Life in the Palmetto State: Frank Brunson Sr., a man among men

Every so often, I like to write about individuals that had an impact on me or their surroundings. With these men and women, their legacy certainly outlasts them. This is certainly the case with Mr. Frank "PaPa" Brunson.

Mr. Frank grew up in the outskirts of Alcolu on Tearcoat Road. He farmed there and raised his children there. His and Ms. Ethel's house still stands there today.

"PaPa" Frank had many accomplishments through the years but none more celebrated than his mastery of old-fashioned quail hunting.

You see, Mr. Frank farmed tobacco, watermelon and peanuts, but if you know anything about farming, at least old-time farming, you know that your crops were all gathered by mid-fall, leaving you plenty of time for the finer things in life like hunting, bird hunting.

Just for clarification, when us old geezers talk about bird hunting, we are talking about quail hunting. Not dove, duck or pheasant: quail hunting, the Southern gentleman's sport.

After his crops were gathered and Thanksgiving rolled around, he was on horseback with a Fox double-barrel shotgun in the scabbard following some of the finest-trained pointers and setters in all the land.

Did I mention he was one of the best horse and dog trainers in this country? He was known up and down the Eastern seaboard for his bird hunting prowess and stayed booked up for the whole season for years.

There are articles written about him in New York newspapers where they wrote about his "art of hunting." He was truly a fine huntsman.

Mr. Frank, "PaPa," guided for my Uncle Bob Reaves on his hunting plantation called Cedar Grove Shooting Preserve right here in Alcolu.

Uncle Bob started this guiding service in 1954 and ran it up 'til 1965.

They hosted dignitaries from Washington, D.C., New York, Chicago and the like, and most were repeat customers, and that was mostly because of Mr. Frank.

Not only was he a great horse and dog man, but he also had a personality as big as all the outdoors. He entertained the hunters for two reasons. One, simply for the enjoyment of the hunt, but it also kept these "Yankees'" minds off their hind ends because a McClellan saddle was not known for its comfort. It was only a saddle by definition.

Now, you must realize that back in the '50s and '60s, there were wild birds, quail, on every ditch bank and fence row for miles. It was nothing to get into six or seven coveys, the name of the group that quail cluster in, in a morning hunt.

Wild birds were as prevalent then as deer are now.

Mr. Frank would usually start the hunt around 9 a.m. heading off into scattered pine and broom straw woods with a well-trained brace of bird dogs leading the way, hunters in tow. When the dogs pointed - the posture they take on when they find the birds - he would quietly dismount, his hunters following suit, and walk up to where the dogs had pointed.

When the hunters were in position, he would flush the birds, and they would fly as if they had rockets tied to their tail feathers. Most of the time, the pine trees fared worse than the birds. A lot of the time, the hunters would ask PaPa to shoot on the covey rise so they would have meat to take home. It was not uncommon for him to bring down two or three birds with one shot. He was such an accurate shot with that old Fox 12 double barrel that he would wait until the birds on rise would cross, and he would get several with one shot. That took talent.

As the hunt progressed and dinner time (lunch time) arrived, MaMa Ethel, his wife, Grandmama Lee, Ms. Ethel's mother, would cook dinner and meet the hunters in the woods so they could eat and give their south end a rest. I can only imagine the smell of their cooking and the clanging of those pots. I betcha those vittles were fit to eat.

I imagine if you catch the wind right to this day, you can smell MaMa Ethel's collards and cornbread and coffee from an old percolator.

I was always told that Mr. Frank hunted coveys in the morning heading northwest to the county line and singles headed back to the stable.

Now singles, you must understand, get up wild, and most of your shots were from the saddle and not from the ground.

I have heard stories that Mr. Frank trained his horses and dog so well that after he knocked the bird or birds down, his dogs would retrieve them, rear up on the horse and all you had to do was lean over and take the bird. What a sight.

His dogs were taught to never bust a covey, and his horses were taught not to flinch at gunshot and to ground tie. (When you get off your horse to move in on the covey, you drop the reins and he doesn't move.)

Oh I miss those days of hunting on horseback.

I realize everyone has a different perspective of Heaven. My thoughts are after Saint Peter welcomes me home, he will say "Lee Jr., we've been expecting you. If you go right down that golden street, you will see the stable. We already have a horse saddled for you. If you go on beyond the stable, you will see a kennel full of stone broke pointers. Pick you two out and head off into a quail-rich scattered pine and broom straw woods." He whispered, "That broom straw won't even crawl up your britches leg." You would have to have bird hunted to know what that meant.

Mr. Frank also cut hair. That's actually where I knew him from.

He was always telling stories about his hunting adventures, keeping his clients in stitches. He was laughing right along with them as well.

One of the many stories told was about a wife of one of the Washington dignitaries that came down to hunt.

Nothing would do her but to go on a hunt with her husband and the others on horseback.

Well, apparently, she drank too much coffee at breakfast, and not too long into the hunt she said, "Mr. Brunson, where is the restroom?" Mr. Frank simply said, "Just pick any old tree" and he left it at that, never looking back.

Well, that was not the answer she was looking for, but she left it at that.

You can imagine how her discomfort escalated the more that horse bounced her and her growing anxiety of there being no bathroom in sight. The hickory saplings rubbed on her legs as they rode through the thick woods, and limbs caught her in the head as she rode behind the horse in front her and she neglected to duck. I imagine she was miserable.

Well, nature got the best of her, and she said once again, "Mr. Brunson, I have got to go to the bathroom." He stopped and said, "Just pick any old tree. We will wait for you."

Off that horse she had business and found her the first tree she could find.

She got behind that unlucky tree and began the process that would eventually grant her some relief.

But what she didn't take into account was just because she couldn't see them (the hunters) didn't mean they couldn't see her, for her posterior did not quite get covered by the breadth of that tree.

Nature got a view that morning it wouldn't soon forget.

For the life of her, she couldn't figure out why the group kept snickering from then on.

I am satisfied he could tell that story in such a way that would make your sides hurt.

Yes, Mr. Frank was a very good farmer, an excellent huntsman, for he loved to deer hunt as well, and a good barber. But nothing compared to his love of family.

He was married to his sweet wife, Ms. Ethel, for 54 years.

He was loved by his children and his precious grandchildren.

His granddaughter, Kathy Cramer, and her husband, Larry, were kind enough to give me details of "PaPa's" life and some of his adventures which I bring to you in this article.

You know there are a lot of rich people in this world today, but for what Mr. Frank valued the most, he was a millionaire.

May God bless you!

Lee Reaves Jr. is president of Clarendon County Historical Society.