No. He sure didn’t. Matter of fact, when he was older, he could hit a
fox squirrel in the left or right eye from a hundred yards with a .22 rifle. And he could find mushrooms while walking behind
four other people who weren’t finding any at all. But, that’s another story. Let me go on with this one.
During the depression, our folks didn’t have any more than enough money
to buy groceries, let alone give money to young ’uns. Lots of others throughout the country were in the same boat. So,
my brother, Charles, came up with the bright idea of becoming a trapper. Dad had some traps, so he loaned them to my brother.
Said Charles could use his .22 rifle if he wanted.
Early one Saturday morning, Charles set out to establish a trap line. He was
bundled up good and warm because northern Indiana can produce some downright cold weather in the dead of winter.
It was almost dark when he got back to the house. There was a slow-moving stream of water that I thought originated somewhere
on the Wellington Bradley farm. It actually came from a lot farther away, but I had never explored for its origin. Anyway,
it moved across our farm and into the woods. It was in the woods and along this stream that Charles set his traps.
These were wicked-looking things that had to be forced open with your foot.
The ones he had were called single spring steel traps. They had a chain on them about three feet long with a ring on the end
of them. The ring was to drive a stake through to anchor the trap so an animal caught in the trap couldn’t drag it away.
Usually, Charles would set his traps in the water, hoping to catch a muskrat. They were the easiest fur bearing animal to
find because they leave marked trails and live in dens. By setting the trap near the bank, just under the surface of the water
and in the path they use, success is nearly assured.
Dad was the one who taught Charles how to trap. He was good at it himself,
when he put his mind to it. Dad was good at a lot of things--- when he set his mind to it.
Charles always ran his trap line early in the morning before going to school.
Even on Sunday, he’d run his line before we left for Sunday school at the Bethel
Church. One day, Charles noticed a mound of freshly dug earth on a little
ridge back in the woods--- looked like it might be a burrow. His inspection caused him to decide to set one of his traps alongside
the mound. The next day was a Saturday, so Mom and Dad had gone into town. Mom to do her “trading” and Dad to
“jaw” or play either rummy or euchre at Fisher’s Pool Room. He was also better than average at billiards
or rotation pool. Anyways, Charles asked little brother Wayne to “help” him with his trap line. Charles was eight,
at the time, and Wayne, six.
While I’m thinking about it, Wayne had a bit of a speech impediment when
he was young, probably induced by big sisters, Edie and Mary, talking baby talk to him.
The boys checked several traps before they came to the mysterious mound where
Charles had set the trap the day before. Immediately, it was obvious he had caught something. The dirt that had been almost
neatly dug out of the hole was scattered every which way. No trap was to be seen anywhere. Whatever the critter was, it had
pulled the trap into the hole. But the stake, which had been driven through the ring on the chain and into the ground, had
held.
Charles realized that whatever he had caught was still very much alive. Now,
I’d be the last one to imply he knew exactly what he had caught, but the circumstantial evidence would indicate he did.
“Wayne,
I’m gonna need you to pull up on that chain. When his head comes out of the hole I’ll shoot him with the rifle.”
Evidently, Wayne didn’t think too much
of the idea because he argued that Charles should pull the animal out and Wayne
shoot him. Charles explained that Dad had loaned him the rifle and he wouldn’t
want Wayne shooting it. So, good old trusting Wayne started pulling up on the chain.
“He’s ‘tummin’ out,” Wayne said.
“Keep pullin’ and I’ll shoot as soon as I can see his head.”
Only problem was, the trap had caught the critter by the hind leg, and his
rear end came out of the hole first. It was a skunk! It quickly cut loose with the only defense mechanism it had, and it squirted
Wayne squarely in the face. In his eyes, his nose, his mouth,
all over his face. Wayne let go of the chain. Fast. And the
skunk went back into the burrow.
Wayne took
off for the house running and crying and rubbing his eyes. All the way, he kept repeating over and over, “Edie! Edie!
A sunk sirted in my eyes. Will I go blind?”
Edie not only heard, but also smelled him before he got to the house. My sisters
met him outside, and while Edie guided him to the outdoor pump, Mary went back inside for a cake of soap. They cleaned him
up as best they could after stripping him down to the altogether, then put clean, dry clothes on him. Even though they left
his clothes outside soaking in a bucket of soap and water, the house smelled of skunk all winter.
Moral? Never go into business with your relatives.
