Tangopappa.com	Family Stories All True As Far As I Know (Except The One's That Aren't)	N5VHR.com
Contents Introduction Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Helen's Benediction Frank's Tractors Wynn Haynie PHOTOS Stories and Tales (Mostly True) Guestbook	As Related To Thomas, Youngest Son Of Frank Jr. With Absolutely No Embellishments....trust me... Ron’s Shooting: Why He Always Said “Yessir” and “Nossir” to His Daddy Frank Parson was an avid, unapologetic bird hunter—especially doves and blue quail. He dragged his boy children along on plenty of hunts, and this particular tale about my older brother Ron has been clan gospel since I was old enough to tag along myself. The whole family swears it’s true… or at least should be. Here’s how I remember it. Dove hunting on the Caprock in southeastern New Mexico was a different beast than in more civilized parts. Water is scarce out there, so the trick was finding a stock tank—a pond fed by a windmill for cattle. These ranged from small metal troughs to sprawling earthen ones an acre or two wide. You’d park near a promising tank, settle into the shade of a big mesquite tree, and wait for doves to fly in at sunrise or sunset after feeding in nearby fields. One evening, Frank and a pre-teen Ron spotted a good-sized tank, parked, and picked their shooting spots. Ron, being a normal (if slightly feral) kid, quickly got bored with the whole “sit and wait” routine. He wandered off to entertain himself in the brush. The last thing Dad told him was the sage advice: “Watch out for snakes.” Solid counsel in that snakey country. Ron, never much of a listener, disappeared around the corner into a thick clump of mesquite—prime real estate for playing cowboys and Indians. Eventually the doves started coming in. Frank spotted one gliding across the tank from the left, shouldered his shotgun, and tracked it smoothly to the right. Perfect sight picture… trigger pull… right as the barrel swung toward that very clump of mesquite. Twelve-gauge pellets rained down on Ron’s hiding spot. Several caught him in the back of the head and shoulders. Thankfully, the distance and mesquite branches took most of the sting out of them. Still, getting shot in the back is never ideal. Ron, understandably miffed, bellowed at the top of his lungs: “I’m hit!!!” Frank misheard it as “I’m bit”—as in snakebit. Ever the concerned father, he did what any sensible man would do in rattlesnake country: he blasted the bush again. Yes, dear reader—my dad shot my older brother. Twice. In the back. I couldn’t make this up if I tried. The story has a happy ending. Both parties quickly decided bygones were bygones. Dad loaded Ron up and drove him 30–45 minutes to town, where old Doc Hopkins picked out some pellets, left others in (they’re still there to this day), and patched him up. Ron occasionally has one surface under his scalp—makes for great show-and-tell at physicals. Lessons learned that day: • Frank: Don’t accidentally shoot your own kid (the jury’s still out on intentional). • Ron: Listen better and show more respect. He became a model “Yessir, Nossir” son afterward. • Helen (Mom): Oh,You better bet that she never let either of them live it down. Not for a single day. Thus ends this particular Parson family legend. Pass the dove (or the whiskey -- Always makes a good story better). Do you have another of these family legends? Please email it to me at webdude@tangopappa.com and we will see if I can get it on here.
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Family Stories
All True As Far As I Know
(Except The One's That Aren't)

Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Helen's Benediction

Frank's Tractors

Wynn Haynie

PHOTOS

Stories and Tales
(Mostly True)

Guestbook

As Related To Thomas, Youngest Son Of Frank Jr. With Absolutely No Embellishments....trust me...

Ron’s Shooting:

Why He Always Said “Yessir” and “Nossir” to His Daddy

Frank Parson was an avid, unapologetic bird hunter—especially doves and blue quail. He dragged his boy children along on plenty of hunts, and this particular tale about my older brother Ron has been clan gospel since I was old enough to tag along myself. The whole family swears it’s true… or at least should be. Here’s how I remember it.

Dove hunting on the Caprock in southeastern New Mexico was a different beast than in more civilized parts. Water is scarce out there, so the trick was finding a stock tank—a pond fed by a windmill for cattle. These ranged from small metal troughs to sprawling earthen ones an acre or two wide. You’d park near a promising tank, settle into the shade of a big mesquite tree, and wait for doves to fly in at sunrise or sunset after feeding in nearby fields.

One evening, Frank and a pre-teen Ron spotted a good-sized tank, parked, and picked their shooting spots. Ron, being a normal (if slightly feral) kid, quickly got bored with the whole “sit and wait” routine. He wandered off to entertain himself in the brush. The last thing Dad told him was the sage advice: “Watch out for snakes.” Solid counsel in that snakey country.

Ron, never much of a listener, disappeared around the corner into a thick clump of mesquite—prime real estate for playing cowboys and Indians.

Eventually the doves started coming in. Frank spotted one gliding across the tank from the left, shouldered his shotgun, and tracked it smoothly to the right. Perfect sight picture… trigger pull… right as the barrel swung toward that very clump of mesquite.

Twelve-gauge pellets rained down on Ron’s hiding spot. Several caught him in the back of the head and shoulders. Thankfully, the distance and mesquite branches took most of the sting out of them. Still, getting shot in the back is never ideal.

Ron, understandably miffed, bellowed at the top of his lungs: “I’m hit!!!”

Frank misheard it as “I’m bit”—as in snakebit. Ever the concerned father, he did what any sensible man would do in rattlesnake country: he blasted the bush again.

Yes, dear reader—my dad shot my older brother. Twice. In the back. I couldn’t make this up if I tried.

The story has a happy ending. Both parties quickly decided bygones were bygones. Dad loaded Ron up and drove him 30–45 minutes to town, where old Doc Hopkins picked out some pellets, left others in (they’re still there to this day), and patched him up. Ron occasionally has one surface under his scalp—makes for great show-and-tell at physicals.

Lessons learned that day:
• Frank: Don’t accidentally shoot your own kid (the jury’s still out on intentional).
• Ron: Listen better and show more respect. He became a model “Yessir, Nossir” son afterward.
• Helen (Mom): Oh,You better bet that she never let either of them live it down. Not for a single day.

Thus ends this particular Parson family legend.

Pass the dove (or the whiskey -- Always makes a good story better).

Do you have another of these family legends? Please email it to me at

webdude@tangopappa.com and we will see if I can get it on here.

Back To Story Page

Suggestions or additions are welcome at

webdude@tangopappa.com