– Time For A Tiara: Column by Ginna Young – - Who’s afraid of the dark?

– Time For A Tiara: Column by Ginna Young –

The other day, I was reading Fur-Fish-Game, the hunting/ fishing/trapping magazine, when I came across an article about coon hounds, in this case, Walker dogs. It made me think of when we’d go coon hunting, but my experience was far different that the tale woven on those slick pages.

See, Dad was an ideas man, but his ideas rarely panned out and since it was his idea to do something, it was usually up to someone else to actually put in the work to (hopefully) make it happen. Coon hunting was one of those great ideas.

Don’t get me wrong, I loved coon hunting. Maybe it was the crisp night air, looking up at all the stars, away from harsh street lights, the thrill of the hunt, the hint of mystery that shrouded the night, or just plain being with Mom and Dad, because if Dad went, we all went. He liked to say he took us for company, but the truth is, he was scared to death of the dark.

When we’d go for a night hike in our woods, I had to go in first and come out behind him, while he insisted on carrying the flashlight. He said he was watching my back going in (eyebrow raise on that one) and leading the way back out (both eyebrows for that). If we happened to hear a slight noise we couldn’t identify or a rustling, he was gone like a shot, taking the flashlight with him.

I quickly learned to bring my own flashlight for such occasions.

Anyway, it was a hassle just to get going. We had to eat supper, of course, but then, instead of going right away, Dad had to have his aftersupper nap, not to be confused with his pre-bed nap, you understand. So, by the time we were all bundled up and had everything, Mom and I had lost any enthusiasm we had for coon hunting.

Mom really didn’t have any at all anyway, she only went because she said God only knew what would happen to me if it was left up to Dad; he’d probably end up coming home without me. Little did she know, he knew better than to show up without me, he valued his life far more than that.

This was before my time, but she also hated missing Magnum, P.I., with Tom Selleck, who she had a crush on. Mom swore up and down that Dad specifically waited until the night Magnum was on, to drag her out coon hunting, just so she couldn’t watch it. Dad never admitted to that ploy, but neither did he deny it.

Once we would get to where we were going, before we could let our male bluetick dog out, we had to gather everything up that we’d need. And by we, I mean either Mom or me.

Dad, of course, held the flashlight. We carried the gun, in the event we treed a coon and had to shoot him out, a large thermos of water for Dad, who always was thirsty, the leash for the dog, to get him away from the possible dead coon, before he ruined the hide, and the large wooden trapping basket to put the coon in.

All this sounded good, in theory, but it never panned out that way. For one thing, Champ, who was very misnamed for someone who had the blood of canine royalty running in his veins, was scared of the dark. (This was after he’d gotten car sick.) He’d shiver behind our legs, whimpering and unwilling to leave the glow of the flashlight.

Dad would yell and throw sticks in the bushes, trying to get his attention drawn somewhere else, but it rarely worked and we spent most of our time tramping around harvested cornfields, tripping over the stumps of stalks in the dimness. Even if Champ decided he’d try to pick up a trail, that almost never materialized. He’d bawl just for the fun of it, run around in circles, come careening back and jump all over us, certain he’d found that elusive coon and was treeing it (us).

Dad would try to get him interested again, but that was usually it for Champ’s interest. Mom and I would try to convince Dad to hang it up, call it a night. We were cold, tired, more than irritated by then and had faced the facts that we were not getting a coon that night (or ever, with that dud of a dog), but Dad was certain just a few more minutes, and Champ would pick up a trail.

However, once the batteries started flickering, signifying they were dying and that we’d soon be left in the dark, Dad, who’d been dragging his heels, suddenly would sprint past us to the truck. “Ya comin’ or what?” he’d shout as he climbed into the driver’s seat.

Mom and I, rolling our eyes at each other and gritting our teeth, would trudge back. Normally, we would have had a heck of a time getting Champ back on the leash and in the truck, but since Dad had bolted with the light, he was only too happy to follow us and call it a night.

Our female redtick, Sonja, proved to be quite the hunter, despite being the runt of the litter and we got a few coons from hunts with her, before Dad took sick.

Dad always said it was because she had an attitude like her mother (me) and grandmother (Mom), that made her mean enough to tackle the coons, but we knew the truth.

She just wasn’t afraid of the dark, like her male counterpart (Champ) and grandfather. That means you, Dad.