We all impose coherence – some meaning – on the chaotic events of our existence. We rummage through the raw images of our memories, selecting, burnishing, erasing. We emerge as the heroes of our stories, allowing us to live with what we have done – or haven’t done. David Grann The Wager
I should probably begin all my tales with Grann’s quote. This writing has some elements that makes me, and I am sure will make you ask, “Are you shitting me?”
The main character of both segments was an interesting character. Not a bully, but bold and somewhat bellicose. He was “out there”, as we say, and older by a year or so. We trapped muskrats together. As grade schoolers we set traps in the rivers and streams near our village of Wawaka. The traps we used were like the one pictured below:
Muskrats are stocky, broad rodents that make burrows and weaken the banks of waterways. They are semi-aquatic, valuable furbearing animals, with thick, soft, brownish-gray pelt prized internationally for making fur garments. Cute things:
A good muskrat pelt would bring us $5 or so. This was a neat way to make some pocket change. It was a winter-time job. I had accumulated around ten traps. I walked to the river and set them with a stick through the ring on the chain to secure them to the river bank. I placed the trap in the water at the entrance to a muskrat burrow. Simple sport, simple business.
Jerry, my older friend, and I would run our trap lines every few days. One day it was cold as blazes. In those years, early 1950s, it could get below zero for 3 or 4 weeks, sometimes going to 20 below. Real winters! We walked to Duke’s bridge to check the traps. We had decided to pull them and stop trapping for the season. Pulling the traps was sometimes difficult, resulting in wet hands and feet. We pulled the traps. My gloves were wet. I was cold. Carrying the traps by the chains with wet gloves led to ice forming and hands freezing.
We were grade schoolers, kids, you know. I started to cry. Jerry started to laugh. We trudged back to town, me crying, Jerry laughing. That was my last day of trapping.
Years, many years later, I visited Jerry. He was still living in Wawaka. What a delightful guy! It was a treat to rekindle our friendship. But, let me tell you another time that put Jerry “out there” as an extreme kid.
First, have you ever gone to a hatchet throwing venue? The modern sport of axe or hatchet throwing involves a competitor throwing a hatchet at a target, attempting to hit the bullseye as nearly as possible. A place near where I live now, Mother Chuckers, is a hatchet throwing place. The following is from their website:
We are a hatchet throwing lounge that offers a variety of digital games. Big screen TVs throughout, so you can come eat, drink, and play without ever missing the big game.
Interesting. I have not gone hatchet throwing.
But back to Jerry. One day we had Barry, Jerry’s nephew, with us while we were throwing hatchets into a shed wall. Jerry got the idea to have Barry stand against the wall. We are now talkin’ William Tell stuff:
Yes, we threw hatchets around Barry! I told you that you might exclaim, “Are you shitting me?” We were good. Barry lived to tell the tale of his uncle and friend sharpening their hatchet-throwing skills.
These tales brought to mind some of the simple pleasures and really outlandish experiences of life 70 years ago. I thought about Sol Fulford, the Wawaka postmaster. Sol was a raccoon hunter. At night he would take his coon dogs out to the woods and stay until the dogs treed a raccoon and he could get a good shot at it with his shotgun or rifle. That was normal sport for a lot of guys. For Sol it was sport, but also food. He skinned, cut up, cooked, and canned the raccoon for future dinners. Yes, canned coon! I miss the simplicity of those days. Trapping, throwing hatchets, and going over to Sol’s place for a coon dinner — that is about as good as it gets.
No way my friend! I am brimming with truth! 🥴
Are you shitting me about these escapades? 😊