Greybellies, Bulldozers and Pabst Blue Ribbon
The Macho Man Chronicles - Volume 2
Pops and I moved slow and quiet past Singin’ Sam’s trailer, careful not to wake him or his family. The screen door creaked in the pre-dawn breeze, and for a second, I imagined Sam stirring inside, reaching for a cigarette, listening for intruders, then deciding against it and rolling over.
As we walked past the driveway, I noticed his old bulldozer sitting on a trailer, rusted but sturdy. I nudged Pops and smirked. “Pretty obvious why they call him Singin’ Sam the Bulldozer Man.” Pops chuckled under his breath. “Yeah, but he’s better at singin’ than he is at runnin’ that thing.”
I carried my Ithaca Model 37 Featherlight proudly, stock butt in my palm, barrel on my shoulder, just like I imagined soldiers carried their rifles. Pops had his old Ruger 10-22 slung across his back, his movements precise and effortless, the kind that came from years of doing something the right way.
Our faces were streaked with camo, gloves pulled tight, our clothes damp with dew as we eased into the Indiana woods. The world was still. Not silent—never silent—but waiting. The air smelled like wet earth, hickory bark, and the fading smoke from a distant burn pile. The dawn light crept low over the ridge, spilling through the trees in orange ribbons. The field ridgeline to our left stretched east and served as Sam's horse pasture. His old gelding stood still in the mist, head low, chewing.
We descended toward the ravine, stepping lightly to keep the element of surprise. Pops always said the trick to sneaking up on a squirrel was thinking like a squirrel. I never quite knew what that meant, but he said it with such conviction that I never questioned it.
Pops learned to hunt from his Uncle Paul, his oldest sister Dee’s husband. Paul was an Indiana game warden. He learned the old-school way—no fancy scopes, no modern gear. Just patience, instinct, and an uncanny ability to tell a grey squirrel from a red one just by the sound of it moving through the trees.
The incline steepened, and I saw the drain tile path below—a perfect, quiet walkway into the hickory stand. One step onto it, and I was airborne. My boots went out from under me, and the world spun as I crashed onto my back, accelerating like a greased pig down a slide. I skidded twenty yards before slamming into a root. Pops, five yards behind, met the same fate, landing in a heap beside me.
“Well,” he grunted, checking his rifle, “that was quiet.”
I glared at the moss-slicked tile. He wiped dirt from his eye and chuckled. “C’mon, Robbie. Squirrels are waitin’.”
Pops and I had a strategy—he carried the Ruger 10-22, a .22 rifle with a scope, perfect for long-range shots, while I took the short-range ones with my shotgun. We were like a squirrel assassination team, taking them out with precision and efficiency.
The Bee Tree marked the start of the real hunt. A towering old hickory, home to a massive beehive, it stood like a sentinel at the entrance of our hunting grounds. The air buzzed faintly with bees waking up, stretching their wings in the warming air. Beyond it, the hickory forest thickened, and that’s where the greybellies waited.
We moved like ghosts, each footfall deliberate. Pops always said, “If you can hear your own steps, so can they.” The key was listening. A faint plop in the leaves. Another. Then a tink-tink as a nut fragment bounced off a limb. “Cutting,” Pops whispered. The telltale sign of a grey squirrel gnawing through a hickory nut, careless in his feast.
We spotted the first one high in the crook of a branch, its little paws working furiously, unaware of us. I eased my shotgun up, slow, steady. A breath in, hold, squeeze. Pop! The shot cracked the morning air. The squirrel tumbled, landing in the leaves with a soft thud.
“Nice shot, man,” Pops said, already tracking another. The phrase made me think of that song by the band Filter, and I smirked to myself. His Ruger popped, and another greybelly fell.
The beech woods came next, their massive trunks smooth and pale in the slanted morning light. The grey squirrels here were sharper, faster, making them more of a challenge. We moved slowly, scanning the branches for movement.
A sudden rustling above caught my eye. A red squirrel sat on a thick limb, its bushy tail twitching. Then it let out a loud, choppy bark bark bark, alerting everything within earshot.
I whispered to Pops, “See that fat fucker up there barking?”
Pops sighed, already raising his rifle. “Yeah, and now he’s gonna be a quiet fat fucker.” He squeezed the trigger, and the little red traitor tumbled, silenced forever.
“Guess he didn’t see that comin’,” I muttered, stuffing the squirrel into my game pouch.
“Damn reds,” Pops said, shaking his head. “Always making noise when they shouldn’t.”
We continued hunting, working our way methodically through the beech trees. The greybellies were quick, darting from limb to limb, but our patience paid off. One by one, we took them down, until we finally reached our limit—five apiece, just as the law allowed. Enough for a fine meal.
“Back in my day,” Pops continued, stuffing the last squirrel into his game pouch, “boys got their first rifle before their first bike. Now it’s all iPads and Xboxes.” He sighed. “Ain’t the same world no more, Robbie.”
Out back on Sam’s deck, Pops and I went to work gutting and cleaning the squirrels. The morning sun had risen high enough to cut through the mist, and the smell of baking biscuits drifted through the open kitchen window. We each had a long-neck PBR in hand, sipping between making quick work of the game.
Pops had the cleaning down to an art—small incisions, a quick peel, gutting in a fluid motion. “You do this right, you don’t get no mess on the meat,” he said, tossing a cleaned squirrel into the bowl.
Through the sliding glass door, Sam leaned back in his chair, watching us while sipping his beer. “Ain’t no better way to spend a morning,” he mused. “Two fellas cleanin’ game, beer in hand, breakfast on the way.”
Polly called out from the kitchen. “You boys done yet? I can’t cook ‘em if you don’t bring ‘em in.”
Pops grinned, wiping his hands on an old rag. “Almost, Polly. Robbie here’s a bit slow.”
I shot him a look. “I’d like to see you do it faster with one hand and a beer.”
Inside, Polly got to work. She rolled each squirrel in a bowl of flour mixed with salt and black pepper, making sure every inch was covered. The old cast iron skillet sat waiting, shimmering hot with lard. The moment she dropped the first piece in, the room filled with the sound of sizzling, a rich, golden crust forming on the meat.
She worked the biscuits next, rolling out the dough on the counter, cutting thick rounds, then dropping them onto a baking sheet. The oven door creaked as she slid them in, and soon the air was thick with the promise of buttery, flaky goodness.
By the time we came back inside, plates were already being filled. Sam grabbed another PBR from the ice bucket. “Y’all did good out there.”
Pops raised his bottle in salute. “A damn fine morning, Sam.”
Sam nodded, taking a swig. “Damn fine.”
Sam leaned back in his chair, reached over, and grabbed his old guitar from the corner. He strummed a few warm-up chords, then settled into a slow, rolling tune. “This one’s a mix of Hank Snow, Bobby Helms, and some of the new country,” he said, grinning. “A little old, a little new, just like me.”
Pops chuckled. “Ain’t nothing new about you, Sam.”
Sam laughed, then started singing, his voice gravelly but rich, carrying a melody about open roads, lost love, and long-neck beers on warm mornings. After a few verses, he paused and smirked. 'Robbie, you remember that song I wrote? 'The Hard Times Are Hittin’ My Heart Again'?'
I nodded, grinning. 'Yeah, about your woman leavin’ you and losing your job. Damn near the saddest song I ever heard.'
Sam chuckled and strummed a few bars. 'Well, hard times don’t ever seem to take a day off.' He launched into the song, the lyrics painting a picture of heartbreak and struggle, his voice thick with the weight of it. It wasn’t perfect, but it was damn good. The kind of song that felt like it belonged right here, in this kitchen, with biscuits in the oven and squirrel frying on the stove.
Sam glanced at Pops as he played. “Billy, we’ve been doin’ this since we were kids, huh?”
Pops nodded, taking another sip of his beer. “Yep, and I don’t reckon we’ll stop anytime soon.”
Polly set a steaming plate in front of us. Fried squirrel, crispy and golden, with biscuits smothered in thick, peppery gravy, warm from the oven. The aroma was rich and inviting, the kind that made your stomach growl before the first bite. I forked a piece of squirrel, the crispy, golden crust cracking just enough to reveal the tender meat inside. The first bite was heaven—savory, slightly nutty from the hickory diet of the squirrels, with just the right amount of salt and pepper in the batter.
Pops took a bite and grinned. "Damn, Polly, you sure know how to pop a skillet. Best squirrel gravy in Indiana."
Sam nodded in agreement, his mouth full. "Ain't no restaurant gonna top this."
The biscuits were buttery and flaky, perfect for sopping up the thick, peppery gravy. The combination of flavors—crispy, juicy squirrel, smooth gravy, and warm biscuit—was about as close to perfection as breakfast could get. I leaned back in my chair, savoring the moment, the taste of the hunt coming full circle in each bite.
I lifted my long neck in salute. “To good hunts, good eats, and good stories.”
We all clinked bottles, and for that moment, everything was just as it should be.
I looked over at Sam, strumming his guitar, his voice carrying through the room like it always had. The old bulldozer still sat out back, rusted but unyielding, much like the man himself.
"Damn fine," he had said. I’d heard those words from him a hundred times before, but something about today felt different, like I needed to hold onto it just a little tighter.
Time has a way of moving too fast, of turning mornings like these into memories before you're ready. One day, the bulldozer will be gone, the old guitar will collect dust, and the songs will only exist in our heads. But for now, we had this—fried squirrel, hot biscuits, and Singin' Sam, the Bulldozer Man, still making music in a world that needed more of it.
Dedicated to Sam Collins: Wishing the hard times are lifted from your heart forever. May you rest in peace good friend.