The 'Tween Season Blues has struck again at Billmore Estate and, as usual, has turned yours truly into a puddle of ineptness at things he normally handles with confidence and ease.

I call the period we're in now the " 'Tween Season" because it is a time between the end of hunting season and the beginning of another. And we have to go all the way to April, which is at least a thousand years, before another hunting season. This time it's wild turkeys. I am not an avid turkey hunter and have tried it only twice in my life, but I may try it again this year, if it will appease the emptiness of leaving another quail season, such as it is nowadays, behind.

From deer and ducks through quail and rabbits it was what I call a "shoulda, woulda, coulda but didn't" season. That was brought to my attention shortly after the hunting season ended when a friend who lets me hunt a swamp for ducks asked me an embarrassing question: "Did'ya kill any ducks?" The very idea of him asking a question like that of a hunter of my experience – and with other people listening!

I could have replied that I had shoulder problems and was taking therapy, and I had to switch the gun to the other shoulder, which was awkward after so many years of firing from the other side, and how I had to change the gun safety from right-handed to left-handed, but then had to use it backward because now my bad shoulder is not my good shooting shoulder anymore. And, anyway, that swamp probably is not the best place for ducks. Instead, I just said, "I'm sure I scared some of them."

He just couldn't leave well enough alone, though. "My nephew killed six in that swamp," he informed me, then quickly added, "Well, he's a young gun, but aren't they all?'

"Yeah," I said as he was walking off. "You and I used to be." And in my mind I was thinking that it was so long ago that I could hardly remember those days.

My grandson became one of those "young guns" when he killed his first quail this year, and the birddog pup – the one who hid behind a tree to keep from going with me a year ago – became a graceful, excellent hunter with picture-perfect points. We all grew up a little more.

Anyway, when the season ended, my shoulder had improved so much that I decided to change the gun's safety back to the other side again. Now, as you may know or may not know, many gun parts are very minute, and this part is less than a quarter-inch long. And as I have gotten older, parts look even smaller.

I fixed a place at the kitchen table to work on the shotgun and replace the safety spring and plunger. I thought I had the plunger seated on the spring just right. My wife came into the kitchen and opened the pantry door. At that moment, the unexpected happened. Zzziing! The plunger left the spring so fast I couldn't see it, and went toward the pantry.

I spent several days searching, emptying the pantry from top to bottom and replacing everything. I had given up ever finding it when my wife said I should try just one more time. It had to be in the kitchen somewhere, and, she said, "It most likely had to be in the pantry." You've just got to have patience and look again.

Wives. Bless their hearts, so optimistic, yet so unknowing when it comes to man things such as gun parts, etc.

But, I humored her and I emptied the pantry again and could not find it. I gave up. She helped me put stuff back where it belonged, handing me items as I restocked the pantry.

We were finishing up when she handed me two large pans. I stuck them on a shelf and turned them on edge to store them, and the missing plunger fell into my hand.

Wives. Bless their hearts. So understanding and knowledgeable about man's lack of patience.

There is a God. I know, because he gave us hunting seasons and wives to help us get through the 'Tween Seasons. Hmm, I wonder if she will help me get my fishing reel back together.

Bill Stancil is a freelance writer and former staff member of the Rocky Mount Telegram.