November 2015

MURDER OF THE CENTURY E E R F he wind

as t

Deer Memories Holiday Wine Calendar Thanksgiving for Giving

Pittsburgh millionaire Harry Thaw killed famed New York architect Stanford White in 1906 over Evelyn Nesbit, “the most beautiful girl in the world.� Did Pennsylvania Governor William Stone of Wellsboro harbor the killer in his Pine Creek cabin?

By Carrie Hagen NOVEMBER 2015 1

Volume 10 Issue 11

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Murder of the Century

Home Economics 101

By Maggie Barnes

By Carrie Hagen Did Wellsboro’s homegrown governor harbor a killer on the run?

Teach a girl to cook and she can feed herself. Or one would hope…

26

The Party Begins

By Holly Howell

A holiday countdown for wine lovers.

6 Deer Memories

34

Between the Turkey and the Big Green “C”

By Diane Seymour Of hot breakfasts, cold hunts, and family.

By Cornelius O’Donnell

From humble kraut, an elegant recipe to bridge the holidays.

38

The Sportsmen’s Gift Guide

By Don Knaus

Or, getting the gear you’ve always wanted...for Thanksgiving!

21 Branching Out

By Roger Kingsley A step-by-step guide to scoring the antlers on that trophy buck.

42

Back of the Mountain

By Sarah Wagaman The view from my valley.

Cover by Tucker Worthington. This page (from top): Courtesy commons. wikimedia.org; courtesy Diane Seymour; and Roger Kingsley.

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Olde Barn Centre ~ ANTIQUES ‘N SUCH ~

w w w. m o u n ta i n h o m e m ag . co m Editors & Publishers Teresa Banik Capuzzo Michael Capuzzo Associate Publisher George Bochetto, Esq. Advertising Director Ryan Oswald D e s i g n & P h o t o g r ap h y Elizabeth Young, Editor Tucker Worthington, Cover Design Contributing Writers Maggie Barnes, Melissa Bravo, Patricia Brown Davis, Alison Fromme, Carrie Hagen, Holly Howell, Roger Kingsley, Don Knaus, Cindy Davis Meixel, Fred Metarko, David Milano, Gayle Morrow, Cornelius O’Donnell, Brendan O’Meara, Roger Neumann, Gregg Rinkus, Linda Roller, Diane Seymour, Kathleen Thompson, Joyce M. Tice

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ABOUT US: Mountain Home is the award-winning regional magazine of PA and NY with more than 100,000 readers. The magazine has been published monthly, since 2005, by Beagle Media, LLC, 25 Main St., 2nd Floor, Wellsboro, Pennsylvania, 16901, and online at www.mountainhomemag.com. Copyright © 2010 Beagle Media, LLC. All rights reserved. E-mail story ideas to editorial@mountainhomemag. com, or call (570) 724-3838.

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The Millionaire 6

The Chorus Girl

The Architect

Photos courtesy commons.wikimedia.org

Photo by Caulkins, courtesy Steve Stone

Hideout or hunting camp?

In the first celebrity murder case in U.S. history, did millionaire Harry K. Thaw hide out on Pine Creek after shooting his wife’s former lover, architect Stanford White, over America’s first “It” Girl?

Murder of the Century Did Wellsboro’s Homegrown Governor Harbor a Killer on the Run?

By Carrie Hagen

L

ocals in and around Wellsboro, Pennsylvania (pop. 3,328) know a thing or two about former Pennsylvania Governor William A. Stone, who rose from Tioga County district attorney to governor from 1899 to 1903, when he built the state capitol that stands to this day. They know he was born and raised in the area, that historical markers note his history and whereabouts, and that a grandfather clock once belonging to him resides in the Green Free Library on Main Street.

“And that’s it,” says Wellsboro native Pat Davis, a musician, retired Wellsboro music teacher, and Mountain Home columnist, referring to her knowledge of Stone.

So it came as something of a surprise to Mountain Home when, last spring, Wellsboro lawyer Tom Walrath shared a story connecting Stone to deranged Pittsburgh millionaire Harry Kendall Thaw, one of the most famous murderers in American history. According to the story, Pennsylvania’s former governor harbored the villain in his Pine Creek cabin after Thaw killed renowned architect Stanford White on the roof garden theater of Madison Square Garden in 1906.

The Pennsylvania Grand Canyon would certainly be an attractive refuge for a killer, especially one connected to a politician who owned land in the Pine Creek gorge, a forty-seven-mile run occupying 160,000 acres of the Tioga State Forest. But why would Thaw risk a trip to north-central Pennsylvania when he could easily hide in Manhattan? And why would the former governor conceal a murderer on his property?

See Murder of the Century on page 8

7

Murder of the Century continued from page 7

On June 25, 1906, during the finale of a musical show on the rooftop theater, Harry Kendall Thaw approached White, pulled a pistol from his pocket, said, “You’ve ruined my wife,” and shot him in the face.

The thirty-five-year-old Thaw was a Pittsburgh millionaire, heir to a coal and railroad fortune, and White the noted designer of numerous New York properties, including this first version of Madison Square Garden.

The high society murder allowed newspaperman William Randolph Hearst to make it the story of the 8

year. Although seventeen years older than Thaw, White was a former lover of the younger man’s wife. Evelyn Nesbit had married Harry Kendall Thaw in 1905 against White’s wishes: his interest in her welfare was purely physical. A powerful man with a fondness for young women, White had raped Nesbit soon after she gained attention as a young teenage model and chorus girl. The two later had a sexual relationship. Thaw claimed he killed White because the man had attacked his wife’s virtue when she was only fourteen, but investigators later

testified that Thaw had been obsessed with White long before he knew of Evelyn’s past.

Harry Kendall Thaw himself had a deviant sexual appetite. In New York and throughout Europe, he would rent hotel rooms, lure potential young lovers with expensive gifts, and then imprison, beat, and rape them. Much more often than not, he successfully bribed his victims and hotel employees to stay quiet. With the death of his strict father in 1893, the twenty-two-year-old Thaw convinced his overindulgent mother to increase

Suzan Richar

The site of the mystery: Governor Stone’s great grandson, Steve Stone, at the family cabin on Pine Creek.

his allowance, an act that financed more escapades.

Finding a home in New York, Thaw sought acceptance from Manhattan’s best social circles; when his erratic behavior distanced him from socialites, he blamed the most popular man among them for blocking his passage.

Stanford White, many say, never knew the full extent of Thaw’s paranoid fixation on him, his wealth, and his success. Perhaps White had realized, when he warned Evelyn Nesbit about Thaw, that the man had first seen her in his company.

After a quick arrest, Thaw admitted his guilt and spent that night at a police station in the Tenderloin district. By the following evening he occupied Cell #220 at the Tombs Prison in Lower Manhattan as a felon on Murderer’s Row. So regardless of any connection to the former Pennsylvania governor, Henry Kendall Thaw wouldn’t have had time before his arrest and incarceration to flee to a cabin over 240 miles away.

What basis had there been, then, for the local story connecting Thaw and Wellsboro’s Stone? Tom Walrath was sure that his old friend Al Cole would recall hearing the tale, and that perhaps he might know something of its origin.

“I wish I could help you, but I don’t know anything about it,” Cole said on a voicemail message. He offered a number for Steve Stone, the great grandson of the former governor and the owner of the Pine Creek cabin at the center of the Thaw question.

Stone returned a call immediately. He found the story “fascinating” but had also “never heard of it before.”

Stone, a Pittsburgh businessman, and his four sisters had vacationed at the cabin as children before he began investing in its upkeep as an adult. Called “The Guv” by his friends, Steve Stone is knowledgeable not only about the area’s social and geographical landscape but also his family history, having combed through documents dating back to the nineteenth century. Eager to help, Stone offered to look back at them for a connection between his and the Thaw family, both native to Pittsburgh. He also suggested that he contact Leroy Crossley, Jr., an eighty-nine-year-old former camp neighbor now living in Youngstown, Ohio, whose father had owned Cole’s Pine Creek property. Although Crossley had sold the property to Al Cole’s family in the 1970s, his father had owned it before him. Perhaps Crossley would remember hearing a story about the governor’s hosting an infamous guest.

This lead also turned into a dead end.

William A. Stone would no longer have been in office when Thaw killed Stanford White. He left in 1903 after serving one term, and by 1906 had settled into a law practice with his son back in Pittsburgh. Did Stone, then, represent Thaw when the “Trial of the Century”

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See Murder of the Century on page 10

9

Harvard Theatre Collection Gibson Girl: artists’ model Evelyn Nesbit was idealized—and immortalized—by graphic artist Charles Dana Gibson.

Murder of the Century continued from page 8

began in January of 1907?

Harry Kendall Thaw’s family wealth bought him a top-notch legal team. As a high-profile lawyer practicing in their hometown, Stone could have consulted with Mary Copley Thaw about her son’s situation.

The New York Times historical archive, however, contains no mention of William A. Stone in the dozens of articles that review the trials of Harry Kendall Thaw in 1907 and 1908.

At the “Trial of the Century,” Stanford White’s celebrity and the egregious nature of his murder rallied the muckraking press, and it fixated on Thaw’s plea: not guilty by reason of temporary insanity. Immediately after Thaw’s arrest, his defense team had informed the district attorney’s 10

office that it would argue “emotional insanity”; incredulous, the district attorney sent three “alienists” to The Tombs to judge Thaw’s frame of mind.

These psychologists found him to be of sound mind and body. Their assessment, combined with the Thaw family’s distaste for the word “insane,” changed the defense’s petition to include the word “temporary.” Thaw’s trial was the first in American history to argue the plea of “temporary insanity” (a phrase re-labeled by critics as “dementia Americana”). Scholars say it was the largest of its kind to rely on the testimony of expensive alienists, and, because of the press frenzy, the first in which a judge sequestered a jury for the duration of the trial.

The jury could not reach a verdict.

The case went to a second trial that ended almost a year after the first began. This jury declared Harry Kendall Thaw not guilty by reason of temporary insanity. Immediately, the judge sentenced him to the State Asylum for the Criminally Insane at Matteawan in Fishkill, New York, for an unspecified amount of time. It would be up to the doctors to decide when Thaw would be sane enough to rejoin society.

Thaw had not anticipated this sentencing. He thought he would walk. “I am confident that my stay at Matteawan will be for a short period of time only,” said Thaw, who also stated that his lawyers would be filing a writ of habeas corpus to argue the justice of the punishment. They did—and although the Thaw family bribed judges, prosecutors, the hospital superintendent, doctors, and reporters, Thaw’s lawyers failed three times to secure his release.

Harry Kendall Thaw had numerous legal needs while in the State Asylum at Matteawan. He wanted the state of New York to deport him to Pennsylvania, where he assumed his family could arrange his immediate release; he wanted his legal team to continue filing writs of habeas corpus; he wanted to keep his wife Evelyn’s financial desires at bay; he needed to protect himself from bribery charges and lawsuits; he wanted to expand his business interests into real estate and logging; he wanted to protect his future inheritance from any type of seizure.

Here, it appears, he began a legal relationship with William A. Stone.

By 1909, Thaw and his family had retained Stone as his bankruptcy lawyer. Four years later, Stone had taken a more prominent role on his legal team. Thaw wanted the exgovernor to use his reputation to engage the State Department and Pennsylvania’s current governor in his case, and so he put Stone in charge of See Murder of the Century on page 12 11

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his deportation efforts. On August 17, 1913, Thaw himself took a more active role by fleeing the asylum. Five years after entering Matteawan, Harry Kendall Thaw walked out the front door and into an escape car that guards had clearly ignored, facilitating his escape.

After forty-eight hours on the run, he surfaced in Canada, and so began another chapter in the American government versus Harry Kendall Thaw.

Tom Walrath clarified the story as he knew it: “I heard that [Thaw] hid out in Governor Stone’s cabin while he was awaiting trial” for White’s murder. He expressed surprise that his friends could not recount the Pine Creek cabin tale. “I can’t believe it,” he said, seemingly puzzled about where to direct further inquiries. Asked to recall who had relayed the story to him, he offered another name—“Pat Davis.” Davis, Walrath said, had been learning the music to Ragtime, a story that recalled Stanford White’s murder, when he heard the story from her.

“He did not,” laughed Davis. Yes, she knew the music to Ragtime, but she had never heard about the connection between Harry Kendall Thaw and William A. Stone. If anyone might know, she said, it would be Scott Gitchell of the Tioga County Historical Society.

Gitchell’s own great-great grandfather was a childhood friend of William A. Stone’s and a fellow member of Company A in the 187th Regiment of the Pennsylvania Infantry during the Civil War. The historian was unaware of any connection between Stone and Thaw. “I’ve never heard that particular story,” he said.

According to his autobiography The Tale of a Plain Man, William A. Stone intended to get a job as a sales clerk when he returned from the war and graduated from the Mansfield State Normal School in 1868, but his height worked against him. He was so tall that his head would bang against the items that hung from ceiling hooks.

Unable to secure employment, he spoke with a local acquaintance from Mansfield who encouraged him to study law at night and teach school at Wellsboro Academy during the day.

Stone preferred the law over teaching, and by 1870, he had tried cases before the bar admitted him. Four years later, he became district attorney of Tioga County. Stone resigned to practice law in Pittsburgh, where he became a congressman in 1891. He gave a well-received stump speech for William McKinley’s presidential run in 1896, and one year later, fueled the acclaim into a gubernatorial campaign. After four years as governor, Stone joined his son in a Pittsburgh law practice. Summers he spent vacationing at his cabin.

“I have spent most of my time there from June to October for fifteen years,” Stone wrote in 1918. “There are speckled trout in 4-Mile Run and black bass in Pine Creek.

Suzan Richar

Different choices: too tall to be a sales clerk, William A. Stone instead studied law, which eventually led to Congress and the state governorship.

I take great pleasure in studying their habits and catch my share of them. I am an optimist and do not waste time in thinking about my mistakes or those of my friends.”

Was Harry Kendall Thaw one of these friends? If so, could the former governor overlook the “mistakes” of a murderer that one sheriff called “a dipsomaniac, degenerate, murderer, coward, egoist, over-indulgist, spendthrift, good-for-nothing, evil-minded, night-crawler, spoiled youngster”? Thaw said that once he

escaped from Matteawan, he had first intended to go to Pennsylvania.

But where in Pennsylvania?

Perhaps Pittsburgh, near his family home? And if so, would he have gone directly there, or would he have stopped overnight at a hidden cabin along a creek bank near Wellsboro? The summer home where one of his lawyers spent most of “June through October”?

• Steve Stone is one of the few who has a permit to drive along Pine Creek on a former bed of the New

York Railroad, an old forestry road where hikers and bikers play on a late summer morning. He drives slower than necessary, aware that outdoors enthusiasts don’t always approve of clearing a path for his SUV. As he heads to his cabin from the Darling Run Access Area, he points out a bald eagle’s nest, and the swinging bridge that he and his family would walk across when they came in from Pittsburgh. A canoe banked at the bottom of rickety steps takes Stone and guests across the creek to his seven-acre property, what is left See Murder of the Century on page 14 13

commons.wikimedia.org

Motive for murder: With Evelyn Nesbit as the model, Stanford White commissioned Augustus Saint-Gaudens to sculpt a statue of Diana to top the Madison Square Garden building he designed (on the right tower at right). White was murdered at the roof garden theater atop the building; (above) a half-size gilt version at New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art. The original statue is in the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Murder of the Century continued from page 13

from the 2,000 acres that William A. Stone once held.

“When my great grandfather had the current place, a number of heavy hitters had homes here,” said Stone, alluding to a bank president and the secretary of the state’s treasury among others. The area, in the midst of coal region, was a logger’s gold mine once, home to mills long gone by the time 14

Hurricane Agnes swept many camps away in 1972. Agnes also damaged the railroad, and in so doing, limited further construction.

One hundred and one years before this flood, Steve Stone’s great grandfather celebrated the opening of the railroad in Wellsboro, an occasion marked by the consumption of champagne for the first time at a

public dinner. About thirty years later, the railroad would bring the materials and workers necessary to construct his fishing cabin on Pine Creek at a stream called Four Mile Run, and, soon after that, it would bring visiting family and friends, ushering in even Theodore Roosevelt on his presidential railcar.

Could it also have ferried in a fugitive murderer?

See Murder of the Century on page 16

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History upon history: Theodore Roosevelt, who visited Stone’s cabin on Pine Creek, in a White House chair designed by Stanford White.

Murder of the Century continued from page 14

Harry Kendall Thaw could have escaped by train to Wellsboro, over 150 miles from Fishkill. He would have had to transfer lines in Corning, New York, but Stone’s cabin would have given him an obscure cover to assess his options once back in Pennsylvania. If it were then decided that he needed to flee the country, he could have gotten back on the train and switched lines again to Quebec, where he was arrested on August 19. This trajectory would have required quite a bit of travel in forty-eight hours.

Thaw’s reemergence in Quebec captured front-page headlines once again. New York demanded his return, but William A. Stone told The New York Times on August 26 that, due to a treaty between the United States and Canada, Thaw had the right to appear before a Canadian court even as a U.S. citizen. The Thaw camp wanted him neither deported to New York nor to Vermont—where he had crossed the Canadian border—because of the 16

reciprocity between those two states.

Three weeks after Thaw fled Matteawan, Canadian immigration sent him to Vermont. He made it to New Hampshire before authorities arrested him. In Concord, a crowd of 2,000 curious fans greeted his arrival.

“One might think that a hero was in the limelight,” said a local police officer.

Thaw remained on a very loose “house arrest” in New Hampshire while he awaited trial at district, and then federal court. Legal wrangling kept Thaw in New Hampshire until December of 1914, when the United States Supreme Court demanded that New Hampshire extradite the “prisoner” to New York.

In January, he returned to his old cell—#220—at The Tombs. Over the next seven months, his lawyers filed, argued, and appealed motions until they secured his release. On July 16, 1915, Harry Kendall Thaw again

walked out of jail, but this time as a free man.

Eight months later, on March 15, 1916, The Wellsboro Agitator reported an update on a piece of gossip. “A report circulated of late indicating that Harry K. Thaw had leased ex-Gov. Stone’s cottage at Four Mile Run for the summer, is without the slightest foundation, Mr. Stone writing to a friend here that the matter had never even been considered by any of the parties concerned.”

On June 28th, the same social column published a list of comings and goings about town. One item reads, “Harry K. Thaw, of Pittsburgh, is a guest of Ex-Gov. Stone, at Four Mile Run.” Thaw’s presence did cause the town to whisper once, but the truth behind the story is neither scandalous nor conspiratorial. Ten years after murdering Stanford White, three years after escaping from an asylum, and one

year after getting his freedom, Harry Kendall Thaw spent time at William A. Stone’s cabin. So the governor did shelter the madman at his Pine Creek cabin, just a little bit out of scandalous sequence.

When a story gets passed down from generation to generation, said historian Scott Gitchell, it can become a “conglomeration of facts” that “gets embroidered” into rumor and falsehood, urban legend and Southern yarn. Still, we need to preserve these colorful tales through storytelling; by connecting us to our history, they stimulate our interest in fact-finding, bringing us closer to the truths behind our assumptions.

Inspired and haunted by true stories, first-time Mountain Home contributing writer Carrie Hagen is the author of We Is Got Him: The Kidnapping That Changed America. She lives in Philadelphia.

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Suzan Richar

Home Economics 101

Teach A Girl to Cook and She Can Feed Herself for Life. Or One Would Hope...

By Maggie Barnes

“M

om? I need to tell you something.”

My mother’s eyes shifted from the ceiling of her hospital room to me. The oxygen mask covered most of her small face, but her raised eyebrows told me she was listening.

Mom had been hospitalized many times in her later years, but this visit had a weighty feel to it that made us certain we were coming to the end of her life.

“I want to talk to you about Bob.” Mom had only met Bobby once, so it was with trepidation that I chose 18

to tell her this news as we faced the prospect that she would never come home again.

“I’m going to marry him, Mom. You don’t have to worry about me anymore. He loves me and he will take great care of me. Do you understand?

Is this okay with you?”

Her face brightened and I saw a flash of the smile that had warmed my soul from my earliest memories. She suddenly struggled and I helped her rise up on her elbows. When one of her hands was free, she pulled the oxygen

mask from her face. I felt the pulse of cool air from it, heard the hissing sound rush by and I braced myself. She had made a herculean effort to speak and I knew the loving words she was about to bestow would live in my heart forever.

“Marry him…” she gasped. “Or you will starve to death.”

It may not have been the sum of all wisdom, but it was the ultimate proof of how well my mother knew her baby girl.

I can’t cook. I can’t sew. I can clean a house but it is a long and clumsy

process, devoid of the brilliant shortcuts or pearls of hidden wisdom often handed down by female ancestors.

I once left a watermelon on the kitchen floor so long that it fused to the linoleum and had to be amputated like a Civil War soldier’s leg. I thought irons were doorstops that heated up for some unfathomable reason. Occasionally, I still pray for Mary Alice, who finished the required A-line dress that got me through sixth grade Home Ec. (I hadn’t made a large enough hole for my head.

Who thinks of details like that??)

To the Martha Stewarts of the world, I am “She Who Must Not Be Named.”

When I moved into my first apartment, my mother gifted me a microwave. Upon opening the door, dozens of grocery coupons and recipe cards cascaded onto the floor at my feet.

By the time I met my husband, I had cultivated a solid diet based on the four major food groups: microwave, take-out, crockpot, and dinner-dates.

I could handle recipes if the most complicated step was “apply heat to contents.” As my best friend at the time routinely asked me, “So, what did you dump out of a box tonight?”

There are legions of tales about my lack of domestic prowess, but when I think about my mother, it always comes back to the episode that made her laugh the hardest I ever heard her in my life.

I was in high school. It was an early day of summer vacation and I couldn’t find a pair of shorts that appealed to me. Sorting through my wardrobe in the time honored teenage method of flinging things on to the floor behind me, I came across a discarded pair of jeans. A light bulb went on over my head. It was held aloft by Daisy Duke.

I bounced down the stairs and into the dining room, equipped with the jeans and a huge pair of scissors. I cleared the table and laid the jeans out.

A contemplative moment followed while I selected the perfect length and, seconds later, I was in possession of the

world’s cutest pair of cut-off shorts.

I could already envision the lustful double take of the cute boy across the street. This summer would be epic.

I bounded back up the stairs for a fitting, during which time my mother and my sister Joanne returned to the living room from a late morning cup of tea on the porch.

When I came back down the stairs, I am sure my mother heard the true befuddlement in my voice. “Mom? What is the problem with this?”

I rounded the foot of the stairs and stood before the ladies with the world’s cutest cut-off shorts…pulled all the way up to my chest. The denim strands dangled near my belly button and below them sat my pink Jockey Girl underwear. The look on my face conveyed the sincere confusion of a total, unapologetic idiot.

There was silence in the house, as I slid the shorts up and down the length of my body, unabated. When I raised my head, my mother and sister were staring at me the way scientists gaze upon a lesser species of animal who spends hours fascinated by its own big toe.

In the next heartbeat, my family exploded in laughter, hard, loud laughter that made coherent speech impossible. My sister took a step toward me, but had to lean against Mom for reinforcement while the two of them howled.

It is pathetic to say, but I was now confused times two, once by the illogical behavior of the shorts and now, by this bizarre, albeit united, reaction.

My mother’s funny bone had one telltale sign of full activation. She would have to take her glasses off to wipe her flowing eyes. At the sight of me, she removed them and her face rested in her other hand while her entire body shook.

Joanne finally mustered enough strength and oxygen to gently inform me, “Mags, you cut above the crotch.

Those aren’t shorts anymore.”

Hearing the situation put into words seemed too much for my mother, who erupted in fresh waves of hilarity and dropped her head onto her crossed arms on the table.

Joanne reached across the table and lifted up the remnants of the jeans.

“Didn’t you…” Jo paused to gasp and tried to straighten her aching sides.

“Didn’t you think it was odd that the legs were still connected?” She offered the jeans, legs still latched together below my less-than-surgical incision.

Ohhhh…

The “shorts” made a cameo appearance at my fortieth birthday party, thanks to sisters who retain things as well as Bill Gates’ iPhone.

Shortly after that they mysteriously disappeared. My neighbors reported some late digging one foggy night around the same time, but I’m not convinced there’s a connection.

• The tomatoes were huge this year, weighing down the plants in our garden. They were round and chubby with ruby flesh. I picked a half dozen and sliced them thinly. The preheated piecrusts were filled, and then I added sea salt, cracked black pepper, basil, and trimmed scallions. I brushed on a layer of mayo and cheddar cheese. When the oven timer dinged the pies came out bubbling with subdued colors of red and orange in their deeply tanned crusts.

For a moment, the kitchen was still and quiet. Then a sudden lift of air blew by the house, encouraging the wind chimes to dance with the music of cathedral bells. I swore I heard her voice.

“Well done, baby girl! Just stay away from the scissors!”

Maggie Barnes works in health care marketing and is a resident of Waverly, New York. She is a 2015 recipient of the Keystone Press Award for her columns in Mountain Home

19

20

Courtesy Diane Seymour

Daddy’s girl: decades after he taught her to hunt, Joe Potter and daughter Diane ride out on his century farm.

Deer Memories

Of Hot Breakfasts, Cold Hunts, and Family

By Diane Seymour

M

y eyes shift quickly to the left side of Route 6 as I round the sharp curve, drawn to a boy dressed in hot orange, standing in stark contrast to the dull late-autumn browns of the Pennsylvania fields. Three more men flash by my window at sixtyyard intervals, each in orange garb and with rifles slung over their shoulders, waiting to move into the woods. “Oh yeah, it’s the first day of deer season and school’s closed,” I remind myself, and feel a surge of envy as the last man disappears from my rear-view mirror.

Deer hunting! Thirty-some years after hanging up my rifle, that first-day urge still tugs at me even as I head to the mall. My mind wanders into the fields and forests of my childhood. Well, actually, perhaps because I’ve skipped breakfast, my first thoughts are of our old farmhouse kitchen table with plates piled high with fried deer steak and hot pancakes, pitcher of homemade brown sugar syrup ready for pouring.

“Wish I had some right now,” I think, remembering a time long ago when

our farm neighbors from Sugar Hill gathered together after the season to share this simple fare, swapping tall tales of the big bucks that got away, playing pitch, and devouring bowls of hand-cranked ice cream.

My brother hated hunting, but I embraced it, impatiently waiting to turn twelve, and the thrill of my first hunting license wasn’t matched until four years later at the DMV. My dad welcomed my interest in his passion.

In the weeks before the season opened, we’d cruise the back roads surrounding our farm, beaming a spotlight into the far corners of the fields, assessing the number of deer and the promise of trophy racks. And then, a couple of days before the Big Day, we’d sight our rifles in by leaning against a porch beam and shooting across the lawn into the black-ringed paper target.

My first gun, a 38-40 Winchester, was Gene Autry and John Wayne movie-cool, with a Rifleman-like lever action. For the first three or four years of hunting, no matter where I

stood—open field, full woods, or thick brush—the deer came to me, somehow knowing that I couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn with that old 38-40. My father finally bought me a 30-30 Savage, with bolt action. I could hit the barn, but I didn’t feel nearly as cool!

Now, a few more miles down the road, I spy another hunter: a young girl, standing with rifle butt sitting on the toe of her boot, slightly bent over and drawn into herself.

“Yeah,” I think to myself, “I remember standing like that for hours!

Freezing, but not wanting to admit it or give up for the day.”

After a few years of hunting with a gang of relatives and neighbors, my dad and I settled into a smaller gang—just the two of us. Outside before daylight, we’d take turns during the day standing in our special deer runs while the other walked through the woods to stir up the deer. Alternating between cold-to-thebone standing and sweaty-hot-in-thecold walking, we’d cover every inch of our hundred-fifty acres and much of the See Deer Memories on page 22

21

Courtesy Diane Seymour

Like father like daughter: Joe Potter in the early ’60s, when Diane started hunting with him and (right) Diane in 1971 with her first buck, shot on the family farm on Sugar Hill.

Deer Memories continued from page 21

neighbors’, hope still alive, only driven homeward by darkness.

“I’ve got to get the gun-cleaning fluid out someday soon and take a whiff of it,” I think, weaving into the left lane of traffic. “I can’t quite bring back the smell of Hoppe’s, but I know it smelled really good.”

Everything smelled, tasted, and felt good after a long day in the cold—often in snow, sleet, or rain, lugging a rifle up hill and down, fighting through briar patches that grabbed and held on, and climbing over slippery stone walls. Hot dogs frying in butter smelled better than steak on a grill. Baked beans from a can and warmed up on the stove called out as strongly as any gourmet dish Julia Child could cook up. Coconut washboard cookies rivaled fresh crème brûlée as the perfect dessert. Feast complete, my dad would light his pipe while I snuggled under an old quilt on the couch, fading in and out of an out-of-the-cold, body-so-tired sleep as 22

Walter Cronkite read the news.

I remember clearly the day when my 30-30 finally found its mark…the thrill of a snapping twig, slipping the safe off and raising the rifle, waiting, straining to see through snowflakes, aiming, heart racing, adrenaline shutting out the cold, waiting a few more agonizing seconds to make sure, squeezing the trigger, barely feeling the recoil, ejecting the bullet, aiming again, squeezing again, watching helplessly as the deer disappeared, running awkwardly after it in heavy boots, struggling to keep upright on the frozen tufts of dead grass...My father, hampered by his color blindness, looked to me to follow the trail of bright red drops on the brown forest floor. Finally sighting the downed deer, he strode up to it, proud of his daughter and pleased with our day. Pulling out his knife to claim it as ours, he warmed his hands in the rising steam as he worked.

By my mid-twenties, I stopped hunting, growing too soft to stand in

freezing weather, swayed by a husband who only hunted with a bow, busy with job and family, and reaching a point, as my youngest son put it, where I didn’t want to kill those forest creatures. For several years, though, hunting created a strong bond between my father and me. My love for the land and its wildlife also grew from those hours spent traipsing through the fields and forests of beautiful Bradford County.

As I slam the Buick door and head for Macys my attention starts to shift to the Christmas presents waiting inside.

One last first-day thought crosses my mind—a reminder to myself to call my father, a master hunter into his eighties.

I’ll say, “Thanks for the memories.”

Mountain Home contributor Diane Seymour lives in Towanda and writes short stories about life in the Northern Tier of Pennsylvania.

23

Roger Kingsley

Branching Out

A Step-By-Step Guide to Scoring the Antlers on That Trophy Buck

By Roger Kingsley

M

ost of today’s hunters are very much aware of the scoring system developed in 1950 known as Boone & Crockett. While some hunters have studied the proper techniques to make reasonably accurate Boone & Crockett measurements of their big game trophies, others either don’t have a clue or have only a vague understanding of the procedure.

The Boone & Crockett system of measuring was designed for native North American big game animals only, which includes thirty-eight species in twelve categories, using antlers, horns, skulls and tusks as the trophy characteristics.

Antlers are the branched, deciduous, bone-like structures of the deer family, which also includes elk, moose, and caribou. Horned game includes sheep, goats, bison, muskox, and pronghorn.

24

Bears and cats are recorded using skull measurements, while the tusks of the walrus are considered that animal’s trophy character.

With the whitetail deer not only regarded as North America’s most popular big game animal, but also the foundation of the hunting industry, their antlers are measured more than any other big game species. What’s unique about antlers is the unlimited variety of configurations into which they can grow.

Because deer antlers have been known to exhibit some crazy abnormalities during the growing process, they are differentiated by either a typical or a nontypical category. One category awards points for the abnormalities, while the other considers them a penalty.

Symmetry—one beam being a near-perfect image of the other—is the

key to high scoring antlers regardless of the configuration. Even non-typical antlers must have a reasonable amount of symmetry, or deductions will incur against the net or final score.

The net score is derived from an equation consisting of the total of the inside spread, the length of the main beams, the length of the points, and the circumference measurements of the beams in specific locations, subtracted by the total of the differences between each antler’s lack of symmetry. For example: if one beam is twenty-four inches in length, and the opposite beam is only twenty-two inches, that’s two inches of deductions. If the second point on the right beam (G-2) is eleven inches long, and the G-2 on the left beam is eight inches long, that’s another three inches of deductions...and so on.

WELCOME TO

WELLSBORO

For hunters who want to perform their own Boone & Crockett measurements on deer antlers, they should invest in three tools of the trade: a quarter-inch wide flexible steel measuring tape; a round, flexible steel cable (bicycle brake cable, for example), and a folding carpenter’s rule with a brass slide. Score charts can be downloaded at www.boonecrockett.org, or you can take advantage of their online scoring calculator.

The folding carpenter’s rule is the ideal tool for measuring the inside spread. Position the rule so that it is parallel with the skull plate, then use the brass slide to find the widest distance between the two beams. Be sure to position the rule in the center of the beams, not near the bottom or the top.

To establish the base lines for determining point lengths, attach a piece of masking tape to the outside edge of the antler where each point connects the main beam. Now, by using some sort of flexible straightedge, lay it across the top of the main beam while pressing it against the point. The idea is to draw a line on the tape, at the bottom of the straightedge where the point and beam connect. Picture the beam without the point even existing, while maintaining the proper width of the beam as you look at it from the side.

Once the base lines have been established, start one end of the steel cable at the outside center of the burr (antler base) near the skull plate, and press it against the center of the beam as you continue along the outer edge all the way to the beam tip. The baselines that you established for the points will help you to stay in the middle of the beams as you proceed.

Upon reaching the end of the beam, mark the end by pinching it with your fingers, or use an alligator clip, then lay it on your stretched-out carpenter’s rule or a yardstick to determine the beam length. Repeat the process for the opposite beam.

Next, measure each one of the points along their outer center from the tips to the baselines. Extremely curved points may require the use of the cable. To be considered a point, they must be one inch long and longer than the base is wide.

There are four circumference measurements taken on each beam. Wrap your flexible steel tape measure around the beam to find the smallest circumference between the burr and the brow tine or G1, the smallest between the G1 and G2, and so on until all four have been determined. In the case of only three points on a beam, the last circumference measurement is taken halfway between the center of the third point and the beam tip.

Add the beam length, point lengths, and the four circumference measurements together to arrive at a total for each antler. To determine the lack of symmetry, total up the differences between the beams, points, and circumferences.

These are the deductions or penalties for the measured material.

Add the inside spread, the right antler total, and the left See Branching Out on page 33

25

Judy McAdoo

Happy holidays: at Wagner Valley, Ginny Lee, the founder’s granddaughter, gets ready for the big event.

The Party Begins

A Holiday Countdown for Wine Lovers

By Holly Howell

R

eady. Set. Go! Hold on to your hats—the holiday season has officially begun. The next few months are going to disappear faster than a 95-point wine that retails for under twelve dollars. As a wine lover, I can barely keep up with all of the seasonal events and special promotions that bombard me daily. So, I’ve decided to put together a little guideline for anyone out there—like me—who can’t bear to miss a thing. Please mark the following on your calendar: November 1. Daylight Savings Time Ends. By the time you read this, you have probably realized that you are craving wine a bit earlier in the day, due to the onset of the nocturnal lighting (aka darkness) much sooner than expected. Please don’t hesitate to listen to this message from your inner 26

self. It is also a great defense mechanism for keeping the cold weather at bay.

November 9. The annual Wine Spectator magazine Top 100 countdown begins. These wines are selected based on “quality, value, availability, and excitement.” This is a biggie for wine geeks. Once these wines are announced, they can sell out worldwide within minutes. You really have to hustle to find them in a timely manner. Wine Spectator makes it fun by revealing the top ten wines on the list over a period of five days. On Monday the 9th they announce number ten and number nine.

On Tuesday the 10th they announce number eight and number seven. And so on until Friday, when the Top Two Wines of the World are revealed. Thanks to modern technology, you can keep up with the countdown in real time on

countdown.top100.winespectator.com.

On Monday, November 17, the entire list is printed, from #1 to #100.

Expect some top-name no-brainers, but also some really cool surprises. Inevitably, some winery’s life is going to change forever.

November 19. The “Beaujolais est arrivé,” Baby. Even if you are not fond of this freshly bottled grape juice from the region of Beaujolais, France, it still remains one of the top worldwide celebrations of the wine harvest. It is the inaugural release of a 2015 wine from Europe, and is always considered a preview of everything to come. On this third Thursday of November, you can be one of the first to try it at many local liquor stores and restaurants. It pairs very well with the foods of the season, like turkey, mashed potatoes, and gravy.

Finger Lakes Wine Trail Events: Nov. 7-8 and Nov. 14-15. Keuka Holidays: Wreaths, ornaments, food, recipes, and wine, with the added pleasure of getting all of your shopping done before Thanksgiving.

These winery boutiques are packed with unique gifts for wine lovers and non-wine lovers alike. You’ll be amazed at the great stuff you will find, including lots of locally made treasures that make great gifts for out-of-towners. (www. keukawinetrail.com) Nov. 20-22 and Dec. 4-6. Cayuga Lake’s 22nd Annual Holiday Shopping Spree: You can visit ten different wineries.

You’ll receive a souvenir wine glass, a lovely grapevine wreath, and a trail ornament from each winery. You will also receive discounts, holiday treats complete with recipes, and the chance to win several flashy grand prizes. Delicious nonalcoholic beverages are offered for designated drivers. We like that. Or, if you want to really do it up, go for a weekend package that includes transportation to the wineries, and lodging at one of the charming local bed and breakfast spots. (www.cayugawinetrail.com) Nov. 20-22 and Dec. 4-6. Seneca Lake Deck The Halls: You will be offered great recipes and food tastings along with your wine samples, and of course, the essential ornament at every stop. There are thirty-four participating wineries in the event, so if you have a big holiday tree, you can pretty much decorate it with one trip around the lake. (www.senecalakewine.com) November 26. Thanksgiving. A favorite holiday of wine lovers because you can uncork just about anything you want.

But every sommelier has their favorites. I am a creature of habit, so I always serve up a crisp, mouthwatering Finger Lakes Riesling to cut through the richness of the meal and also keep the palate refreshed between each and every bite.

Plus, we usually have company from out-of-state, and I love showing off the local stuff! As for the pumpkin pie, I am apt to splurge and offer up a nicely chilled ice wine—one of New York State’s most luscious wine treasures.

December is like a tornado, and you need to have plenty of sparkling wine on hand. I keep several bottles chilled at all times, in case of emergency. It can be a welcome friend after stressful shopping days. It is my savior when surprise guests show up. It is a shoe-in for Sunday brunch. It can turn a winter storm into a romantic evening by the fire. And, it is the best wine ever for jumbo shrimp cocktail.

Bring on the holidays! Here’s to many festive days ahead.

Enjoy the ride…

Holly Howell is a Certified Specialist of Wine (by the Society of Wine Educators) and a Certified Sommelier (by the Master Court of Sommeliers in England).

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CORNING’S GAFFER DISTRICT

䌀椀琀礀 䌀栀爀椀

氀 愀

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䌀爀礀猀琀

WELCOME TO

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䄀 栀漀氀椀搀愀礀 琀爀愀搀椀椀漀渀 昀漀爀 㐀㄀ 礀攀愀爀猀℀ 䘀攀愀琀甀爀椀渀最 琀栀攀 匀攀氀˻攀猀猀 䔀氀昀 㔀䬀 刀愀挀攀⼀圀愀氀欀Ⰰ ǻ爀攀眀漀爀欀猀Ⰰ 氀椀瘀攀 攀渀琀攀爀琀愀椀渀洀攀渀琀Ⰰ 栀漀爀猀攀 愀渀搀 眀愀最漀渀 爀椀搀攀猀 愀渀搀 愀挀挀瘀椀椀攀猀 昀漀爀 琀栀攀 眀栀漀氀攀 昀愀洀椀氀礀⸀

ⴀ 愀渀渀 搀漀漀ᤠ​ᤠ 洀椀猀猀 ⴀ

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䠀伀䰀䤀䐀䄀夀 䌀伀一䌀䔀刀吀 圀䤀吀䠀 倀䠀䤀䰀 嘀䄀匀匀䄀刀 猀甀渀搀愀礀Ⰰ 搀攀挀攀洀戀攀爀 ㄀㌀ 䄀 猀瀀攀挀椀愀氀 栀漀氀椀搀愀礀 猀栀漀眀 昀攀愀琀甀爀椀渀最 一愀猀栀瘀椀氀氀攀 爀攀挀漀爀搀椀渀最 愀爀爀猀琀 倀栀椀氀 倀栀椀氀 嘀愀猀猀愀爀⸀ 刀攀挀攀椀瘀攀 猀瀀攀挀椀愀氀 猀栀漀瀀瀀椀渀最 椀渀挀攀渀渀瘀攀猀 眀椀琀栀 礀漀甀爀 挀欀攀琀 瀀甀爀挀栀愀猀攀⸀ 吀椀挀欀攀琀猀 漀渀 猀愀氀攀 渀漀眀℀ 倀 刀 䔀 匀 䔀 一 吀 䔀 䐀 䈀夀

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Also available in local stores.

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Branching Out continued from page 25

antler total plus any abnormal points to arrive at a gross score, then subtract the total deductions plus abnormal points to arrive at your net typical or final score.

One should keep in mind that the scoring procedures outlined here are to help anyone perform the very basics.

Measurements such as tip-to-tip and greatest spread are supplementary data only and are not calculated into the final score. As I mentioned before, antlers come in a nonstop variety of configurations.

Therefore, questions are certain to arise and stump the novice measurer because of issues with webbing, short points, drop tines, forked points, etc.

Remember, the reason you are performing the basic measurements is twofold: to determine the approximate score, and to find out if it may be a record book contender. If you arrive at a score that meets or exceeds a record book minimum, contact an Official Measurer in your area to set up an appointment to have it scored. All antlers must air dry at room temperature for sixty days before official measurements can be conducted.

Shrinkage does and will occur, so it’s best to have them scored as soon as possible after the drying period.

Antler scoring provides wildlife officials with vital information associated with quality habitat, age structure, and other data. Antler scores from one county can be compared to those of another, while the highest scoring antlers in the state can be compared to other states and provinces. These records also serve as an essential guide for the hunter who travels to other parts of the country in pursuit of trophy-class animals.

Keep in mind that scoring antlers is a necessary procedure in order to conduct a rank, but scores should never undermine the visual appeal that most hunters consider when sizing up one buck from another.

Trail-Wide

A hunter and photographer, award-winning writer Roger Kingsley’s articles and photos have appeared in Deer & Deer Hunting, and Pennsylvania Game News, among others.

33

&

DRINK

Courtesy Phelps BDTC

FOOD

Getting ahead: a typical farm scene in New York’s cabbage country.

Between the Turkey and the Big Green “C” From Humble Kraut, An Elegant Recipe to Bridge the Holidays

By Cornelius O’Donnell

P

robably most of you dear readers will be having turkey this Thanksgiving. And many of you might opt for a savory, if pricey, roast beef as the centerpiece of your Christmas dinner. Lucky devils.

Thus you might be searching for something you can cook for family and company before or after these two big feeds. How about something different

34

and one with a warming “winter-iscoming” feel—a meal that doesn’t cost the earth, is easy to produce, can (and should) be made ahead, and also doesn’t include the two items I mentioned in the first line?

A Humble Suggestion Here’s a dish that combines one-pot

easy with distinctive flavors. One thing I’d advise right up front: if you don’t have them, scout out some inexpensive shallow soup plates (eight- to ten-inch) for serving. You’ll use them ever after for all kinds of chili, spaghetti, stews, composed salads, and the like, and they are so much more elegant than cereal bowls. (You need the slightly rounded coupe shape to hold the liquid.)

This is a variation on a recipe from that towering culinary genius the late James Beard. I have made a version of this winner countless times. Yes, it is a type of goulash, but I hope I’ve lifted it out of the ordinary. (Beard loved the idea of a warming goulash-style dish. Another favorite of mine from Jim is his layered casserole of ham, kielbasa, canned white and cannellini beans topped with bacon strips and bread crumbs and laced with cognac. It’s a snap to put together and perhaps I’ll include it in a future column.) Anyway, here’s a good recipe to have on hand now.

Pork and Sauerkraut Goulash Sauerkraut was one of Jim Beard’s favorite ingredients—and mine, too.

Since my dad loved pork in all its forms, mom featured kraut a lot to accompany the chops or roasts.

I vaguely knew that cabbage was a major crop up north of the Twin Tiers

somewhere, and then I came face to face with the extensive farms several years ago.

I was reconnoitering the back roads of the area to the east of Rochester along the shore of Lake Ontario to enjoy the beauty of the orchards during apple blossom season; then I headed south to the area around Phelps, New York, where I found myself passing farmland lushly planted with cabbage. Those little leaves would soon get a “head.” (Sorry, can’t help myself.)

You can still see these sights, although both the Silver Floss and the Seneca brand canners of kraut are just a fairly recent memory; Silver Floss has moved west to become Great Lakes Kraut (part of Birdseye) and Seneca was eventually sold to Comstock foods and canning stopped north of us in the 1980s.

Gone but not forgotten is the watchword in Phelps as, each year around the first of August, the town throws a Sauerkraut Festival. It started

in the heyday of the canning plants in 1967 as a one-day affair. Now it has blossomed into a four-day event. If you Google “Phelps” you can easily find out more. Meanwhile, let’s get cooking.

Dutch Oven at the Ready?

Here is my version of Beard’s Goulash recipe: 4 to 5 slices thick-cut bacon cut in 1-inch pieces 3 pounds lean pork shoulder, cut in 1½ to 2-inch cubes 3 large onions (yellow or white), chopped 1 Tbsp. sweet or hot (or a little of each) imported Hungarian paprika (make sure it is still potent) 2 green (yes, green) bell peppers, peeled with a sharp peeler, then seeded and cut in thin strips ½ large (or 1 small) bay leaf 1 c. dry white wine or chicken stock or water See Big Green “C” on page 36

35

Big Green “C” continued from page 34

1½ c. canned Italian plum tomatoes 2 lbs. sauerkraut (I prefer the bagged variety [fresh kraut is best], well-rinsed and drained [wring out in a tea towel or your impeccably clean hands]) ¼ c. gin or a teaspoon of juniper berries (optional) A few caraway seeds (optional) Salt, freshly ground pepper 1 c. sour cream or yogurt Buttered noodles for serving Add the bacon to a 5-quart oven-safe Dutch oven or large seasoned cast-iron skillet, and sauté until most of the fat is rendered. Remove cooked bacon with a slotted spoon and set aside on paper towel.

Dry the cubes of pork with more paper towels and add to the hot fat a few pieces at a time (don’t crowd the pan).

Turn the pieces with tongs as you cook, until the meat is lightly brown. Remove to a bowl and brown the rest of the pork in the same way.

Add the onion to the now empty pan and sauté, tossing, until limp (the onions, not you). Mix the paprika with the wine and stir this into the onions, scraping up the residue in the bottom of the pan to dissolve it. Then add the green peppers and bay leaf. Coarsely crush the tomatoes with your hand and add to the pot. Lastly, add the rinsed and drained sauerkraut, the optional gin, and caraway seed, if using.

Stir the pan contents and taste for salt. You may not need much, as the kraut will still be salty. Add a good sprinkle of fresh ground pepper, cover the pan, and bring to the simmer on the stovetop. (You could pop the pan in a preheated 325-degree oven or at a temperature that will just maintain a simmer—ovens vary.) Let this purr away for about an hour or until the meat is very tender.

Serve it forth or…cool the pan to room temperature with the lid askew and then refrigerate for a day or two. Remove to a heat-resistant bowl if using an uncoated cast-iron pan.

(With an enamel-coated pan it’s okay to pop the covered pan in the fridge.) The flavors will blend nicely.

Next day—or later on the same day—reheat in a low oven set at about 275-degrees. When the goulash reaches serving temperature, spoon it over hot buttered noodles and daub the sour cream or yogurt over the top of the goulash or, alternatively, fold the cream into the goulash and make sure it doesn’t boil.

Use a bit of the reserved crisp bacon to top each serving.

Beard rightly called this dish “Middle European.” I call it delicious and warming. And a good local craft beer is the ideal accompaniment.

Chef, teacher, author, and award-winning columnist Cornelius O’Donnell lives in Elmira, New York.

36

Your Host, the Kauffman Family

E

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See In the Shade on page 40 37

Courtesy of viintage.com

The Sportsmen’s Gift Guide

Or, Getting the Gear You’ve Always Wanted...for Thanksgiving

By Don Knaus

I

sat at the Diner Roundtable, contributing my thoughts to various solutions for world woes and community concerns. Our regular breakfast club of aging sages could fix about anything if only we could get politicians to listen.

We offered thoughts on local water shortages, Marcellus Shale gas drilling sites, the dearth of deer, and possible terrorist threats to our woods and wilds. Windy’s latest installment on the progress of his decades-long house remodel had drowned out any talk of trout or turkeys. Doc, the eldest of our codger coffee klatch, muttered and mumbled, almost to himself. We’re all a little hard of hearing, so, when Windy gasped for a breath, I asked Doc to repeat, “Huh? What’d you say?”

Windy’s woes of wood, hammer and saw stopped abruptly, focusing on Doc. Doc frowned, “I’m worried.”

He had us…had our undivided attention. Fully tuned in, we were expecting a description of some ghastly, grisly impending surgery...maybe a nasty diagnosis. All things medical were also favorite Roundtable topics of conversation.

He continued, “I’m worried. I’m worried that, when I die, my wife will sell

38

my hunting and fishing stuff for what I told her I paid for it.”

We laughed and nodded agreement.

The Counselor chimed in, “Doc, you said it. If my wife ever found out how much I paid for that pricey Sage fly rod when I was on a fishing trip in Montana she’d... well, she’d….” Before he could finish the thought, the other sports added similar sentiments. It seems that, in addition to exaggerating the length and weight of brown trout or the distance of shots to record book deer, we were all guilty of lying to our lovely brides as to the costs of various pieces of sporting equipment.

The offenses ranged from hiding a new rifle in the garage, or storing a rod at camp, to sharing the price of a pair of boots that was a third of the actual outlay in cash. Oh, the confessions we exchanged; oh, the sins that are necessary to remain a well-equipped sportsman.

I waited until they had exhausted their catalogue of crimes committed in the name of decency and, of course, good sportsmanship. I mean, who wants the Little Lady to rant and rave over outdoor expenditures?

I started, “I’m with you guys. Any and every ploy we use is acceptable, provided the wife never gets wind of how much we actually spend on huntin’

and fishin’ gear. I even wrote a column called “The Thousand-Dollar Trout” to get my lovely bride off scent. I mean... think about it. The story was about a weeklong fishing trip to Montana. I caught a trophy brown trout. And get this: the week only cost a thousand dollars? C’mon! The flights cost that much! But she bought it. I no sooner got back from the western trout streams than I realized that I needed some traps.

And, pretty as you please, I conjured up the perfect ploy…the all-time best tactic to cover big boys’ toys. I’ve got your answer, guys.”

You see, several years ago, when my granddaughter, Regan, was three or four, I came up with St. Tom the Turkey as a little Thanksgiving joke. I asked her if St. Tom had visited her on Thanksgiving Eve. Of course, she said no.

“Well, he visits homes of good little girls and leaves gifts on Thanksgiving Eve, just like St. Nick does at Christmas.

And guess what, Regan? He must have known that you were coming to our house today because he stopped by our house last night and left a gift for you.”

I smiled, reached under my chair, and pulled out a coloring book. Naturally, the kid smiled. Worked like a charm.

Then, reaching under the chair See Gift Guide on page 40

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again, I introduced a new rifle scope left by St. Tom himself. I smiled and exclaimed, “And look what St. Tom brought me!”

The wife just gave a pained smile. It worked!

“But listen guys, don’t try Halloween.” All eyes were aimed at me as though I were the omniscient guru atop the mountain. I continued, “Almost a year later, I tried the Great Pumpkin trick to show off my new shotgun. Well, let me tell you, costumes, Halloween parade, and trick-or-treat aside, that is not the right time to say the Great Pumpkin gave you an expensive shotgun. And, to top it off, I’d forgotten a coloring book for the granddaughter.”

So this year, I reprised St. Tom during the Thanksgiving dinner. It was the traditional shindig. You know, kids and grandkids, son-in-law, a feast that couldn’t be beat...all the right things in the right setting. I quizzed Regan about the visit by St. Tom. Her sister, Reese, was quieted when I shoved a piece of turkey on her plate. The kid hadn’t been visited and had received no gifts. I produced the coloring book.

Then, in a tour de force, I described the traps and how much they were needed...even more than that shotgun she didn’t think I needed.

My wife carped, “If you would have used that shotgun on a wild turkey, we’d be eating it right now!”

I was flabbergasted at her utter ignorance of the fine sport of hunting. I explained that the new over/under 20-gauge was for grouse, woodcock, and ringnecks.

“The shotgun that the Easter Bunny left me is the one I use for turkeys,” I explained.

I could see her cheeks redden, matching the cranberry sauce.

“Get back to the traps,” she growled.

“You know, Honey, it was just a couple of traps...for muskrat and mink. Then I thought I might’s well get a couple for bobcat...just in case. And they were on sale...”

My wife looked at me with daggers big enough to carve the turkey. Meanwhile, Regan was dragging the back cover of the coloring book through the giblet gravy. Nice move on her part. It diverted everyone’s attention. When my lovely bride had finished wiping gravy off the book, she turned her gaze back to me. I simply said, “Pass the turkey stuffing, Honey.”

So you see, guys, St. Tom works...but don’t forget the coloring book.

My breakfast buddies silently nodded assent, looking like they had just scaled the mountain and talked to the wizard. I wonder if they’ll try St. Tom the Turkey.

I know I won’t next year.

Retired teacher, principal, coach, and life-long sportsman Don Knaus is an award-winning outdoor writer and author of Of Woods and Wild Things, a collection of short stories on hunting, fishing, and the outdoors.

40

Mountain Home

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41

B A C K O F T H E M O U N TA I N

The View from My Valley

By Sarah Wagaman

I

t was pretty interesting to be able to witness this rare phenomenon of the lunar eclipse. Considering there were only five supermoon lunar eclipses in the 1900s (when a full moon at its closest proximity to the earth coincides with a total lunar eclipse) and with the next one not due to occur until October 2033, I thought I should attempt to stay awake to observe the “blood moon,” as it is also known. Historically considered in a negative context, the red moon is a fascinating spectacle caused by a “Rayleigh scattering.” It is the same mechanism responsible for causing colorful sunrises, sunsets, and the vivid blue skies we enjoy! Beauty, it would seem, is not biased by time, place, or season.

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