Editor's note: Mr. Patrick, who has lived for more than 100 years, has written a series of letters about his memories through the years. We will run them periodically.
I remember when ...
Every year, when deer season comes around, I remember my first deer season in Vermont. It was 1945 when I moved my family to a small farm, about 30 acres, located 3 miles from Jamaica toward Rawsonville. At that time, it was a dirt road out of Jamaica. Now it is Route 30. I had done a little deer hunting with friends when we came from Connecticut and rented rooms at a farmhouse in Wilmington. Now I lived in Vermont and was ready to follow tradition and drop every thing to hunt. Since we had extra rooms, my wife and I invited a few friends to come and hunt deer.
As I remember, none of us got a deer but one of the visiting group came out of the woods dragging a live porcupine. He had managed to get his tow rope around one leg. I don't know how much hunting he had done but he sure was excited to have captured that porcupine. He told the rest of us that the animal was very scarce and he couldn't wait to have it exhibited at some zoo in Connecticut. The rest of us were not that enthused and the owner of the car the man had ridden in to Vermont told him the animal was not going back in the trunk. The porcupine was left in an improvised cage in my shed. When my friends had left, I released the porcupine.
Some 20 years later,
Warren S. Patrick is 101 years old. He writes from Townshend.