Growing up in northeastern Ohio in the ’70s, I, like kids everywhere across the nation, had Christmas and Halloween. And I always had a birthday party, complete with my requests: Mom’s meatloaf and chocolate cake. All tradition, and all quite anticipated.
But nothing, not even Jolly Old Saint Nick, could match the eagerness with which I awaited the coming of November 15th, the opening day of rabbit season back then. My Pop and I were rabbit hunters. We had canvas brush pants with matching heavy canvas coats. Stormer hats. Shell vests. He carried his 1970 Remington Model 1100, and I toted his 1952 Winchester M24 16-gauge side-by-side. It was the day of days for us, the definition of tradition.
We were beagle men back then, through and through. Eventually, though,…
