Plug Garrett pops up with his insights on life.
Well sir, yesterday evenin’ I wuz up at Hardin’s Store and got to watchin’ all the deer hunters speedin’ back to North Carolina. It got me to thinkin’ about how it wuz when I wuz a boy.
Well, I can tell you one thing, huntin’ wuz a lot cheaper back in them days than it is now. We didn’t have no four-wheelers; we just tramped around on our own two feet. We didn’t have no telescope on our rifles, neither. All we had was a good eye and a bit of luck.
These boys today are after big game and jes’ fer the sport of it. Years back, we had nothin’ but small targets — rabbits, squirrels, possums, coon, and a few doves and quail. And too, it was serious business ‘cause you was tryin’ to get somethin’ fresh for the dinner table. Back in them days, it was nothin’ for a small huntin’ party to bag 20 or 30 squirrels or rabbits in a day’s hunt. Huntin’ still goes on, but it jest seems like it was more sportin’ and a group thang to do. I noticed that huntin’ today seems to be pretty much solitary business — ain’t no such thing as a “huntin’ party.” Back then we liked the companionship as much as the huntin’ itself.
When I was growin’ up, nearly every man and boy owned his own gun. But you know, some folks is down right skeered of guns and wants everybody to git rid of theirs. Now here’s how I look at it. I’m skeered to death of snakes, and I don’t mess with ‘em, but now I ain’t goin’ to tell them people who likes snakes that they got to get rid of their enjoyment. No sir, I say iffin you skeered of ‘em, leave them to folks that ain’t skeered.
But anyhow, it wasn’t just men that took to huntin’; some of the women folk enjoyed the chase as much as any man. The other night when I was at the Museum of Western York County for Christmas in Olde Sharon, Mr. West told me that back in the 1920s a group of girls in Sharon got interested in possum huntin’ and formed themselves a club. I knowed one woman in my time that liked huntin’. Sally Hackabout was probably the Annie Oakley of the entire countryside ‘round here.
Sal, as we called her, took to huntin’ and fishin’ like a baby to its mama’s breast. I’m gonna tell you the truth now — she wudn’t much to look at. In fact, she was pert near an eyesore. But she could outshoot with the best of ‘em and hold her own during an all-night possum hunt. Sal could pretty easily be taken for a man — she looked like one, dressed like one. She walked, talked, and chewed like one. It didn’t bother us none a bit — we growed up with Sal — she was jest one of us. And I tell you, there wudn’t nary man questioned by his wife about bein’ out all night with Sal.
As much as we was used to Sal, we never gave her sex a thought — she was just one of us. But findin’ out Sal was a woman could shake up a stranger. Now, believe it or not, Sal was blind to the fact that her femininity was fully concealed, and she believed it was plain to everyone. There was one occasion when findin’ out she was a woman did more than unsettle a man.
As I remember it, a bunch of us was gettin’ up an all-night huntin’ party when one of Little Bob Thackett’s cousins showed up from North Carolina. He was invited to join us. Durin’ the introductions, it never occurred to us to mention that Sal was a woman. They was simple — “Howdy, this here’s Big Ted, Little Bob, Joe, Mike, Chicken Salad, Charlie, Spud, Sal, and Tangle Eye.
As it turned out, Little Bob’s cousin was bad to cuss. I don’t mean a word or two here and there, but mite nigh every other word. Now none of us was prudish about how we talked. Fact was, most of us spiked our conversation with a few non-Sunday School words, but we did try to retain a semblance of some manners on which we wuz all raised. Not this man — jest about every verb, noun, and adjective was vile and blasphemous, and even when they wudn’t, he could make common English sound scornful. ‘Bout midnight we wuz all fed up, and Sal had done built up a full head of steam. She snapped, “Hey! Didn’t your mama ever tell you not to cuss in front of a lady?” Cousin jest laughed, thinkin’ Sal was just funnin’, and said, “H___, I don’t see no ____ lady here” and kept right on. When he said that, every muscle ‘round the campfire jerked to full attention and quivered with fear.
Quicker than lightnin’, Sal was on Cousin and latched on to him tighter than a tick on a dog’s backside. She took into flailin’ him about the head with blunt force and in rapid succession. After she had fully convinced the man that a lady was present and had altered his language and face, we all headed home. On the way back, Cousin lagged some yards behind Sal. It’s not that he was skeered of her, and I’m tellin’ you he had a mighty big case of respect for Sal, but he had to move slow due to bein’ near blind in both eyes from the swellin’.
I mentioned that Tangle Eye Radcliff was with us, and you might not believe it, but it was a fact that he was the best shot in the bunch. Tangle Eye’s real name was Randy, but he got the nickname ‘cause his eyes didn’t work in sync. It was mite nigh impossible to have an eye-to-eye conversation with the man.
‘Fore I have to go, I have to tell you about “Chicken Salad” Tom’s huntin’ dogs. (Now you figure out he got that name fer yerself.) He had three of the best huntin’ dogs anywhere ‘round. And I have to say, they wuz mannerly, too. When they wuz jest pups, he trained them not to break wind in the house. Every time they broke the policy, Tom would grab ‘em up and throw ‘em out the window. Eventually, they wuz so well trained that when one of Tom’s boys broke the policy, all the dogs would run and jump out the window.
Well, I guess I better be headin’ back. Just remember, keep yer plow in the ground and make yer furrows straight.
J.L. West – Author
This article and many others found on the pages of Roots and Recall, were written by author J.L. West, for the YC Magazine and have been reprinted on R&R, with full permission – not for distribution or reprint!
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