December 2008 NewsletterJim Casada
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www.jimcasadaoutdoors.com December Delights From Days Gone ByRecently a high school classmate who was also a hunting buddy sent me a scan of a grainy old Polaroid photograph taken either in late 1958 or early 1959. I can be that specific about the date because four of the individuals in the picture were charter members of one of those splendid examples of teenage exuberance which form a part of everyone’s past. We all belonged to the R. E. A., and even as this is being written I can look across my study to an old plate made from pot metal members of the organization had stamped out to put on the front of vehicles. In my case it never adorned the front of a car for the simple reason that a good many more years would pass before I owned one. The initials R. E. A. stood for Rabbit Extinguishers of America. The proper word would have been Exterminators, but our youthful enthusiasm outran our collective vocabularies. One thing was certain though, whatever the “E” stood for, our outings for cottontails were highly productive ones. Deer were scarce as hen’s teeth at the time, and I had never even seen a wild turkey. On the other hand, small game in the form of rabbits, squirrels, and birds (as I’ve noted before in this newsletter, in the South birds is a synonym for quail) existed in abundance. Rarely did a party of us, accompanied by a host of beagles, fail to have a collective game bag of 20 rabbits at the end of an all day hunt. Typically there would also be a squirrel or two, maybe a grouse (I grew up in grouse country in the North Carolina mountains), and almost certainly a brace or more of bobwhites. Rabbits were the focal points of the hunt, but we weren’t about to pass up the opportunity to take some other type of game. After all, it went might well on family tables, and for most of us a supper of wild game was a feast. All of this information, however, is by way of a long-winded introduction to what it was about the picture which struck me most; namely, the fact that everyone in the photograph, with one minor exception, was fully clad in Duxbak clothing. That single exception was a minor one, with a member of the group wearing a standard baseball cap rather than a Duxbak one.
We wore Duxbak hunting coats with their nicely contrasting corduroy collars in a darker shade of brown, standard Duxbak pants, and jaunty caps with the sides and back which folded up (or could be turned down in a driving rain if you wanted to protect your neck and ears a bit more). I also can’t resist noting, in a jab at misplaced modern preferences for the manner of donning headwear in certain elements of society, that none of us had our caps on backwards. Throughout my boyhood and beyond, from the age of six or seven until I was close to graduating from college, I could pretty well count on receiving some item of Duxbak apparel as a Christmas gift. It might be a cap, a coat, a vest, or most frequently, a pair of pants. The company which made Duxbak is now long gone, little more than a distant memory. It is clear, however, that in older segments of society fond recollections of their superior quality outdoor clothing remain strong. Every time I mention anything related to Duxbak in print I’ll get an inquiry or two from folks hoping against hope they can somehow still locate clothing made by the company. The explanation for this passion for Duxbak goes well beyond nostalgia, for here is a splendid example of the truth inherent in the oft-uttered words: “They don’t make ‘em like they used to.” The fact that the clothing of those in the photograph was almost a uniform, never mind a half a century separation in age and three generations being pictured, says a great deal about the quality and appeal of Duxbak. Mind you, it is still possible to get sound, sturdy outdoor attire which will wear well. I just got a new upland hunting coat from L. L. Bean which is a dandy, and Carhartt makes work and sporting wear which is quite durable. Yet in those grand days of yesteryear, Duxbak was in a class by itself. The fabric they used, tightly stitched and apparently employing some kind of canvas, although I’ll confess to knowing precious little about types of cloth, withstood the unkind attention of blackberry and dewberry briars in noble fashion. It turned saw briars aside like an armor-plated tank; was virtually impermeable when it came to rain or snow; shrugged off snagging on that invention of the devil, barbed wired; and was surprisingly comfortable to wear. I say surprising, because a pair of Duxbak pants was so stiff they would virtually stand upright by themselves, and a coat would rest on the floor in an erect stance which would do a guard at Buckingham Palace proud. You could probably wash Duxbak clothing, although I don’t ever recall doing so. It took infusions of blood from rabbits, squirrels, quail, and grouse in stride, and if a bit of personal plasma from a wayward briar that raked your nose or ear was added, so much the better. Such scratches were almost a badge of honor for serious rabbit hunters. So too, for that matter, were frayed bottoms to Duxbak britches. Signs of wear about where the pants covered the tops of your combat boots (surplus Army boots being standard hunting footwear in the 1950s) simply indicated you were doing your duty as a rabbit hunter. Mom always saved the pants I outgrew, and material from them, carefully sewn to the bottoms, extended the life of a pair of Duxbak pants. Basically, a pair would last me two hunting seasons. On the surface that may seem pretty poor performance, but that perspective changes when you realize just how much wear and tear the pants endured. I never met a briar patch I didn’t feel obligated to attack, and my rabbit hunting forays probably averaged a bit over two outings a week throughout the season (with virtually every day of Christmas vacation involving at least some hunting). Quite simply, when you wore Duxbak with it came the realization that, clothing-wise, you could be no better prepared for the hunting field. Honesty compels me to admit that my waist line has long since expanded beyond what the last pair of Duxbak pants I owned could encompass, but I still own a hunting coat which belonged to my late father-in-law along with a vest, complete with shotshell loops, which may have come from the same source. Both garments were purchased well over half a century, and they are just as tough, rugged, and practical as the day they came from the sporting goods store in the late 1940s or early 1950s. That’s quality and durability of the kind American manufacturers once offered not just in sporting wear but in automobiles, shotguns, and indeed about any item you care to mention. I for one miss not only Duxbak gear but the old-fashioned American pride in the product which went with it. Still, even if we have sent our economic soul overseas (and look what it has brought us), it’s comforting to dream of Duxbak days. What I wouldn’t give for one more chance to go back to those halcyon days of yesteryear—days when a party of hunters went afield expecting to end the hunt with upwards of 20 cottontails, when permission to hunt was invariably granted, when a pack of beagles sang a hallelujah chorus from shortly after daylight until a tired bunch of canines and their human companions called it quits in the gloaming, and when Duxbak clothing ruled supreme. A favorite writer of mine, Archibald Rutledge, put it quite nicely in the title of one of his books--“Those Were the Days.” I can only hope, for those of you who are sufficiently long in the tooth, that you too experienced some Duxbak days or, lacking that, at least know whereof I speak when I harken back to mixed bag hunting on dull December days when mackerel skies carried a hint of coming snow and when every hunter afield kept an eye out for mistletoe, holly with lots of berries, and a cedar or Virginia pine perfectly shaped for the family Christmas tree. If so, you have some real riches in the vaults of your memory. I’ll close by wishing each and every one of you a Merry Christmas, and if you are at a loss for a gift suitable for a good hunting buddy, someone who regularly cooks game, or maybe just need some armchair adventure for yourself, take a peek at what’s offered in the books section of this Web site. There’s everything from the books I have written and edited, to all sorts of out-of-print items relating to turkey hunting, sport in Africa, and noted authors such as Archibald Rutledge and Robert Ruark. Thank you for subscribing to the
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