Saddle Sore: Bible thumping raccoons

My friend, Anthony Hume, an Aspen local for umpteen years although he now lives somewhere else (and a one-time guest columnist in this space), got me into a discussion about a poisonous plant that had been pointed out by Red Rowland on one of their horseback rides. The infamous larkspur — killer of cattle, and maybe of horses, too, although the palate of horses is a bit more discriminating if there’s anything else around to eat.

And so began a conversation about Red and Peggy Rowland, rock-solid Aspen natives who lived a couple of blocks from Anthony’s family place on Lake Avenue. Rowland’s son, Jack, was my best friend for many years. Anyway, Peggy was one of those getting the Episcopal Church started in Aspen, and at her invitation, Anthony began going to the services — not always so much for the services, but he enjoyed Peggy’s company. She got him interested in St. Paul’s letters.

One summer night, Anthony, dressed in a nightshirt, was positioned comfortably in the add-on bedroom extension to their barn, overlooking Hallam Lake, reading St. Paul’s letters. There came a scratching on the outside of the wall, just for a moment. Then, shortly thereafter came another scratching, then stopped. He decided it was worth checking out and went onto the deck to investigate. Aha, there it was, a raccoon hanging on with three paws on the wall, consisting of Benedict-Bayer design with rough-sawn wood from Lenado and the other firmly planted on the mostly full bird feeder.

What to do? The stare-down was on, and then finally, the raccoon made the first move (the nerve of the cheeky creature) by beginning to growl, baring his teeth. Anthony growled back, although it’s unclear whether he bared his teeth, and this went on for three or four minutes.

I’ll let Anthony take it from here:

“Then it occurred to me, that if anyone saw me in my night shirt, making animal sounds in the night, that my next night might be spent in a locked room in an institution somewhere. Immediate action was needed.

“I realized I had a paperback copy of the Bible in my left hand. I switched it to my right and smote the raccoon on the top of its head. Felled by my Holy Weapon, the raccoon released its grip to the wall, fell to the porch deck, scooted between my kegs, and went straight out over the edge of the porch into night. The drop must’ve been about eight feet because I could hear him go down through the bushes in stages. Then there was quiet.

“The next Sunday when I was leaving the church and shaking the hand of the minister, he asked how I was doing with the letters of St. Paul. I said I wasn’t doing very well with them, but that I had found a ‘good’ use for the Good Book! and told him how effective it was in ridding my dwelling of the raccoon, omitting the part with the mutual growling. He was not amused.”

The Caparella family had a house just down the block from the Humes, on Lake Avenue. Tony Caparella, a man somewhere between 30 and 40 years older than me, and I would sometimes drink beer together in the old Eagles Club on Galena Street. Loved talking to those older guys; they knew some unwritten history that has been long forgotten in the collective memory.

Besides, Tony figured he came into contact with the first raccoon to come into the Aspen area, and I was thinking, “We don’t have any raccoons around here.” No one saw or thought about raccoons at the time.  

He was coming home to the house after an uptown session at the Eagles or party somewhere, well after dark. As he approached the door of the house, a creature sprang off the roof, landing squarely on his head. Fortunately, he was wearing a hat, which protected his head, but Tony grabbed the creature, which by now was hissing, and threw it on the ground, close to his feet. A dim light shining through the porch window helped him identify the creature.

He was a bit offended at the actions of the ‘coon and swore to hunt him down, although it apparently didn’t work, as anyone would be willing to bet that the raccoon who jumped Tony was an ancestor of the one that got Anthony out of bed in the middle of the night in a nightshirt.

Tony Vagneur writes here on Saturdays and welcomes your comments at ajv@sopris.net.