My Granddad Fish died 51 years ago this month. The anniversary of his passing brings back memories of my favorite set of grandparents.
Grandma and Granddad lived in Eastern Iowa, on a farm of about 160 acres. Since I lived in Missouri for most of those teen years, a visit to their farm was a special occasion, the times we were able to drive the five hours north to get there. Mostly I remember baseball, a special rifle and a coon hunt in relation to Granddad.
Granddad Fish was born on August 13, 1893, and died not long before his 77th birthday. Most of his life was spent working on a farm, and raising five children, one of whom was my mother, his oldest. Granddad played baseball when he was a young man, mostly on what would be called a ‘town team’. I don’t know what position he played regularly, but he pitched from time to time. When he was about 65 years old, he taught me how to thrown a curve ball and what we call now a screwball. I was never very good at pitching, but it did add to my somewhat limited repertoire. Second base was my usual spot on the diamond, but when we were getting badly beaten, the coach would call for me to come in and ‘mop up’ at the end of the game. My limited number of fairly slow pitches were effective because of how different they were from our top two hurlers. Walter was our ace; he had a fast ball unequalled by any other in our conference. But — it didn’t move, his pitch just went straight. By the second time around the lineup, hitters could adjust and he was hit pretty hard.
Johnny was our number two in the rotation. He was a tall, raw-boned country boy, strong as an ox. His curve ball would start at your ear and would break over the place. Except — that was it. As with Walter, hitters would adjust and begin slugging the ball all over the park.
This was where Granddad’s tutelage came in. My speed in pitches were slow, slower and slowest. Many times that would be enough so I was moderately successful on the mound. Definitely not big-league material, but in small school baseball I got by. Granddad was able to come to a few of my games, but I am still not sure but what he thought at his age he could do better than I could!
Granddad had the most beautiful rifle that I saw. Dad had a simple .22 single shot rifle, but it paled in comparison with that rifle of Granddad’s. Grandads’s was fairly heavy, with a hex barrel, and a pump action that held about 16 or 18 .22 shells, and was built about 1912. So I silently coveted that weapon and wished I could go hunting with it. And the grand day finally arrived. We were visiting Granddad and Grandma in the early fall, and Granddad mentioned that he was going rabbit hunting. Would I wish to go along? Of course I tried to keep from hopping around and secretly hoping the beautiful hex-barreled would be the one I used. Somehow Granddad decided that his 15 year old grandson was ready for that rifle and we set off over one of his fields that had places where rabbits holed up out of the weather. His choice of gun was a small, but lethal looking .410 shotgun. I just knew I would outshoot this old man when the rabbits bounded out of their hiding places. Enough brush had built up over the years that we were sure some of those little bunnies were waiting for us; I felt like a modern day Elmer Fudd hauling my hare hunting rifle around to get one of those ‘wascally wabbits’. Perhaps twenty minutes later we were in place, and Granddad’s old dog, of uncertain lineage, raced around, barking loudly.
It worked! Out bounded the first hare. Graciously Granddad allowed me to take the first shot — and I missed. I took two more, and two more missed. Then Granddad raised his shotgun, pulled the trigger and, dead bunny! Lucky shot was my first thought.
We got four more rabbits that afternoon, and the same pattern was followed. Dog roused rabbit, I shot first and often, Granddad fired once and — dead bunny! I am sure he got a lot of pleasure out of the hunt, and I got a lot of humiliation. After we got home, we presented the five dead bunnies to Grandma to skin and treat before having them for lunch the next day, and Granddad explained, in detail, why he had been able to be more accurate than I was. Never again would I go a-hunting with him, not knowing what lesson he was going to teach me about the farm life.
Granddad also schooled me on how to use a scythe. He used one to but down the weeds around the farmyard, and I watched with fascination as he leveled the grass with that scythe he had. You know what I did, don’t you? I decided I could do a better and quicker job that this 60 plus year old man at cleaning up the barnyard. Nope! No matter how hard I tried, my work only mangled the plants. Granddad then took the tool I had a hard time using and swiftly and simply cut off the offending weeds. Didn’t try that again as I figured it was all in the wrist action as he swung the scythe!
But perhaps the most humbling experience with Granddad was the ‘coon hunt. For some reason, hunting ‘coons at night, with coon dogs doing most of the work was something farmers felt was worth doing.
A word about the family dynamic in our household — my older brother, Darrell, is 17 months ahead of me in age. This means, in practical terms, that he knows much more than I do, and is willing to tell me about that extra knowledge. I do not need to ask him about his superior intellect, it is almost always volunteered. My younger brother, Steve, is 12 and ½ years younger than I am, and his years in the Navy taught him loads about computers, much more than I know. He believes that my expertise in the technical world consists of knowing how to turn on the computer, and sometimes knowing how to turn it off. Because he is a well-read man, he also knows much about the world and is eager to demonstrate his knowledge on any subject that arises. When we get together, as is sometimes our wont, that leaves me in the middle. My multiple years in college and two degrees count for nothing, so our hours (not hyperbole!) are spent with older and younger brother expounding and me meekly nodding my head in solemn agreement over their superior learning.
When it came to the aforementioned coon hunting, Darrell believes that such an activity is beneath him, so he declined the opportunity to spend time with his brother, uncle and grandfather hunting coons in the middle of the night. Steve, on the other hand did nothing since he had not been born yet.
Dad’s was a different story. We found out later that he had been the victim of such an adventure when he was younger, so his refusal to participate would be the subject of conversation when the rest of us embarked on this special trek. My uncle, Edwin (Uncle Red for short in honor of his ginger colored hair) was an enthusiastic third party to the coon hunt. He had been in World War 2, and his weapons of choice were a shotgun and a .45 automatic that could stop a wild hog in its tracks. We knew he was a dangerous hunter, even though we were forbidden to mention the time he shot himself in the right calf when demonstrating a quick draw a couple of years earlier.
Our fourth and fifth parties were the coon hounds. To call these dogs ugly was an insult to really ugly dogs everywhere. Both were a dark grey, tall and gangly and prone to uncontrolled barking. One was a young one, and about ten minutes into our walk we heard a hoot owl, and he took off at a dead run back to the house. We found him cowering in his doghouse when we finally returned to home base a few hours later. We were left with just the one intrepid hunter in our quest for blood!
Granddad brought along his lethal 410 shotgun, and my humiliation began when my ‘arsenal’ consisted of a gunny sack, in which to haul home the (many) prey we would get.
Timing was important. So we set out at just after ten at night, with our entourage and weapons. It was a ‘dark and stormy night’, with the wind up and the rain (coming) down. I was given a hand-me-down rain slicker, and my feet were in what the English would call ‘Wellies’ (Wellingtons), gum boots that would keep out the water but not the cold. However, Granddad graciously loaned me a pair of large socks to keep my feet from freezing. On my head was an old fishing cap he resurrected from somewhere in the house. No pictures survive of me in my outfit, for which I am eternally grateful.
Granddad and Uncle Red assured me that coons abounded in the woods and fields around us, so my thoughts were that this would be the most successful coon hunt in Buchanan County ever. What they did not tell me was that it would extend not only in that county, but would also spill over into Benton County, Black Hawk County and whatever county that contained Des Moines, which was 90 miles west of us.
Several large and deep rivers would be encountered and we would be expected to ford these in our quest for coon skins. I dearly wanted a coon skin cap like Daniel Boone had in his TV series. As the evening wore on, we met and conquered several of these rivers. In less than an hour, my feet were squishing water inside my Wellies, but no matter the privation, our now solitary coon hound was baying (that was when coon hounds call their plaintive call; I called it their crying over what we were asking him to do!), and we were expected to follow his cries.
I was pretty miserable, of course, but I was not going to complain, as I expected to come home with plenty of game and stories about our long trek for the elusive coons would be told for years to come. Hours went by, but we slogged on through water and cold. Four times I dumped water out of my Wellies. Finally, we were told (at least that is what Granddad interpreted by the mournful barking) that coons were treed at last. Since we had flashlights, we all stood under a giant tree, with our dog barking up a storm and trying to see the varmit we had trapped. None to be found, but when the dog raced off to the next tree, we excitedly followed him. I reckon we must have stood at the base of at least twenty trees in our fevered quest for the dozens of coons that inhabited those woods, but we only saw the glint of bright eyes only once. What happened next must have woke up the people in Mason City when Granddad and Uncle Red opened up with their shotguns. I do know that the top of that tree was shattered and had no discernable leaves.
Finally, we decided to follow our dog, nicknamed Big Red, to the next tree or grove of trees.
About four in the morning we called off the hunt. My feet were frozen, my gunny sack was frozen, the dog could only whimper and both shotguns were out of ammo. Time to go home.
We limped into the house just as the chickens were being roused by a big-chested rooster. It was five in the morning, and the barnyard was alive with anticipation over our successful hunt. I had already decided that it was the best coon hunt I had ever been on, so I raved over the excitement felt, the many coons we had cornered and the shooting that went on.
Grandma was the most practical of those who awaited our return. She managed to find a hot water bottle and gradually thawed out my feet, and gave each of us hot chocolate to ease whatever discomfort we might have. And I also saw her giving Granddad a lecture, pointing to me as if she was scolding him for the adventure he took me on.
With no actual game in my bag, we had to admit that though many coon had been wounded, they had all escaped. The next time we went we were going to run them down. Granddad and Uncle Red had to confess that our actual account of how many we bagged was a slight exaggeration. But that was alright with Grandma, for she would just thaw out enough coons for the noon meal and we could think how much we would enjoy the next coon hunt.
What do you do with a coon once you shoot him (or her)? When we sat at the dinner table that afternoon, the coons looked suspiciously like the rabbits Granddad and I had harvested earlier that Fall. One thing I do know; we picked shot out of that dead and cooked carcass all during that meal!
Would we have eaten coon? All my friends at school were duly impressed with the tale of my big night out in the Iowa wilds.
As far as Darrell and was concerned, I had to listen to his tale of when Granddad took him on his first coon hunt. Of course, his hunt had ended successfully with six critters brought home and cooked, It was the most delicious repast (pardon the shameless plagiarism; I didn’t believe a word of it)!
On a more serious note, coon hunting, especially in the American South, was a useful way of putting food on the table. In my research, The Kansas City Star had several recipes for cooking coon, and a website for many more. It seems that soaking the animal in brine and then roasting it, applying spices as it cooked was the most favored route. I believe that I probably did eat some while at Grandma’s table, but do not have any specific memory of it. But I do have some advice for those who are invited on a ‘real’ coon hunt — DON’T DO IT!