Memories or Tradition

Memories or is it traditions that make the holidays special?

If it’s memories, today I experienced a flood of them. How you ask? Well, today, for the first time in years, as I entered Joes Hardware in Fallbrook, California I was surprised to see front and center a W. R. Case and Sons Cutlery Co. knife display. This took me back . . .

Christmas shopping at Marshall’s TrueValue Hardware store in Cuba, Illinois. You see, when you walked in the front door, just to your left was a special display of Case knives. I had to stop and look at the wide selection thinking someday I’ll be old enough to buy myself one.

Why Case? Because that’s what Dad always used. You see, my Dad was a traditional outdoorsman. A hunter. He loved to hunt; rabbits, squirrels, quail, pheasant, raccoons (coons), whatever was in season. His spare time was spent in the woods hunting or on a river fishing with his children. No, not for sport. It supplemented his income. As a boy it was my job to hold the game as he skinned and cleaned it for the freezer, using his Case knife.

Christmas Eve we would go Coon Hunting. Not to watch for Santa, but to teach me how to navigate the woods in complete darkness using the stars as your directional compass. Under a velvet black sky with millions of twinkling stars we would walk through the woods waiting, listening for the dogs to tree a coon. To me it seemed we were always walking in circles.

For those who’ve never been it was went something like this:

“Good night for Coon hunting, fresh snow on the ground, get your boots and hunting clothes on - it’s cold tonight.”

He would grab his carbide light, spotlight, rifle, cartridges, knife, dog leash and load the hounds in their dog box in the back of his truck.

“We taking Ranger and Nailer tonight?” They were Dad’s most dependable coon hounds.

“Tonight we’re just taking Ranger.”

“Where we going?” I asked.

“Out near Grandpa’s.”

He always called his father Grandpa. My Dad was one of nine siblings. Each had married young and had four to five kids on average, we had a large family. Many nights Grandpa and my Uncle Lyle, Dad’s younger brother, would join us. But tonight it was just Dad and me.

So we drove out Route 97, took the gravel road, parked the truck about two miles from Grandpa's house, Rural Route #2, Canton, Il. We could easily see their house from where we entered the woods.

“Ok, turn Ranger loose.”

Ranger leapt from the truck, his enthusiasm was contagious.

With the crunching of snow we entered the woods soon to be completely surrounded by large oak trees. The moon was full, we needed no carbide light tonight.

“Hear that? Ranger has a scent.” Dad said.

“I don’t hear anything.”

“Listen - you can hear him rustling the leaves under the snow and snorting as he tracks that coon.”

About that time Ranger began to bay, a deep, long bark, almost a howl. As he straighten out the track his howling would increase in rhythm. As if he were singing a song. Dad would smile, stop, cock his head and listen intently. “He’s headed north. Towards the house,” (Grandpa's house).

We had been walking for a while. Honestly, I was lost, without Dad I would have probably never found my way back to the truck.

“Which way is the house?” he asked me.

Bowing my head in shame, “I don’t know, we’ve been walking in circles.”

“Look up, see the Big Dipper. Follow that arm of the dipper, that’s the North Star. From there you can find your way anytime.

“What if it’s cloudy?”

“Then you use a pole light from the house as your reference when you enter the woods.”

About then Ranger began to bark very slow and steady.

“He’s treed a coon, let’s go.”

We made our way thru the timber until we found Ranger with his front paws extended up the tree barking faster now as if to say, “That coon is here - no doubt.”

So, Dad pulls out his big spotlight and begins to scan the tree.

Quietly he says, “Look there, follow the light.”

To my wonder I saw a pair of very large eyes. It was a great Horned Owl. He slowly turned his head to the left, then to the right. “Are you going to shoot it?” I asked.

“Nope, those owls keep the mice down in the barns around here. We’re looking for the coon that Ranger has treed.”

And sure enough higher in that large tree, in a fork, almost hidden from view was a very large Raccoon.

“Hold Ranger, I’ll shoot him out. When the coon hits the ground let Ranger go.”

I’m here to tell you, when that coon hit, I had no choice, Ranger leaped from my grip practically dragging me into the fight with him and that coon. Ole’ Ranger was a pro, he latched on to that coon by the neck and quickly took him out.

Dad pulled out his knife, gutted the coon and asked, “Which way to the truck?”

I pointed South, we put Ranger on the leash and headed home.

That was my first time seeing a Great Horned Owl. It’s been years since I’ve been Coon hunting. But, that Christmas Eve memory is burned into my mind.

And it was all due to seeing that Case Knife display, go figure.

Merry Christmas!

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