After a week of such nonsense with hunters of the beast armed to the teeth, townspeople agreed that it was a miracle that no one was killed. As I remember, this irregular historical event occurred in late summer, a surprise to me, because, if it had been the deep winter, childhood memories would have conjured up what was happening at once.
Long ago, as winter days shortened and the snow cover deepened, the children began the great winter sport. If their fathers had fishing stories of the whale sized critters that seemed ever to elude them, the children had the monstrous Abominable Snowman to capture. We prepared for the hunt just like the great mountain climbers, using lengths of rope tied together around each explorer’s waist. Long sticks became our climbing axes and a variety of old kitchen gadgets were weapons, to bring the monster down.
Lead by a fearless Sherpa guide, the party wandered until he located the hideous tracks (tracks of the largest dog in the neighborhood) and the dangerous adventure would begin. At the quiet moment of the first snowfall of each winter, we took a sacred oath that this would be the year that we would finally rid the north neighborhood of the terrible beast forever. And our adventure was lived with the passion that only dwells in young hearts.
Though children hunted faithfully for decades, they never actually captured the beast of the Himalayas. But he was sighted often through each winter, frequenting misty or foggy locales around the corners of buildings where he thought that people couldn’t see him. Indeed, adults couldn’t seem to see him at all, but they remembered when they could. It took the clear eyes of youth to capture him, they supposed. He undoubtedly roams there still, hiding between buildings, just over the next rise. His foul trail still makes the dogs of winter howl.
In the early 1970’s Big Foot was sighted in my small hometown, and because it happened to be a slow news period, the national press services picked up the story. I was already living far away from home by then and one morning my car radio announced to me that the monster was alive and well, living in my hometown.
Back in Louisiana, Big Foot soon became big business as the peaceful little town was invaded by every peculiar theorist on this bizarre subject. Eccentrics in vans topped with quirky antenna claimed that it was an excellent alien visitation. Tabloid reporters quickly sniffed out a great story, and St. Louis T.V. journalists knew that their audience would get a kick out of the stupid country folk. Aberrant preachers, named Billy Bob or Brother Leroy came in from all over the country to proclaim the end of the world, while vendors from out of town suddenly began offering tee shirts and mugs to commemorate the splendid visitation. And the town was totally besieged by deviants in pickups from throughout the nation who had been hunting the beast for years. (As if there weren't already enough local deviants in pickups).
Grammy was of the opinion that, “Some old coot wants to sell some
