“Thirty days have September, April, June and November; all the rest have 31 except February alone, which has 28; with leap year coming once in four, February has one day more.”
So was the little ditty that we were taught in grade school at the one-roomed brick country schoolhouse. This popped into my mind as I sat down on that once-in-four date to meet yet another deadline.
It may seem odd to some, but not to me, that the persistence of fond memories quite often pop instantly into one’s mind.
In a younger year, this is the season that I loved to wander the woods of near- and far-neighbouring hardwood forests. It was at this time of year that I could always find someone to talk to. It was to these folks that I could ask “wanting-to-know” questions. It was here I could also offer to help.
It was here, out of the wind and rain, in what was known then as a sugar shack, you could often find hunkered down in the shadows, a senior member of the family.
He, or in some cases, she, would be tending the wood-fire beneath the large cast iron evaporator pot, which boiled the sap that trickled from the trees to produce the much-loved and needed maple syrup.
More often than not, especially during the night, I would find myself as the lone tender of the fire. I loved doing this, as it gave me a chance to hear the owls hooting and see them flying by on their broad but silent wings.
Often, too, as an incentive, I would be given a couple of nickels or dimes to jingle in my jeans pocket. But times being what they were back then, I more often than not was offered a small bottle of thick maple syrup to take home to share with my family.
Back then, the coyote was known as a brush wolf, and it was not uncommon to hear them yodel and see them roaming across the snow-covered fields at night. I was instructed to shoot them if I had a chance, but that just didn’t happen; though well versed and capable, I just could not pull the trigger. Why should I?
Each summer I would look for and find their den where they usually had two or three pups, to which they brought groundhogs to feed their young. This was a money-making project for me. Two of our neighbours paid ten cents a tail for each groundhog shot on their farms. The groundhog holes were a leg breaking problem where horse and cattle pastured.
Each weekend, I would go to the brush wolf’s den and watch the puppies playing. When they tired and crawled back into their den for a snooze, I would cut off the tails of the groundhog skins that were lying around.
From there, I would go to a couple of neighbouring fox dens, usually under stone piles out in the open fields, where I could find one or two more.
It was not unusual to acquire upward of a dozen tails each week in this way. I made sure that I always carried my small 22-calibre rifle with me when I turned in the tails to collect my dimes. Questions were never asked how I managed to shoot so many, and I felt no reason to mention how they were acquired.
My father, a man of few words, having stood on the Guelph Market for 37 years hand-running, once assured me to “never miss an opportunity to shut up.”
His words proved themselves many times over, later in life, when I sold real estate for a living.
Take care, ‘cause we care.
barrie@barriehopkins.ca
519-986-4105