We live up in the woods near South Mountain, east of Hagerstown, Maryland, and my wife has a rooster and some hens in the backyard which provide us with eggs. So I was working here in my basement office at home, a little after midnight, when my 18-year-old son Bob comes running in the door and yells for his twin brother: “Jim, get your gun! It’s a possum!” And out the door they went. A half-hour later, they returned safely and successfully. The possum? Not so much.
It’s obviously hereditary. I call ’em Bo and Luke.
You definitely ought to hit the tip jar. I’ll buy ’em some more shells.
Fur prices have gone through the floor. I had two guys who worked under me SE who used to hunt and sell the furs. They quit about 10 years ago because it wasn’t worth the effort anymore.