I feel I must begin this week’s column with a clarification of sorts, as I do not wish to be misunderstood with the point of this piece of writing.

I am not now, nor have I ever been, anti-hunting.

Generations of McCollums who came before me hunted for sport and food, and no doubt those who come after me will indulge in the same practices.

Even after one of our extended family members got blasted down on a dirt road after being mistaken for a deer by some friends while on her daily walk, we still remain fervently pro-hunting (though we do often wonder how you think a woman in a paisley housecoat is a deer and are highly in favor of hunting education courses).

We currently find ourselves in the midst of dove hunting season, a season that Alabama wildlife experts tell us is the perfect time of year to educate young people on the joys and practices of hunting.

Since doves are small game, hunting them is safe for the youngsters and instills in them a sense of honor and pride about the art of a good kill.

There can be great joy derived from participating in the hunt, getting to enjoy the electric thrill of taking down prey as it attempts to wing away.

That is, unless you’re Young Cliff.

You see, dear readers, despite the best efforts of my father, his hunting buddies and their sons (who were my friends and classmates), I never really took to hunting.

I can remember being taken to various isolated fields and forests to hunt for game of all kinds: dove, deer, turkey and once, I believe, wild hogs – sadly all to no avail.

The first time Dad took me hunting, we were about 30 minutes into the woods before he noticed I had neglected to bring my gun with me; I had instead opted to bring the book I was reading.

My thoughts were that I only had the ability to carry the book or the gun, and I felt I’d get more use out of the book.

Were my father not a church deacon in good standing, I think I might have learned what curse words were that day.

My protestations that I could just use his gun if we saw something, or that I’d gladly let him take all of the shots that day, fell on deaf ears.

Later that day, when we gathered to see everyone else’s kills, some of my younger friends had made their first kill and were indulging in the then-typical practice of smearing the blood all over their faces in some act of symbolism that seemed barbaric (or at the least severely unhygienic) to Young Cliff.

As I explained my stance to my friends, I began to notice that familiar glaze of boredom drift over their expressions, as it often did when their precocious friend launched off on one of his tirades.

My father tried many more times over the years to get me to take to hunting, but, at the end of the day, I suppose I wasn’t the type to go off and sit out in the woods for hours on end waiting for an animal to possibly happen by.

He found better luck with my sister Ansley, who enjoyed not only getting out in nature but also the time spent bonding with her father.

I do now indulge in the act of “snake hunting,” but that largely consists of walking around in wooded areas or around ponds and hoping to happen on the reptiles so that we can take their picture, upload the GPS coordinates to the database and then send them along their way.

I’ve been told this is not “hunting proper,” but there are enough people out there who kill snakes for no reason and I refuse to be among their number.

So, hunters, enjoy the coming seasons and take joy and pride in watching your young ones come to know and love the sacred art of hunting.

However, keep a spare comic book or a nice chapter book handy, though, just in case you’re blessed/cursed with a youngster more in my mold.

Cliff McCollum is managing editor of Gulf Coast Newspapers. He can be reached at cmccollum@gulfcoastnewspapers.com.