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True Stories of Old Times (2/10/2008)
Often when I am spending time in the outdoors I am reminded of the person who was most influential to me in creating an appreciation for hunting and fishing and other outdoor pursuits. My father and older brothers were not fishermen or hunters to any extent. They might have wanted to be, but with me being the youngest of nine children, my father was mostly busy just making ends meet, my older brothers and sisters were pretty much in the same boat.
Our family had moved up from Lower Matacumbe in the Florida Keys a few years before to a small Southwest Florida town called Punta Gorda. At that time Lower Matacumbe was an island that was a hundred yards wide with only two homes, two palm trees, and two activities: fishing and swimming. For a real change of pace, sometimes we would go swimming, and then fishing. They say now that Punta Gorda means Port Gorgeous, when I was a kid I was told it was an Indian name meaning Flat Point. In comparison Punta Gorda seemed gorgeous to me, whether or not that was the true meaning of the name.
Around 1956, just when I was at the age to need wholesome activities, Big Joe came into the family, having married my sister. Joe, my sister, and her four children moved about twenty five miles outside Punta Gorda to a crossroads called Bermont. Bermont was a planned community that never happened, but the name stuck. Their home was on the north end of the now well known Babcock Ranch. The area was pine palmetto woods, wet cypress heads, and scattered hammocks of oak and cabbage palm. The few homes were miles apart.
Joe was a farm raised Kentucky boy and new to Southwest Florida. At this time he was in his late twenties, around five foot ten inches tall, one hundred sixty five pounds, an agile man with a ruddy complexion, white blond hair and an ever present smile, even when things went wrong. It would be hard to find a more enthusiastic outdoorsman or a better friend. I was thirteen, pretty much the same description, some what smaller, with reddish hair. He became Big Joe, and I was Little Joe, even years later, when I was a bit larger then Big Joe, the names remained the same.
While my sister was a package deal with four kids, her new husband Big Joe was a package deal with three dogs: two bluetick coonhounds, flame and Blaze, and a short stocky, white and brown spotted dog aptly named Spot. Joe said Spot was a Mountain Fiest. Spot was a real scrapper and good backup for the hounds when a coon decided to stay on the ground. I don't know how much coonhunting experience Joe had, but he clamed to be the best. Since I was hunting with him, I decided I was at least the second best. Looking back we were both really kidding ourselves.
Anyone who has hunted with dogs on a clear, cold night with a big white moon shining, watching your breath making clouds in the moonlight, dogs baying on the trail and barking at the tree, knows the feeling of excitement a hunt can bring. It was just this kind of night and we knew we were in for a good hunt. The dogs had run a small coon up a large old oak tree and Big Joe decided we could catch it and take it to the house for the kids to see. The plan was he would make a sack of his coat; I would climb up the oak tree and shake the coon out. If all went according to plan, the coon would fall from the tree, Big Joe would catch it in his coat and we would be on our way home with a surprise for the kids.
I went up the tree and Joe got ready below. When the coon and I had both gone as far out on the limb as we could go, I started shaking the limb. As the little coon lost his purchase on the limb and started swinging by his front feet, I yelled "he's coming down!" About that time I saw a huge coon drop from somewhere above, right past the small coon and me, both perched precariously on a limb. Joe yelled "I got him", I yelled "No, he's still up here!" Scrambling to get my flashlight out, I looked below, and the big ol' coon was on the back of Joe's neck, climbing to his head with the dogs jumping up trying to pull the coon off. Joe yelled again "I got 'em". I don't know if Joe was a little slow or what, but it was easy to see who had who. Joe wasn't tall enough for the coon to escape the dogs by climbing on his head, so the coon jumped over the dogs, and the dogs took off in hot pursuit.
We checked Joe's injuries; fortunately he only had a pile of scratches. Being a true friend, I promised to shoot him if he got rabies. The scratches healed soon, but those memories are fresh and clear, even after fifty some years.
By: Joe E.
YourOutdoors.net member
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