Wing Bits and Pieces

 Wing Life -  Bits and Pieces

Coon Hunting

As a young boy, I often accompanied a couple of the older boys on coon hunting trips. The hides could bring in a little spending money, and thinning the coons out during the winter usually helped out our corn patch the next summer. Coons just love corn in the roasting ear stage, and a family of coons could quickly make a portion of the patch look like hogs had gone through it in a very short time.

     I didn't have a battery for my headlight, couldn't afford one. I often borrowed Dad's large battery from his electric cow fence to hook up to my light, though it was very heavy, maybe twenty pounds. I could never quite keep up with the older boys, toting that battery, but I was sure as heck never going to let them get out of my sight, either. Tooter was not a good coon dog, but my friend had a big hound that was very good. We could follow his barks as he trailed a coon, then if he treed it, the bark changed. We headed out to that spot quickly. We carried a .22 rifle, though our poor lights offered little help in bringing the coon out of the tree. We sometimes “squalled” a coon down. As best as I could ever figure out, making a sound similar to a coon fighting a dog would often cause a coon to climb down the tree, I suppose thinking that while another coon kept the dogs occupied, it could get away. But it would be met by the dog once out of the tree.

     Once two or three were caught, and the dogs were off trailing another one, we built up a fire and skinned out those we already had. That cut down on the weight we had to carry. A large coon could weigh about fifteen pounds. We only took the skin. My family seldom if ever ate coons, though the meat is good. Dad's family had some bad experiences during the depression with some wild meat, and he became very picky. Squirrels were the wild meat of choice. It was very good, and never caused problems.

     The hides were later stretched out on a board or on a wall. A well stretched coon hide is almost square, and the fur buyer who came to our house always said my coon hides were handled better that others, and that made me feel good. But, actually, I think I got about the same price, a buck and a quarter, as others. Many people did eat the meat, and the meat could be sold for a buck or so. If I could put it in my bag with that twenty pound battery, and carry it all the way to the house, while keeping those older boys in sight. I never sold any coon meat.

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The State Fair

Fourche Valley School, in my childhood, always sent one school bus to the state fair each year at Little Rock. Those of us lucky enough to get a seat on that bus had a great day, seeing and experiencing many new things far removed from our life at Fourche Valley.

     At thirteen, I finally got a seat on that bus. At the fair, as I wandered around wide eyed, I started noticing hundreds of federal troops walking about, and I wondered about that. I had no knowledge of the drama that swirled around Little Rock that year, at the height of the Central High School integration crisis. On the bus headed out of Little Rock, a black girl walked along the sidewalk. The boy in front of me lowered his window, and hollered out what I now know was a hurtful racist remark to her. She turned her head toward the bus, and answered in kind, it looked like, because her face was contorted in anger. But her words were just carried away by the wind. I wondered to myself why he did that. He, nor I, had never known a black person. None lived in Fourche Valley. All I knew was, she was just another person, like us, minding her own business. I never again thought highly of that boy after that.

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The Keen Switch

     One day, Sammy Turner was at my house. He wanted to go to the river, a couple of miles away. I asked Mom. She said no. We sneaked off and went anyway.  

     When I got home, Mom was waiting. With a freshly cut  switch. I had never experienced the switch before, though I had heard many tales of it from my siblings. Those tales  had pretty well kept me in line up to this point. Mom walked toward me. I was taller than her by now,  and as I looked down at that small woman, I knew I was too big for her to do that to. I made a major mistake. I smirked down at her.

     She grasped my left arm, and started swinging away. Round and round we went. I just could not get away from that small woman. My screams echoed all over that hillside.  I never felt the switch again from her. A limber switch does no damage, but the pain is intense. Properly applied, once is enough for a lifetime. At least, it was for me

     This year, I had the opportunity to pass that bit of country wisdom down. I was at my daughter's house. Her husband was gone for a couple of days. Her youngest is very headstrong. He just decided that he would not do a thing she said. Her regular discipline just didn't work. The final step was for him to have to deal with his dad, when he got home, but now Dad was gone.

     I went out in the back yard, and found the perfect keen switch, just as I remembered it. I called her out. I explained the hold one arm, and whale away with the other technique. Then I told her to hit me with it. She did. I called her a wimp, her son would laugh at that weak effort. I instructed her to hit me, harder each time, until she got it right. Her hand was shaking by now. After about half a dozen licks, she finally got it right, and earned my respect. A couple of days later, her time came. She earned his respect, also. After half a dozen proper swings, he broke loose, and ran. She later found him hiding behind the clothes washer. She got a bonus. After the youngest gave a full description to the oldest son, they both got much better. When her husband returned, things were different. When trouble arose, they both begged her to let Dad handle the discipline.

When I was a small boy, I went into Herbert Person’s house, our next door neighbor a mile away. On the wall was a mounted, pure white albino crow. Albinos normally are looked at as just different, other animals of their species tended to reject them, so their line does not last long in the wild before it plays out. This crow, however, must have had attractions for at least one other crow, because during most of my childhood, we always had a few white winged crows after our corn crop. My job was to protect the patch, as best I could, with our .12 gauge double barrel shotgun. I just never could make myself shoot one of those white ones, however, they were too pretty. So I just gave them a free pass to our corn. That line played out after awhile, and they finally disappeared.

This year, some 50 years later, I told Annette Person Miley, Herbert’s granddaughter, about that white crow. She pulled out a picture of that mounted crow, and the feathers had all turned black over the years. At long last, That “different” crow finally looked like all the others in it’s pack. He Woulda’ been proud.