Long ago, and far away, when we were teens and young men, my brother Bill and I liked to coon hunt. We would get the dogs and guns and old fashioned kerosene lamps and head off to the big woods on what we called the Harry Ross place. Those woods have been bulldozed off for pasture land many years ago, but I go back there in my mind occasionally. I hadn't thought of it for several years, but this morning I was talking with my daughter about who should or who shouldn't be on our Forrester family web site, and she being much younger not being so familiar with shirt tail relatives, had some questions. Alice Norton's name came up as someone who was related to one of these unknown persons, and I mentioned that she had lived deep in the woods on a road that is grown up in weeds that cuts off of our primitive road to our family cabin. I told my daughter this was the old wagon or stagecoach road, and led on to the big woods, or where they used to be. The house where Alice lived has long ago burned down, and when Bill and I would pass that way on our way to the big woods it was a bit spooky, and only a barn and the basement of the old house remained. Alice is a couple of years older than my mom, and would come up and babysit me and visit my parents. At any rate, Bill and I took that path on the way to find our fortune in Raccoon pelts. There were trees in that big wood that were so big and high that our shotguns would not reach the top of to kill squirrels, but would just "tickle" them or Raccoons into jumping about where we could get a better shot with a rifle. Bill had a Dashound named Hank that loved to go, but had such short legs that he would get tired after a while, and want to be carried in the game pouch until things got more interesting. Once the big dog found a coon and "tree'd" him Hank wanted out and was all business. Dachounds were originally bred to go into Badger holes, rout them out, kill them, and drag them out. We didn't know this at the time, but apparently he did. Once a coon was knocked out of the tree, if he survived the shot or the fall, he would stand on his back legs to fight the dogs. Hank would hunker down on his belly, and crawl into the fray. Once close enough he would lash out with his very sharp hooked claws and disembowel the coon. He would then back off till the coon was tame and then go on in and rough him up. We were all amazed and pleased at the results. These coon pelts were valuable to us and provided us our allowance. We picked black berries, and mushrooms for cash in their seasons as well. It's odd how one thing leads to another, and one thought sparks a memory from so long ago. It seems fresh and new to me this morning at any rate. I haven't been posting for a bit, and hope to start again. Maybe I can figure out some day how to put some relevant pictures to go with the stories.