As the clock rang at 5:00AM Lettie nudged her husband out of bed. He stepped onto a Persian style rug worn raw to the color of the warp. One smudged blue wall in the bedroom had a hole in it where the handle of the door was punched through. Lettie had put duct tape over it to keep out the bats that fell into the wall. She walked quietly to the big kitchen, passing the tiny room where the two girls slept on a three quarters bed. There she started water for coffee and put a chunk of the mystery meat from the county food bank into a pan. She sliced off some bread, and when the meat was hot, added a of couple duck eggs. Blessing the food bank for the five pounds of butter they got every month, she slavered the toast. About the time Jake had put on his postal uniform his breakfast was done.
Lettie watched her husband as he spaded his way through breakfast. After three years of college and conflict, her dotty mother had found the last straw. Jake appeared in Lettie’s life just as the pressure at home became unbearable, so the girl had quit to marry and follow this raggedy eccentric through whatever world he created. They’d gone to Alaska, ricocheted down to California, and finally landed in this tiny shack, sans insulation, short on cash, and long on faith that they could provide for the two children they’d hatched.
It had been raining for much of February and while the ducks were happy, that old shack of a house now had a pond underneath. On the warmer nights the frogs would begin mating at about midnight providing background music for sleep. Whoever built the place was either a drunk or deficient of a carpenter’s square and you could see the cock-eyed angles at every joint. The front of the house was on pier blocks, but they’d likely run out so the bedrooms sat on the hard pan dirt. But the place was dry inside and warm when the little heater was working, and it had been very cheap.
Turning her attention back to Jake and his vacant dishes, Lettie saw him rushing for his coat.
“He’s always late. Every day he’s late,” were her thoughts, but she swallowed the feeling and said,
“I’m making apple and raisin pie tonight.”
“Sounds good,” was the retort from Jake followed by a muttered, “Don’t yell at the pie crust.”
She winced and waving at him as he exited said,
“Have a good one. Don’t take any wooden envelopes,” as he scuttled out the door. Watching him skid down the gravel in that old Ford wagon she secretly hoped he’d squash the guinea hen, the one that guggled so hideously and chased car wheels. Then she turned to her boots. Peeking back at the still sleeping kids, Lettie slipped them on, grabbed a pail and went to the goat barn.
Nanto and Starlet, both tiny-eared La Mancha goats, gave Lettie that sideways sly look goats have. The thing about goats is that they have personality. Goats have opinions, plenty of them. And a goat knows what a good joke is. Eating your rose buds is a goat joke. So is nipping the top off your newly planted redwood trees. A goat can do either in just a few seconds. All you need to do is let the gate fall open just a trice too much. And blink. Poof!, no roses. On the other hand, if you want to snuggle with something warm and sweet smelling, a hand raised goat on a bed of straw will do nicely. They know how to meditate, goats do. They don’t mind if you hang out with them and get mellow. Goats are really good company. Except for the part about the roses.
Climbing onto the milking stand Nanto let down her toothsome, rich milk as Lettie massaged her bag. Within fifteen minutes she had three quarts along with the warm goat cuddle that started her day well. They were enjoying alfalfa hay as she stumbled back to the house, mud sucking at her boots.
Days had a simple rhythm in the valley. The animals were fed, food cooked, kids played in the mini-small living room when it rained. There was an afternoon nap with the girls giggling quietly and then at four the husband returned for dinner. The foods provided by the food bank included too much white flour, enough white corn syrup to keep a ton of bees alive, canned stringy chickens, and two big blocks of that stick-to-the-teeth processed cheese. The family bought most meat on the hoof, bidding at the Mendocino livestock auction for worn out sheep and the occasional pig. A sheep ate alfalfa and goat grain for a few weeks to make it healthy, then it would be killed simply, skinned, and sliced up on the dinner table into freezer packages. Lettie ground much of the meat, stewed and baked more, and served the chops, hind legs, and liver with fancy recipes she found in the Joy of Cooking. The summer’s garden had filled the freezer with kale, quartered tomatoes, root crops, and purple beans. There were chicken and duck eggs, and an occasional goose egg that produced a whole omelet. Combined with locally scavenged fruits and nuts, and an occasional exchange with a neighbor, the family ate well.
Lettie’s ducks had made their nests up on the forested hill amongst the pack rat mounds and huge, round pits dug by ancient Indians. In the summer the ducks came downhill to rejoice in the kids’ plastic pool. Chairs were set around for watching the splashing, honking, and mating of the deliriously happy fowl. This amusement and lying on the lawn watching the night sky were the best entertainments. Their TV hadn’t survived the move to the country (stubborn resistance from Lettie had left it behind) so festivity came at random to their daily life.
Lately something had been stealing the duck eggs. With the nests set behind trees there was protection for animal thieves. These rich eggs being an essential part of the late winter diet, it was necessary to find the culprit. So Stoutheart the dog was put to his work. After the evening meal of mutton patties and chopped kale, the dog took his place tied to a corner downhill from the ducks and the family fell to sleep. Lettie dreamed of lush, spring gardens, her husband muttered “stop that” in scary dreams unknown, and the little girls dreamed of Legos the size of milk crates. Later, well into the night Stoutheart began his bold complaining. The yelp had a strident “this is not a pack rat” sound. As he continued she woke Jake, and they pulled on coats and boots. Jake grabbed his old twenty-two and loaded it, Lettie turned on the Coleman lantern, and both stepped out onto squishy, rain-soaked ground.
Crazy-rowdy with a scent, Stoutheart tugged at the rope as he continued obsessive barking.
“Let him off,” Lettie whispered to Jake in spite of the ruckus.
“We need to stay close as he runs,” Jake returned as he removed the rope from the dog.
After a few useless circles, the dog scurried half-way up the hill and they could hear snarling mixed with howling. The couple puffed behind the dog to find he’d treed an intimidating raccoon --- one with big teeth and a willingness to defend himself.
“Wow!” was about all Lettie had to say.
“It’s huge. Must be a male,” Jake said and cocked the twenty-two. “Stand back.”
It all happened pretty fast with great commotion, much sliding on wet leaves, Jake and Leticia yelling, the dog jumping and barking, and frightful bright-eyed growling by the heroic beast. He climbed higher up the tree while Stoutheart danced and careened. Fear shriveled Lettie while it magnified Jake. Finally he aimed and fired a shot. Badly wounded the raccoon dropped near his feet. With a finishing shot the creature stopped breathing, the dog stopped barking, and Lettie gasped, repeating her first comment,
“Wow!”
Holding the coon by one leg Jake carried it downhill while he remarked on it’s heft. Lettie fetched an old bath scale so that they could weigh the beast.
Jake said, “Eighteen pounds. That is a big male.” After which he took it to the back porch, laid it out, then went for his hunting knife.
Lettie shined the lantern on the big, beautiful raccoon. His fur was thick for the winter and his tail was blackly ringed. She smelled his strong, acrid scent, not too different from skunk, and remembered the nights that smell had drifted through the window. Stoutheart, too, needed to sniff his approval. The dog stood panting next to her and while he recalled the chase, Lettie admired the powerful and able beast that until now had lived amongst them without their knowledge.
“So much more clever than us,” she mused, “and so well equipped for this scatter of forest and houses. And while we scrabble about with our cars and county food, those beautiful hands and sharp incisors are all it has for a good life.”
Heavy boots on the old porch landing brought her back to the loss of her own food --- ducks eggs and ducklings stolen, breakfasts made thin by these same raccoon hands.
“So, skin it,” she said.
In half an hour the raccoon had become a carcass for the stew pot and a pelt of lush fur.
The next morning there was the problem of cooking. Up to this point Lettie had only the one cookbook. She was always amazed at how thorough this book was. The center section had many pages on methods and ingredients which she had read and memorized. When she opened the book, sure enough, raccoon was listed on page 454. Here is the recipe verbatim:
“Skin, clean, and soak overnight: 1 raccoon in salt water.
Scrape off all fat inside and out. Blanch (page 132), for 45 minutes.
Add: 2 tablespoons baking soda and continue to cook uncovered for 5 minutes. Drain and wash in warm water.
Put in cold water and bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer 15 minutes. Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Stuff the raccoon with Bread Dressing, (page 456). Bake covered, about 45 minutes, uncover and bake 15 minutes longer before serving.”
The meat, though still tough after all that preparation, had a taste between turkey and beef. While she wouldn’t chase down raccoons for cuisine, it was palatable and settled well in their stomachs.
As it turned out there was another advantage to taking out this busy raccoon. Coons are bright animals. They thrive in cities, living in the sewers of San Francisco and Manhattan. It’s the largest mammal after man to live free in urban areas. You may deduce that a lot of things have been learned and passed down to raccoon children. Among them is the awareness of murder amongst the clan.
Jake hammered the pelt to the side of the old house.
“Like a sign,” he said. “We kill raccoons --- stay away.” And it worked. Long after the recipe in the “Joy” had been followed and the meat had been consumed, the pelt hung there. It weathered in the rain and sun, but somehow retained either the look or scent of raccoon death. No other raccoon wandered through Lettie’s meager plot. Ducks slept peacefully, chickens didn’t worry, and Stoutheart experienced a succession of dull seasons.
Many years later as Lettie found herself no longer hard scrabble she’d toss the meaty remains of a dinner out into the forest at the side of her fancy, new house. Possums and raccoons, even bears lived in her neighborhood, and she knew the bits wouldn’t last the night.
She’d think, “An offering for all the raccoons and gratitude for the dinners one provided.”
© Picottee Asheden
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