Uncle Minot (standard:non fiction, 1867 words)
Author: Lou Hill	Added: May 18 2002	Views/Reads: 3352/2264	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A short bio of a real Vermont character, my great-uncle Minot Austin. He is mentioned in several of my stories so this will give you a little more background on him.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

shotgun up to my shoulder, pulling the hammer back to cock it as I 
raised the gun.  Since I never wore gloves my hands would be pretty 
numb.  Several times I lost the hammer on the upswing resulting in the 
gun blasting a hole in the trees and spinning me around.  I finally 
broke down and wore light gloves while hunting. 

That old gun would really reach out.  I remember one afternoon when I
was a senior in High School when my friend Steve Depatie and I were 
riding around some of Enosburg's back roads accompanied by two young 
ladies.  Steve and I were in the front seat and I had the shotgun open 
leaning on the seat between us.  I spotted a partridge running down the 
road and hollered at Steve to stop.  I stepped out of the car, pulled a 
shell out of my pocket and loaded the gun.  In the meantime the bird 
had taken off and was just about to go out of sight when I shot 
knocking the bird down.  It was probably the best shot of my life.  I 
won't even begin to try to estimate the distance.  All I know is I 
never should have dropped that bird.  And to think I traded that gun in 
for something else.  Dumb. 

I used to love to go down to Minot's home in Sheldon Creek (which is
pronounced "Crick").  There were guns every where, ammunition for same, 
fishing tackle, outdoor magazines, boats, motors, all the things dear 
to a budding young outdoors man's heart.  And as an added bonus, Aunt 
Mary was a great cook. 

Minot had a number of guns and rifles but his favorites where two 16
gauge double-barreled shotguns.  One was a Parker and one was a Fox.  
In Minot's mind they were the finest shotguns ever made.  I finally got 
to shoot them when I was in my mid-teens and I would have to agree with 
him.  My cousin John said that his father almost cried when the barrel 
of one of them blew open one day while shooting cans. 

Minot had his faults but he could laugh at himself.  He often told the
story about the time that Aunt Mary made a chocolate cream pie.  He had 
decided that he needed another piece of that pie and had gone into the 
pantry to cut him self a slice.  When he opened the pantry door he 
discovered a small mouse sitting on the edge of the pie nibbling away. 
Enraged Minot quietly shut the door and picked up the ever-present .22 
rifle from the corner. Loading it with a couple of shot shells he 
quietly opened the pantry door and proceeded to shoot the mouse.  He 
killed the mouse, blew chocolate cream all over the place and put 
several holes in Aunt Mary's good tin pie plate.  Needless to say Aunt 
Mary was not happy. 

In the summer we would fish for bullhead or bass on the creek where
Minot kept a boat tied up.  On an evening, we would take his old 
Evinrude outboard motor (which looked like it belonged in the 
Smithsonian even then,) toss it in the back of his old Ford pickup and 
bounce down to the creek.  It may have looked old, but that motor 
purred like a kitten (when it finally started) and was surprisingly 
quiet.  We would run up the creek for a few miles, then drift back 
down, fishing on the way.  It was always an adventure for us, as we 
would see all kinds of birds and animals. 

I still have a very vivid memory of Minot.  The whole Austin tribe was
at West Enosburg on a Sunday afternoon.  It had rained earlier and 
Minot decided that it was a perfect time to fish for Brook Trout in the 
County Brook.  So he, John and I piled into the old Ford and off we 
went. 

Minot was a cigarette smoker.  He occasionally bought "tailor mades",
but usually preferred to roll his own.  He would pull a pack of rolling 
papers (yes that's what they were called even then) out of his shirt 
pocket, wet his thumb and carefully peel off a single sheet.  After 
replacing the papers in his pocket, he would form the paper into a 
trough and hold it between the fingers and thumb of his left hand.  He 
would then reach into his back pocket and pull out a can of Half and 
Half pipe tobacco, his favorite makings.  After popping open the cover 
with his thumb, he would sprinkle tobacco into the paper.  Pipe tobacco 
is" rough cut" which means that the pieces are long and stringy, not 
finely chopped like the tobacco used in cigarette manufacturing.  As a 
result, when he shook it into the paper, it would not fill it up 
evenly.  He would stick the can under his arm, try to arrange the 
tobacco to his liking and then sometimes would add a little more 
tobacco. After filling the paper, he would return the can to his back 
pocket.  Then he would take hold of the tobacco filled paper with the 
thumb and forefinger of each hand.  Using both index fingers he would 
arrange the tobacco, then gently roll the cigarette into a cylinder, 
generously wet the edge of the paper with his tongue and finish rolling 
it. Minot was a craftsman and could do many things well, but he 
couldn't roll cigarettes for squat.  His efforts always turned out 
either fat in the middle with nothing on the ends or skinny cylinders 
with about six shreds of tobacco that burned up in about four puffs. 

This particular day, we were fishing downstream through a stand of
evergreens.  Minot had just rolled one of his creations and fired it 
up. Even now I can picture him clearly, as if it were only yesterday 
instead of nearly sixty years ago.  He stood on a small flat rock, the 
misshapen cigarette hung from his lips, the smoke wafting up into his 
eyes making him squint.  He drifted the baited hook down into a likely 
hole.  I saw the tip of his rod dip as a fish took the bait.  He 
practically quivered with excitement as he waited for the fish to 
swallow the worm.  Then, with a big grin, he snapped a brightly 
spotted, eight inch Brook Trout out of the water. At that point in time 
he was the happiest man in the world. 

Enosburg Falls, VT June 1994 


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