For the past few weeks as the weather has been pretty nasty for North Carolina, I’ve been shooting objects on an old table in my den. These are very eclectic things for the most part and some of them have special meanings only for me. Today the images are of a box of cartridges and a hand-made turkey call that belonged to my Grandfather. I’ve mentioned the problems we’ve had with poachers around our farm lately on this blog, but I don’t want to give the impression that I don’t like hunters. On the contrary, I have great respect for hunters, real hunters. Living during the Great Depression, my Grandfather was a real hunter and fisherman. He ate what he killed, he hit what he shot at, he respected other people’s property, and he never took more than he needed for his family. I just wish the guys riding around my house at night could be more like him.