Seymore and Serne Van Cicle

Here is one of my dad's stories. He was raised in an old house that sat at the edge of the Morris Canal in Hacketstown, New Jersey at the turn of the century. The road going into town was "paved" with coal or cinders. Most of the kids who lived along the cannal took the tow path, a dirt path or road the mules used to pull the cannal boats along on their journey to and from Newark. Dad described himself at being a "loner," but according to other people in his very large family of 10 brothers and sisters, he was well liked and respected in the town. Being poor and my dad always having a considerable appetite, he was pretty creative in finding ways to earn money. One of the things he did well was trap. This was a pretty common thing people did in those days and in that area of New Jersey. He sold the pelts and his family ate the meat from the game he caught. As with any skill, there was always the first time and there was someone who taught him how. Here's his story, in his own words...with a few spelling and grammatical corrections.

Seymore and Serne were dyed-in-the-wool bachelors. Serne was a beanpole; tall, and just plain skinny. Every movement he made was very slow and deliberate, even when he moved his lips to talk. To see him walking down the canal path or along the road you would think he was out for a casual stroll, even through only urgent business would cause him to stray very far from home. Far? I don’t believe he ever traveled more than twenty-five miles from home during his entire lifetime. Three or four times a year, he may have made the two-mile trip into town – two miles. I would listen to him discuss each of these trips in great detail; new houses or new paint jobs, the condition of the livestock he saw, the quality of cinders on the road, and a multitude of minute details most people would never notice. Oh yes – I should not forget that Serne was constantly complaining of chronic stomach problems.

Seymore was a stocky sort of guy. He was quite talkative, but very seldom expressed a personal opinion on any subject. I never heard of him entering into any argument. He was alert, generous and helpful to anyone who didn’t take advantage of his good nature. When this did happen, Seymore would refuse to talk about it or to use their name in any conversation. This was the only clue you would have that Seymore felt he had been put upon.

Seymore and Serne earned a living through odd jobs (the going rate was $1.00 a day from sunrise to sunset plus dinner), sometimes lasting a month or so, and by trapping. They also had a very large garden and raised a good portion of their food. They were survivors, backcountry woodsmen, more than willing, I now believe, to teach an eight-year-old boy everything they knew.

My interest in trapping started shortly after we moved into the old house at Snake Mountain. My oldest brother, Francis, had gotten a trap from some place and set it in a hole some animal had dug not more than a hundred feet from our front porch. The next morning he was yelling for all of us to come and see what he had caught. None of us knew what it was – or what to do about it. I was sent to ask one of those old guys who lived in that house down along the towpath. That’s when I met Seymore and Serne, and that’s when I was introduced to the fundamentals of trapping. .

Seymore came with me to see what we had in that trap. All my brothers and sisters were hiding behind trees. I was curious and wanted to get a better look and took my place behind the closest tree to the trap. The creature had beady eyes and was prancing around in the trap. As soon as it turned around, I poked my head around from behind the tree to get a better look. I quickly found out that this is the firing end of a skunk and I got a face full of it. Seymore looked down at me and said, “Ya shouldna’ done that, boy.”

First lesson – beware of skunks when they have their tails raised in the air, and never stick your head out from behind a tree when you are too close.

Second lesson– their pelts are valuable. At that time a good Number one pelt could be sold for as much as $5.00. That was a lot of money in those days. Men were working from sunup until sunset on the neighboring farms for $1.00 and dinner. My father was then working as a tacker in the local tannery. In good times, he would be able to earn as much as $20.00 to $25.00 a week on piecework.

My favorite books at the time were a series called “The Mountain Man” by Steward Edward White. Seymore and Serne were the closest mountain men I knew and I followed them everywhere. They began my education of trapping and woodsmanship. Before long, I had my own trap line and was very successful at it. I often was the one who kept meat on the family table during the hard times.