CHAPTER NINE—HUNTING RACCOONS, AND DEALING WITH MR. SINGER

 

Photos of the Singer house on Sprout Brook Road, May, 2014.

     The following night Mr. Zeliph took Cliff and I and his coon dog Spot on an old-fashioned coon hunt. We got into the Mr. Zeliph's "woodie" station wagon at his house and Mr. Zeliph drove us toward Lake Celeste on the Old Albany Post Road. This dirt road had red stone mile markers every mile showing the distance from NYC. Many of the markers were still there in 1947, but ten years later most had disappeared. I knew a family that used them in CV as stepping stones leading up to the front door. They were turned face down so that the writing wasn’t visible. After driving several miles, Mr. Zeliph parked and let the dog out. Spot immediately dashed into the woods searching for a scent of raccoon.

     We stayed in the station wagon with the windows opened, listening for the dog's bark. After half an hour, Mr. Zeliph got restless and stepped outside. Cliff and I followed. No one spoke. We were listening intently.

     The night sky was patchy with clouds. Every now and then the stars could be seen. The moon was hiding somewhere behind those clouds. The wind stirred slightly. The temperature, as I recall, was close to freezing. We were all dressed warm enough, flannels and winter coats and boots. No hats. No gloves. Holding the .22 cal. rifle anywhere on the metal surface made one's hand cold. We waited and listened about fifteen minutes.

     "Did you hear that?" whispered Mr. Zeliph. We nodded. It was a distant series of dog barking and howling. If not Spot, perhaps another dog was barking from a house along the road further north. We strained to hear more clearly. The sound of barking faded or got louder depending on the direction of the wind. We knew that Mr. Zeliph could identify his dog's "voice" but we did not understand how. Cliff and I got to recognize it on future hunts.

     "That's Spot!" Mr. Zeliph announced. "He must be over a hill. We may have a long hike. C'mon!"

     Cliff and I followed Mr. Zeliph as he led us into the woods with a flashlight. We walked, stopped and listened, then continued to walk in the direction where we heard the dog barking. If you never walked through unfamiliar woods on a dark cold night with only a small flashlight held by the person in front of you for guidance, if you never had branches of brush and small trees snapping against your chilled face or whacking against your legs, if you never stumbled over unseen rocks on the ground, you may have to rely on my poor description to get a sense of it.

     It took us another half hour to reach the dog. We had climbed one hill, crossed a hollow, and climbed over another hill. Spot had treed a raccoon in a tall tree in a second hollow. No wonder we had trouble hearing him from the road. Moving excitedly near the base of the tree, alternately barking and howling and looking up, Spot was anxiously waiting for our appearance.

     Mr. Zeliph asked for the gun and Cliff gave it to him. It was a 1930's make of a Savage single-shot rifle. He loaded a .22 cal. long rifle cartridge into the chamber. "Who wants to shoot?" he said.

     After a moment of hesitation, Cliff reached for the gun, placed the butt against his shoulder and pointed it at the raccoon. Mr. Zeliph stood behind him and pointed the flashlight along the barrel and to the raccoon who was trying to hide near the top of the tree. We could see the raccoon whenever the clouds cleared and skylight became a backdrop. We could also see the raccoon looking down at us as the flashlight caught the raccoon's light-reflecting eyes from time to time.

     "Got a bead on it?" asked Mr. Zeliph.

     Cliff answered, "Yes."

     "Then shoot it!" the old man urged.

     Cliff pressed the trigger and the gun fired. The wounded raccoon moved or jumped slightly as it was hit. It did not fall. Instead it moved higher in the tree and settled in a new location.

      The dog was getting anxious. So was I. The old man reloaded the gun and asked me to shoot it. I did, with the same result. The raccoon climbed higher yet. We were sure it had been hit both times.  

     "Now it's my turn," said Mr. Zeliph. He reloaded the gun and aimed. I stood behind him with the flashlight, positioning the light across the v-notch and bead of his gun, framing the raccoon in the tree.

     Mr. Zeliph pressed the trigger, the gun fired, and instantly the raccoon tumbled from the tree to the ground. It was still alive, but before it could stand, the dog pounced on it and had it by the neck. Both dog and raccoon wrestled in the leaves as I pointed the flashlight on them. Mr. Zeliph rushed into the fray and grabbed the raccoon by the tail, while the dog continued to pull and bite. He yelled at the dog, and lifted Spot with his boot until the dog found himself airborne. When the dog released the raccoon, Mr. Zeliph slammed the struggling raccoon's head into the base of the tree. He repeated this action several times, swinging the raccoon by the tail until the animal was dead. The dog stood aside. Cliff and I watched. It was a dramatic sight and memorable, and it was over quickly.

     "Good dog, Spot," said Mr. Zeliph. "Time to go back," he told us.

     Cliff and I took turns carrying the raccoon as the successful hunting party returned through the woods to the station wagon. When we returned to the Zeliph's house, we weighed the raccoon on a large produce scale. It weighed about 25 pounds, as I recall. The next day Cliff and I skinned it. Since neither of us had any experience at this, we made several careless cuts in the fur with our Exacto knives. We did not know how to stretch the fur, or scrape it properly. Later that evening, returning from the water pump house, Mr. Zeliph provided a stretcher frame and showed us how to scrap the fat from the hide. He scraped a small section of the hide, showing us how to do it. He didn't criticize our sloppy work. He said: "This is your first raccoon hide. You'll do better next time."

     The raccoon's tail was unblemished. At the time period of Davy Crockett and Daniel Boone TV shows, when so many kids were wearing raccoon hats, perhaps the hide was worth something. Cliff and I decided to sell it.

     The following day Cliff and I visited Singer's Fur Company on Sprout Brook Road, proudly carrying our raccoon fur. The hide was exposed on the stretcher, the scraping job inadequate, the cuts and three small bullet holes in the hide obvious on close inspection.

     Mr. Singer himself greeted us at the door and invited us into his warehouse. He was a tall man with a pleasant appearance, in his fifties or early sixties. He had white hair. He wore a shop apron over a dark suit. We saw stacks of furs— muskrat, mink, raccoon, ermine and fox being processed or stacked on shelves. Most were on hangers or stretchers, and they were completely dry. Some of the tags showed the name and address of the seller. I read Michigan, Wisconsin, Maine, Vermont and New York on the tags I could see.

     Mr. Singer bought these raw furs from various trappers in the Northeast, and sold them to the clothing industry in NYC. His beautiful white house was attached to a long garage-type warehouse. The raw furs arrived by mail and the processed furs were shipped by mail. There was a pond and swimming area on the southwest side of the house, and Sprout Brook, formerly Canopus Creek, flowed at the rear of the property.

     Mr. Singer was very businesslike and professional during our visit. He inspected our fur and ran his ungloved fingers into the cuts in the hide. He studied the tail. His face did not exhibit any criticism or concern. Rather, he seemed genuinely interested in the fur we were trying to sell him. We listened attentively as he questioned us.

     "Where did you shoot this raccoon?" he asked, running his finger into one of three bullet holes on the hide. 

     "We shot it in the woods west of the road to Lake Celeste," Cliff answered.

     "Looks like a big one," he said. "How much did it weigh?"

     "25 pounds," I answered proudly.

     "It has excellent color, and the fur is thick," he said. "Of course, there are a few small cuts here and there."

      Cliff and I felt the sale of the fur falling through the cracks in the warehouse floor. We said nothing in reply.

     "You boys will learn to do a better job with your next raccoon. Make sure to stretch it tight and dry it."

      "Yes, sir," we answered.

     "Well, I can definitely use the tail," he said. Our hearts jumped. "I’ll pay you $1.50. Is that a deal?"

     "Yes, sir," both of us replied.

     He walked over to a deep sink and washed his hands, wiping them dry on his shop apron. He asked for our names, ages, and where we lived. We answered his questions eagerly. He took out his wallet and gave us one dollar, then reached in his pocket and handed us fifty cents.

     "Thanks," we said happily. The underlying tension of the deal was gone, and Cliff and I felt relief.

     He led us to the door. Mr. Singer smiled and we smiled back. "Goodbye and good luck," he said. 

     As soon as we were outside and the door closed behind us, we spoke excitedly about the money. We both wondered why he had paid us so much for the damaged fur. We did not expect $1.50.

     "He must have liked it," I said. "Why would he pay so much for it?"

     "Maybe it's worth more than we figured," Cliff replied.

     We agreed on that probability. Not until I was much older, when my memory of the event was rekindled, did I realize that this generous and thoughtful man, Mr. Singer, a furrier living and working on Sprout Brook Road, had presented Cliff and I with an unexpected gift, which gave us so much hope and joy. Except for the raccoon tail, the raccoon hide we sold him had no value.