Growing up where I did in the red clay, pine tree expanses of Ward 2, Natchitoches Parish, we lived off the land for the most part. A big garden with corn, peas, potatoes, tomatoes and such was supplemented by the wild game we were able to glean from the woods.

If you lived in areas near lakes, there was plenty of fish to be had along with roasted mallards and pintails. Where I lived, there were fish in the creeks but our ducks were limited for the most part to a single species of duck. City folks called them wood ducks; I called them squealers.

These fast flying, diving and darting little ducks were things of beauty, especially the colorful male. Its head was a kaleidoscope of color of red eyes and bill, iridescent green cap that swooped down in a crest in the back, white striped throat and mottled brown breast while the less gaudy-colored female sported a gray-brown coat with a prominent eye ring of white.

These ducks, unlike most other species, have the distinction of nesting in hollow tree cavities or in man-made nesting boxes.

The nickname, squealer, comes from the fact it doesn’t “quack” like other ducks; its sound is a loud “hoo-eek” or “jeweeep” these colorful ducks make to communicate with each other and to let hunters know to get ready; here they come.

My introduction to hunting wood ducks started when I was just a youngster and my dad would roust my brother and me from our bed early fall and winter mornings for a 20-minute drive from our home to the “Sand Flats,” a section of woods adjacent to Saline Bayou where stunted scrub oaks grew. The ducks would leave roosts somewhere in the swamp and without fail, headed to feeding grounds to the north where acorns were plentiful. Passing over the Sand Flat, we waited with shotguns at the ready to hear that whistling squeal as ducks passed over.

The action lasted less than half an hour but if you were lucky, you might down one or two as the ducks whistled by.

Other times, we would all drive down to Saline swamp with hip boots where we would wade out into the shallow water to try and entice squealers to pass by close enough for a shot. It was there one morning when I killed my very first duck, a squealer that came squealing and careening through the timber so close it was almost self defense. When I fired, the duck fell at my feet; its head several steps away.

One morning as a teen, I was standing in water a couple of inches below the top of my boots when a squealer was headed my way, I got ready, took aim and fired a shot with my double barrel 12 gauge. I missed the duck but the recoil rocked me back, I was unable to balance and I settled down in water up to my armpits. By the way, it was 22 degrees when we left home that morning.

To put the crown on any squealers we brought home was how my mom converted the ducks to one of the most delicious meals to be had. Using her old cast iron pot, she would brown the ducks, add a little water and seasoning, put the lid on the pot and slowly simmer the birds until they were tender. What I most remember is the rich dark brown gravy that resulted. Spooning that on a bed of rice with a slice of squealer breast was a meal the most tender ribeye steak couldn’t match.

I don’t know if squealers still fly over the Sand Flats but for a youngster getting a taste of duck hunting for the first time, those few minutes of hoping one would come squealing over where I stood still occupy a special niche in my memory.

Contact Glynn at glynnharris37@gmail.com