I always managed to make my trips on Saturdays as that was “coon hunters’ ” day.
I didn’t have to stand around on the outside of the circle any more and listen to the coon hunters.
I’d get right up in the middle and say my piece with the rest of them.
I didn’t have to tell any whoppers for some of the things my dogs did were almost unbelievable anyhow.
Oh, I guess I did make things a little bigger than they actually were but I never did figure a coon hunter told honest-to-goodness lies.
He just kind of stretched things a little. I could hold those coon hunters spellbound with some of my hunting tales.
Grandpa would never say anything while I was telling my stories.
He just puttered around the store with a silly little grin on his face.
Once in a while when I got too far off the beaten path, he would come around and cram a bar of soap in my pocket.
My face would get all red, I’d cut my story short, fly out the door, and head for home.
The coon hunters were always kidding me about my dogs.
Some of the remarks I heard made me fighting mad. “I never saw hounds so small, but I guess they are hounds, at least they look like it.”
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