Summer 2024
By Jimmy Jacobs
Probably the most common sight along Southern roads and highways these days is the ever-present and thoroughly squashed road-killed possum. You’ll notice that I said possum and not “opossum,” the way it shows up in a dictionary. As nearly as can be scientifically verified, whatever an opossum is, one has never ventured south of the Mason-Dixon Line.
Illustration by Cal Warlick.
Let it also be noted, for those who have never encountered the critter in a live condition, that they are not born with tread marks on their backs. These are applied at a later date, usually after dark and near the middle of a roadway.
Although now considered little more than a curiosity, back when I was a boy these marsupials were considered prime game for serious hunters. Up until the 1960s, the hunting of possums was considered just as proper as setting a pack of beagles on the trail of a rabbit .
Now that white-tailed deer have become common throughout the nation, hunters are too busy chasing deer to enjoy a possum hunt. Though you’ll still find Br’er Possum in the hunting regulations, it’s hard to find anyone who really cares.
Ah, but what of the golden era of possum hunting? From the Great Depression on through World War II and into the 1950s, no self-respecting family farm would be without a possum dog. That situation in large part stemmed from the fact that any four-footed member of the canine family that would chase a possum was the correct breed for the job. Whether they were blue tick, beagle, or mixed mutt, ancestry was never an important part of possum chasing. It seemed as though every farmhouse had a possum dog hiding under the front porch.
Other than rounding up a dog, the only equipment possum hunting required was a kerosene lantern and a croaker sack (which translates into English as a burlap bag). Once dark had descended on the land, it was time to light the lantern, chase the dog from under the porch and head into the woods.
My earliest recollection of possum hunting finds my father, my brother, a couple of assorted cousins and myself scouring the west Georgia town of Rockmart on a 1958 Saturday afternoon in search of a possum dog and its owner to accompany us for the evening’s hunt.
A fellow, who I remember only as “Old Luther” and his less than energetic hound were finally located and nightfall found us deep in the woods. After an appropriate amount of aimless wandering in the fields and forests, a random site was chosen to build a campfire. Soon yams were roasting in the coals, while an ample supply of apples and peanuts were passed around to satisfy those after-dinner munchies brought on by the walking. While the hunting party was thus engaged, the dog was sent out to bound through the night in search of a possum.
As the noise of our initial wave of gnawing apples and crunching peanuts died away, the conversation opened.
“Tell us a story, Uncle Buck,” one of my cousins would begin.
“Yeah, Dad, about when you were a boy and went hunting.”
After a measured amount of our pleading, my father would give in and start to reminisce.
“You boys sure had it easy tonight,” he offered. “It’s not always so simple to get into the woods for the hunt.”
“What do you mean?” we ganged up on him.
“I remember once when I was a little older than you boys, your grandpa, my brothers, and I started out on a possum hunt. That was back during the hard times of the Depression and we only got one pair of new overalls each year. I’d just gotten mine and they’d been washed for the first time. That made them shrink just enough to be tight on me.
“Anyway, getting ready to leave, I stuffed my pockets full of apples for when we built the fire. It was early fall, but the night wind was blowing some and the evening was pretty crisp. That cold wind had me cramming my hands in my pockets as well, which made those overalls strain from the load.
“About this time, as we were walking down a two-rut wagon road, I tripped on a root and fell head first into one of those ruts. Laying face down, those overalls were so tight I couldn’t get my hands out of the pockets, and because of the way I’d landed, I couldn’t roll over either.”
“What’d you do, Dad?” I asked.
“I just had to flop around like a catfish out of water until I could work a hand loose. Those worthless brothers of mine were too busy rolling on the ground and laughing to help me up.”
“Why, that ain’t nothing,” Old Luther piped up from his perch on a log across the fire from my father. He then lit into a string of stories about hunts he had been on over the years. Each of them seemed to involve white lightning whiskey, fancy women, or cussing fits, the latter of which Old Luther repeated in great detail. With each tale he told, truth became less and less a part of the their fabric.
It was also obvious that my father was rather nervous about the subjects being covered in these stories. He was, no doubt, worreid that my mother or one of my aunts might get a play-by-play description from one of the boys later on, for which he would end up paying a price.
Occasionally Old Luther would take a break from his stories to let out a “Hunt’em on!” shout at the top of his lungs to encourage the dog in its pursuit. My father took advantage of one of these breaks to reclaim the
conversation.
“Don’t reckon your dog will be treeing anything tonight,” my father observed.
“Why would you say that?” Old Luther asked guardedly.
“Well, he’s been laying behind you by a stump, just out of the fire light, for the last hour.”
While Old Luther launched into a cussing fit of his own, directed at the dog, he proceeded to chase the unlucky hound out into the night.
Jimmy Jacobs is the editor of Georgia Outdoor Adventures, as well as being editor/publisher of On The Fly South. He also is a member of the Georgia Outdoor Writers Association. He makes his home in Marietta with his English setters, Luke and Lulu. He can be contacted at jimmyjacobs@mindspring.com.