Though rabbit hunting has fallen by the wayside for many sportsmen, the Bama woodlands are full of bunnies. Photo by Ron Sinfelt.

"When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things."

No offense to the Apostle Paul, who wrote those words -- but at times I wish I hadn't heeded them.

When I was a child, I hunted as a child does. I understood the ways of squirrels, rabbits and, to a lesser extent, bobwhite quail. I planned ambushes, and some of them worked. But when I became a man, I soon forgot how much fun that type of hunting was. And now that I'm old enough to admit it, to cherish it, I have no children to pass those sports along to.

I've hunted almost every species to be found in the Heart of Dixie -- not to mention those in about 13 other states, three Canadian provinces, in Finland and South Africa. My brain has recorded a lifetime of experiences in the great outdoors. Yet while I can reflect on and wax poetic about encounters with record-book whitetails and black mambas, some of my most cherished memories take me back to childhood, when Alabama small game was more than enough to seduce me.

Every so often, it's good to remind all hunters that there's no lure stronger than success when introducing a kid to hunting. Big bucks aside, the most consistent success comes from pursuing small game.

There are plenty of places to go, many of which won't cost a dime. And there have never been as many squirrels and rabbits. (Bobwhites have certainly have seen better times -- but that's why the state's numerous quail preserves come in handy.)

Many of the people and places I'm about to introduce had slipped deep into my own personal well of memories. That they're coming back to me now, as colorful and lively as they were almost four decades ago, is a testament to small-game hunting.

So pull up a rocker, lean back, and maybe even search your own wells. When you're done, I bet you look at your shotgun or your rimfire and start making plans to hit the fields or woodlands.

SQUIRREL MASTERS
Lee Estis wasn't your typical Alabama hunter when I met him in the mid-1970s. Or maybe he was.

In his late 60s back then, the patriarch of the Estis clan belonged to W.E. McGowen Hunting Club in York, home away from home for 30 to 40 Birmingham-area residents who'd discovered that paradise was a mere two-hour drive down the newly-opened Interstate 59/20.

A man of few words -- almost unintelligible ones at that, given his proclivity for stuffing baseball-sized wads of chewing tobacco into his jaw -- Lee's claim to fame was that nobody could shoot as many squirrels, nor yank off their hides, as fast as he could. The only member who came close to rivaling him was his own best hunting and fishing buddy Frank Stokes.

Separately, they were nothing alike. Lee might've had a dozen hairs on his head, his scalp always snugly covered by a sweat-stained ball cap tilted sideways, which always seemed to make his glass eye bulge even more. He wore old WWII camo festooned with patches and was always in need of a shave; the gray-whiskered jaw bore a perpetual brown stain from the corner of his mouth to his chin.

In stark contrast stood the shorter and stouter Frank, always freshly-shaven, his full head of dark hair clean and combed. He fancied crisp new redbone-colored Carharts and caps with straight bills -- versus those that folks roll tightly so that the brims will curve around their faces.

Lee and Frank were squirrel-hunting aces beyond compare. More than once, club members eager to get a jump on deer season would drive to York in order to participate in the early fall squirrel-fest presided over by these gentlemen. It was the only time of year that the older gents were granted the opportunity to hold court, since Lady Luck would have to intervene if they were ever afforded a shot at a whitetail.

Of course, they had to do all the cleaning, too, not to mention the cooking of the squirrels. As if they'd have had it any other way!