Can you say *&#@&&*? I did several times today as I tried to figure out what was wrong with my blog site. I couldn't get it to respond. My son-in-law came over (he built this computer) and he left scratching his head. I finally did what I do best and started tearing things up. Somewhere in all the mayhem, I regained control of this beast (at least temporarily) and I am back in business. I missed writing, but I missed visiting the other blog sites I'm currently addicted to more. Beth said she wanted more familial historical fiction, so I decided this might be a good day for that. She featured one of my poems on her site today so I'll dispense with the poetry and go prose. There is some truth in these stories, but like all stories the truth gets combined with faded memories and imagination, so who knows where one ends and the other starts. The house pictured here is the one mentioned in the story. It is a log home covered with lap siding. Parts of it were built before the Civil War. The original gate posts were moved to Maine and remain there today.
THE COON HUNT
The night was blacker than the bottom of an iron washpot, and the chilly November air cut like a knife. After Grandpa went to bed, my Uncle Tommy said, “Let’s go coon hunting.” I was watching television in the warm glow of a wood fire, but Tommy was up for adventure.
What is it about the coming of fall that makes a man want to take up arms and go to the woods? As long as I can remember it has been a family tradition. I was fairly fond of exploring and hunting during daylight hours, but after dark I really preferred the warmth of the fireplace.
This story really starts many years before. I resided in the city most of my childhood, with occasional excursions to my grandparents’ farm for lessons from various older family members in the “how to” of rural living. There, in the old log house built before the Civil War, I learned to drink milk that had not been pasteurized or homogenized. By the time I came along, a room with an indoor toilet, and a claw foot iron bathtub had been attached to the back porch. In the summer months, we sometimes took a bar of soap to the creek and bathed. In the winter we sat shivering in the deep iron bathtub. Either way, bathing was invigorating.
I enjoyed watching as my Granddad worked with the animals on his farm. One day as I watched him gathering eggs, he saw a large chicken snake in the rafters of the hen house. He sent me to the house for his .22 rifle. I returned with the gun and stood in the doorway cautiously watching as he shot the snake. He took the barrel of the rifle and lifted the dead snake from the ceiling flipping it in my direction. It landed across my outstretched arms. I danced the “dance of life” and was able to untangle the long snake from my body. When I regained my composure I was able to examine the snake more objectively.
I listened to my grandfather for endless hours as he told of people and times long past. Many times he told these tales as we walked with him through the dense woods and swamps that surrounded his homestead. He knew every inch of his place in daylight and dark.
I was never particularly good with details. He pointed out various trees and other landmarks as we strolled along. I was enthralled by his bass fiddle voice and rugged appearance. I tried to imagine what he was like when he was younger. I enjoyed his stories. As a result, I paid no attention to the landmarks as we passed them, and so I was lost most of the time.
Some of these treks were made with my Uncle Tommy. He was married to my aunt, Mary Alice, and on occasion he and my aunt would be at the farm when I was there.
Tommy was an engineer, and like most engineers he majored in details. He measured every step. He wrote down the names of the trees that Grandpa identified, and he asked millions of questions. I thought we made a good pair. If Grandpa asked questions along the way, Tommy always had the answers. I was free to concentrate on my imaginings, confident that Grandpa and Tommy had the situation well in hand.
This training took place throughout my childhood. Now I was old enough to hold my own in most situations, and I didn’t want anyone to think that I couldn’t. As I said in the beginning, after Grandpa turned in, Uncle Tommy came up with his suggestion. I didn’t particularly like the woods at night, but with great bravado I took the old model 97 Winchester shotgun from the wall rack and loaded my pockets with shotgun shells.
Tommy and I left the warmth and light of the house and walked into the chilly darkness. I followed Uncle Tommy’s light beam into the dark woods. I was sure Tommy remembered all of the paths and trails that led to the swamp behind the old house. Trudging along behind him, I looked in all of the trees for eyes that might shine in the beam of the light that he carried. We followed the white puffs that formed with each breath, and walked further into the encircling trees. I’m sure Tommy thought I had lots of nighttime hunting experience.
“Hey, what do you suppose those eyes are?” I asked.
“They look like a ‘possum’s to me,” he said.
“Yeah, I think you’re right.” I really had no idea.
After a while, we both noticed how nothing looked familiar. In fact, we didn’t recognize anything. Our focus had been in the tops of the huge hardwood trees and not on our direction of travel. The ground was muddy and smelled sour. We knew we were near the creek. The temperature must have dropped some because I got colder.
Something screamed in the darkness.
It sounded close.
“Hey, Tommy.”
“Yeah.”
“What did Grandpa tell us about panthers coming through this country?” I whispered.
“He said they used to be pretty common.”
The piercing scream sounded again. This time it was closer. We both stopped and stared into the blackness trying to catch any movement. I racked the slide on the old twelve gauge and chambered a number four high based shot shell. I eased the hammer down.
“Let’s get out of here.” I said in a strained voice.
“Is the house this way?” Tommy asked.
I was not comforted by his question.
We had forgotten about coon hunting. Our primary objective shifted to locating the shortest route to the house.
The underbrush thickened. Saw briars raked our pants, and bamboo briars with their long spines poked our jackets. I was sweating now.
I thought about firing the shotgun so someone could locate us. But, we were hunting, they would expect to hear gunfire. Nothing was said for a while as we plowed through the tangled underbrush. Occasionally we broke our heavy breathing to suggest a course change. We wandered aimlessly in the dark, usually choosing the path that offered the least resistance. We were hopelessly lost.
Just in my hour of deepest dread, I saw automobile headlights not twenty yards to my left. A car rumbled past and disappeared into the night. Tommy and I surged for the road. We exited the woods fifty yards from the house. We were sweaty, scratched, and glad to be home. Once inside we spoke very little. I unloaded the shotgun and put it back in the rack while Tommy put the light away. We made ourselves ready for bed.
