That's Firstlight, L-I-T-E.com. Thank you all for listening. Until next week, this is Brent Reeves. Signing off. Y'all be careful. Last spring, Clay Newcomb and I collaborated with Jason Phelps at Phelps game calls in building each of our own favorite turkey diaphragms called prime cuts.

Now, I'm going to tell you, I love mine because it's easy to use. I'm not going to go, I'm not going to win a turkey calling contest. It's just not going to happen. But when I run this call, I get the sounds that gobblers are looking for. I have a great turkey hunting track record. If you go listen to real turkeys out in the woods, they're not going to win calling contests, right? that's who I listen to. I can make those sounds on my cut.

I also hunt with Phelps's cut, and I hunt with Clay's cut because they're all three great cuts. Check out Prime Cuts at Phelpsgamecauls.com. I think you'll be glad you did, and you'll find out that the Steve Ronella cut is an easy-to-use cut for beginning callers who just want to start making good turkey noises and getting action.