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“Let’s go for a bike ride” Tyler said to me, grinning. “you’ve got a bike, right?”
No, I actually don’t have a bike at all; (yet another thing my 12-year-old self would slap me for) but I gave Dad one a few years back. I know where he lives; so I slid by his place one morning before he was up and I swiped it.
When Tyler arrived at my house with her nerdy blue Schwinn in tow – I initially felt a tiny shot of superior bikesmanship. My gleaming Novara Aspen (red) looked professional and neat. I may have even made a derogatory remark concerning “Wal-Mart” brands; but I was immediately put in my place with “Oh YEAH? Well you don’t even HAVE a bike. That bike is your DAD’S bike. You’re riding your DAD’S bike you big nerd. I have my own 18-speed MOUNTAIN BIKE!! All you have is your DAD’S BIKE!! HA!”
So much for brand names.
The big idea was to cruise down the Alpharetta Greenway bike trail (a paved two-lane “trail”) and enjoy a little metropolitan nature; not a bad idea I guess. I like nature. I like to be outdoors. But that was before I realized that my biking companion has absolutely no sense of proper bike-lane management, or any sort of serious views concerning the rules of the road. At one point she looked over at me, wrinkled up her nose, and loudly announced "My handlebars smell weird" - a clear violation of decent biking etiquette.
About 3 or 4 minutes down the trail, as Tyler gleefully whirled and wheeled lane-to-lane chasing butterflies, skipping cracks (you’ll apparently “break your mothers back”), shouting “HEEYYYY JIMMYYYY LOOK AT THAT THING” as loud as possible directly at terrified wildlife, clicking and clacking around with her gearshifters, weaving through groups of joggers, and generally making a biking hazard of herself; I realized: she is a 6-foot-blonde rolling missile, and I am a nervous wreck.
Every few minutes a grim-faced, humorless, “serious” biker would appear over my left shoulder, shout “LEFT!!!!” and thunder by in a loud WHOOSH, narrowly missing Tyler, The Helmetless Wonder, who was busy swerving in-and-out between the dotted marks of the centerline. At least half the time I don’t think she even realized she was being passed – or that she was in the wrong lane.
It was a scary experience; largely because I spent the majority of the time mentally preparing a cheerful voice to use when calling her parents from an emergency room pay phone; but also because: my biking skills have atrophied dramatically since 5th grade. I constantly felt like I was about to fall over and, for some reason, I have a greatly heightened sense of how much that is going to hurt.
When we were little you could bounce your face right off the sidewalk and, provided nobody was looking, climb right back on. If an adult was looking – and you cried enough, and the damage was bad enough, you might get ice cream out of a good crash-and-cry. At least, that was my general strategy.
Now that I write it all down on paper it looks like the strategy of a little fat kid; which may explain why Mom always dragged me straight to the “husky” section at Marshalls.
Biking, by today’s namby-pamby standards is a bit hazardous; but back then only the ultra-nerdy kids wore helmets. I homeschooled for crying out loud - and not even I had a helmet. If you wore a helmet, you may as well plan to sit in the street crying all afternoon because somebody bigger was definitely going to take your bike away and push it off into the creek.
NOBODY wore a helmet, but I don’t ever recall hearing about any major head injuries among our friends back then. I think kid’s skulls have gotten softer. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with America –all these soft skulled kids running around everywhere. At 4-years-old my cousin Beau landed updside-down with an entire motorized ATV on his forehead and didn’t even need stitches. If he didn’t need a helmet for that, you sure don’t need to spend the extra kwan on Styrofoam helmets for your nerdy little herd of sweaty human goats.
That’s another thing that bothers me – bike helmets are made of STYROFOAM. When was the last time you saw a NASCAR champ hop behind the wheel with his noggin wrapped in plain Styrofoam? Maybe it’s the best substance in the world for impact absorption at low speed; but you won’t catch me wearing it: way too flammable. It’s a legitimate concern, because if I fall off my bike at top speed you better believe something is definitely going to catch on fire.
And I lied: I DID have a helmet.
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
Monday, August 03, 2009
Imperialist Yogurt Mogul
“What is YOGLI MOGLI?” Tyler asked from beside me on the front seat of the truck. “Is it a Yoga place?”
“No, it’s actually a YOGURT place, but you were close,” I said. And I meant it. She was literally “close” – there’s a yoga place next door. Confusing, I’m sure. I'd love to see what sort of stampede goes on in that Yoga place everytime the UPS guy accidentally delivers candybar toppings instead of yoga mats.
To make it simple just remember, if you’re humorless, fat, sweaty and wearing spandex – you meant to go in the YOGA place, not the YOGURT place; and for the record if you add 6oz of crushed Butterfinger bar to 4oz of 98% fat free yogurt – it’s not fat free anymore, and you're eating "candybar" not "yogurt." Sorry, there’s no such thing as “magic”, and crushing up a candy bar so it can be “sprinkled” doesn’t change anything.
We decided to explore the bounteous goodness of Yogli-Mogli and take to-go cups home for after-dinner dessert with Dad and George (who, in the absence of Mom and Margaret, have taken to eating exclusively red meat at all three meals). The sign on the wall said “self-serve yogurt - $0.36 per ounce” which, to me, sounded reasonable. We filled up our three small pint containers, and sat them on the checkout guy’s electronic scale.
“Hey look we got 2.6lbs of frozen yogurt! I’ve never bought ice-cream by the pound before”, I noted, cheerfully, unaware of the disaster that would shortly befall me. The echo of my happy voice hadn’t yet faded when the miserable imp of an employee chimed in with: “That’ll be $18.63”.
“WHOA HOLY CRAP!!” blurted Tyler, smoothly, spraying a fine mist of pistachio-slobber across the countertop; “DID YOU MIX FLAKES OF SOLID GOLD IN WITH IT?”
He and I stared at each other for a second while Tyler collected herself and I, unable to top that response, simply paid the pimpled extortionist his due. Then, I headed for the door with 2.6lbs of rapidly-melting, 98% fat-free, cultured enzymes and a completely shell-shocked girlfriend in tow. Have never actually suffered "sticker shock" from a frozen dessert before, I believe she actually considered saying “no we don’t really want it anymore”; and I wish she had; because a blog about someone attempting to RETURN frozen yogurt would have been much funnier.
The moral of this story is: Yogli-Mogli is for rich people who can afford to pay for things “by the ounce” (truffles, caviar, and now apparently soft-serve yogurt). I can still get a "Nut-Brown-Crown" at Zestos for $1.99 and feel just as sick afterwards for half the cost; so suck down that Yogli-Mogli, fatso, at least you’re stimulating the economy.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Young Love
I'd like to briefly address the topic of Love today. I know I swore I'd never tackle serious topics on a silly internet page, but I feel compelled to drop my tough facade and tell you about a recent development in my life; and how Love has finally come to rest in my bosom.
Its been hard for me to admit the deep and abiding extent of my newfound Love, because I generally prefer to at least APPEAR semi-crusty and hardened to the softer sensibilities; but I've finally cracked. As much as I hate to admit it; the hard, rocky ground of my heart has finally burst into bloom.
I recently got my new elephant gun in .416 Rigby back from the custom shop; and I Love it.
Its been hard for me to admit the deep and abiding extent of my newfound Love, because I generally prefer to at least APPEAR semi-crusty and hardened to the softer sensibilities; but I've finally cracked. As much as I hate to admit it; the hard, rocky ground of my heart has finally burst into bloom.
I recently got my new elephant gun in .416 Rigby back from the custom shop; and I Love it.
Incentive Plans
Years ago, Mom had an acquaintance who was a tiny bit on the portly side. He announced one day (much to Mom's surprise) that he had begun an intense workout regime that consisted of a certain number of pushups and situps, etc. per day; followed by a long run. He also claimed that he hadn't missed a day of this regime in 2 months.
Mom was impressed, but somewhat skeptical due to the fact that the man had apparently GAINED weight since the last time she had seen him.
Never one to be discouraging, she gently admonished him to keep up the good work in his exercise program and then said "Well, I am so proud of you!! I don't even run that much myself. How far do you run everyday?"
"All the way to Krispy Kreme" he responded.
Mom was impressed, but somewhat skeptical due to the fact that the man had apparently GAINED weight since the last time she had seen him.
Never one to be discouraging, she gently admonished him to keep up the good work in his exercise program and then said "Well, I am so proud of you!! I don't even run that much myself. How far do you run everyday?"
"All the way to Krispy Kreme" he responded.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Don't Fear The Reaper
I was conversing with The Lovely and Fabulous Tyler M. Davenport last night after dinner when the topic of general environmental awareness came up. By “environmental awareness” I don’t mean the necessity of caring for the earth, or the sense people have of global warming, the evils of Styrofoam, or gas mileage as it relates to the ozone layer; when I say “he is environmentally aware” I mean the person in question could tell you SOMETHING (ANYTHING!) in detail about the immediate environment he traversed on his one-block walk to the coffee shop.
It could be anything – how many cracks were in the sidewalk, a particularly large lump of gum stuck to a phone pole, what sort of tree drooped out over the road at the stop sign – that kind of thing. It’s like being “streetwise”, but in the suburbs.
Most people don’t have this skill. They go blazing by staring at a phone, an ipod, or their shoes and never notice what’s going on in the natural world around them. Not me though. Nope. I’m paying attention. I'm environmentally aware. This morning I was nearing my office, greenspace blazing by at 60mph when I slowed at a stoplight and noticed something interesting, and somewhat out-of-place, directly to my right.
It was two gigantic, black vultures, sitting primly on the freshly-mown, golfcourse-quality, green sward at the crosswalk. There was no sign of any sort of carrion, death, war, blood, or mayhem. The birds had no apparent injuries; they were just sitting back on their great, dark, macabre haunches, looking at each other calmly; as if waiting on the light to change. Anyone walking by on the sidewalk could easily have reached out and patted them on their ugly, naked heads.
Three thoughts immediately ran through my warped mind:
1. "I wonder if they’re going to mate” (which is definitely something I’d pop popcorn for)
2. “They’re waiting on a fat jogger to come lumbering by and keel over”
3. “I wonder if these are the two mythological vultures from our family’s oral history that purportedly laid Granddad and Beau on a stump for the sun to hatch.”
But, I think the real lesson here is simply this: you don’t have to fear the reaper.
Unless you’re jogging in Alpharetta.
It could be anything – how many cracks were in the sidewalk, a particularly large lump of gum stuck to a phone pole, what sort of tree drooped out over the road at the stop sign – that kind of thing. It’s like being “streetwise”, but in the suburbs.
Most people don’t have this skill. They go blazing by staring at a phone, an ipod, or their shoes and never notice what’s going on in the natural world around them. Not me though. Nope. I’m paying attention. I'm environmentally aware. This morning I was nearing my office, greenspace blazing by at 60mph when I slowed at a stoplight and noticed something interesting, and somewhat out-of-place, directly to my right.
It was two gigantic, black vultures, sitting primly on the freshly-mown, golfcourse-quality, green sward at the crosswalk. There was no sign of any sort of carrion, death, war, blood, or mayhem. The birds had no apparent injuries; they were just sitting back on their great, dark, macabre haunches, looking at each other calmly; as if waiting on the light to change. Anyone walking by on the sidewalk could easily have reached out and patted them on their ugly, naked heads.
Three thoughts immediately ran through my warped mind:
1. "I wonder if they’re going to mate” (which is definitely something I’d pop popcorn for)
2. “They’re waiting on a fat jogger to come lumbering by and keel over”
3. “I wonder if these are the two mythological vultures from our family’s oral history that purportedly laid Granddad and Beau on a stump for the sun to hatch.”
But, I think the real lesson here is simply this: you don’t have to fear the reaper.
Unless you’re jogging in Alpharetta.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Style Comes Naturally
"We'll just run on down to Macon and eat with your Grandmother, then we'll push through to Albany and stay with Fred's Grandmother tonight before we make the final leg through to the beach", Hank said on Friday before the 4th of July. "It'll be like a tour of the Grandmothers" he remarked as we loaded up the Tahoe with a 19' Hewes Redfisher flats boat in tow (Fred's).
After dinner Buster walked out of Grandma's house and, as he casually urinated on William's front right tire, said "Well, I see Fred's boat. Where's Fred? Do you mean to tell me you left Fred in Atlanta to work, and took his boat with YOU to HIS house four whole days before he could get there?"
"That about sums it up" said Hank; not sure where to look.
"Hank. I like your style" said Buster as we pulled away.
"I really like your uncle" hank said on the way down the driveway. "I sort of feel like I could call him from the boat, on the water, with pieces of the motor all in my lap and he could fix it over the phone."
And actually - he was right. That's happened to me.
As an unemployed patron of the arts, I had agreed to make the trip down for a few days of intense fishing with Fred, Hank, and Judson at Fred's family's house on the coast in Florida; before coasting across to Seaside to hang out with Tyler, and my friends Courtney and John Willis for the festivities on the 4th.
It wasn't until we arrived at "Fred's family's beach house" that I realized - Fred's entire family RENTED the house; and they were all there. "Why?" You may ask? Because they were on their annual family vacation....and we were too. We had joined them on their family vacation.
"Dude, did you realize this was their FAMILY VACATION?" I asked Hank, when I realized the full import of what had happened - "And FRED isn't even going to be here for 4 more days!!!"
"Yeah! Hank grinned. "We're crashing Judson's family vacation too! Its going to be awesome!"
Turns out - Judson's house (where we were also invited to stay) had a few other vacationers in it as well: his wife, mother-in-law, and 2-month-old infant child (whose name I still don't know). I think the baby was a girl, but for some reason the term "Corn Niblet" stuck and, as you know, "Corn Niblet" is pretty generic; so I'm still not entirely sure.
I will say that Judson's wife, Janet, accepted our intrusion with a display of grace and style eclipsed only by her beauty; and his mother-in-law was incredibly welcoming as well; especially given that we were generally sweaty and obnoxious for a vast majority of the trip.
Janet even offered me a sammich on our first day; just as we walked in - something I take very seriously. She and I understand each other. She also taught me quite alot about breastfeeding which, as you know, I find simultaneously horrific and fascinating.
We actually spent the night at Fred's, though, so Janet was off the hook. My initial thought once we got settled in (with his family), was that we were in business - his mom and dad were there so, naturally, I figured we were set as far as somebody taking care of dinner arrangements was concerned. I continued to think that up until about suppertime, at which point Fred's Dad looked at me and said "Jimmy - why don't you get started on dinner? But first, take out that trash."
It was at this juncture that I realized: we were the hired help, and I began to feel a little bit less like an interloper. Fortunately for me Hank stepped in to respond concerning dinner plans and said "We're about to start on the shrimp and grits. We'll be ready in 45 minutes." By the time we left we had established a general routine for dinner after getting off the boat and, once Fred arrived, we were a well-oiled machine. I also grew to be intimately familiar with Fred's dad's need to operate in a completely trash-free environment. If the bag got more than half-full, he'd get extremely nervous. It was my job to keep the man from getting nervous; and boys, let me tell you: GLAD BAG's annual revenue went up a half a point in July thanks to my vigilance.
I also learned that it pays to keep Hank around, generally, if for nothing other than his cooking skills; and uncanny ability to fall out of a boat.
Suppers for the week were fabulous; mostly due to Hank and his natural skill with a skillet and grill; but the table fare was helped along something fierce by a regular infusion of fresh-caught trout, redfish, and scallops. We even snagged a shark or two.
Dinner conversation was unequalled. Mr. and Mrs. Hand, Eleanor (Fred's sister), Hank, Fred's girlfriend Kelly, and even Fred himself provided a warm, hospitable, environment full of interesting characters and a constant sense of adventure. Eleanor even took us "scalloping" - the only activity of the week that put us in direct contact with the game warden (although several others might have put us in the back of his truck).
When DNR pulled up I was busily urinating over the transom. Our luck had extended so far this trip that the lawman didn't even give me a ticket for public indecency, but he did laugh when he saw me twist around at his approach and accidentally pee on the gunnel...directly into my own snorkel mask.
I figure he must've felt sorry for me. After all: its not just everyday you see a man pee in his own eye.
After dinner Buster walked out of Grandma's house and, as he casually urinated on William's front right tire, said "Well, I see Fred's boat. Where's Fred? Do you mean to tell me you left Fred in Atlanta to work, and took his boat with YOU to HIS house four whole days before he could get there?"
"That about sums it up" said Hank; not sure where to look.
"Hank. I like your style" said Buster as we pulled away.
"I really like your uncle" hank said on the way down the driveway. "I sort of feel like I could call him from the boat, on the water, with pieces of the motor all in my lap and he could fix it over the phone."
And actually - he was right. That's happened to me.
As an unemployed patron of the arts, I had agreed to make the trip down for a few days of intense fishing with Fred, Hank, and Judson at Fred's family's house on the coast in Florida; before coasting across to Seaside to hang out with Tyler, and my friends Courtney and John Willis for the festivities on the 4th.
It wasn't until we arrived at "Fred's family's beach house" that I realized - Fred's entire family RENTED the house; and they were all there. "Why?" You may ask? Because they were on their annual family vacation....and we were too. We had joined them on their family vacation.
"Dude, did you realize this was their FAMILY VACATION?" I asked Hank, when I realized the full import of what had happened - "And FRED isn't even going to be here for 4 more days!!!"
"Yeah! Hank grinned. "We're crashing Judson's family vacation too! Its going to be awesome!"
Turns out - Judson's house (where we were also invited to stay) had a few other vacationers in it as well: his wife, mother-in-law, and 2-month-old infant child (whose name I still don't know). I think the baby was a girl, but for some reason the term "Corn Niblet" stuck and, as you know, "Corn Niblet" is pretty generic; so I'm still not entirely sure.
I will say that Judson's wife, Janet, accepted our intrusion with a display of grace and style eclipsed only by her beauty; and his mother-in-law was incredibly welcoming as well; especially given that we were generally sweaty and obnoxious for a vast majority of the trip.
Janet even offered me a sammich on our first day; just as we walked in - something I take very seriously. She and I understand each other. She also taught me quite alot about breastfeeding which, as you know, I find simultaneously horrific and fascinating.
We actually spent the night at Fred's, though, so Janet was off the hook. My initial thought once we got settled in (with his family), was that we were in business - his mom and dad were there so, naturally, I figured we were set as far as somebody taking care of dinner arrangements was concerned. I continued to think that up until about suppertime, at which point Fred's Dad looked at me and said "Jimmy - why don't you get started on dinner? But first, take out that trash."
It was at this juncture that I realized: we were the hired help, and I began to feel a little bit less like an interloper. Fortunately for me Hank stepped in to respond concerning dinner plans and said "We're about to start on the shrimp and grits. We'll be ready in 45 minutes." By the time we left we had established a general routine for dinner after getting off the boat and, once Fred arrived, we were a well-oiled machine. I also grew to be intimately familiar with Fred's dad's need to operate in a completely trash-free environment. If the bag got more than half-full, he'd get extremely nervous. It was my job to keep the man from getting nervous; and boys, let me tell you: GLAD BAG's annual revenue went up a half a point in July thanks to my vigilance.
I also learned that it pays to keep Hank around, generally, if for nothing other than his cooking skills; and uncanny ability to fall out of a boat.
Suppers for the week were fabulous; mostly due to Hank and his natural skill with a skillet and grill; but the table fare was helped along something fierce by a regular infusion of fresh-caught trout, redfish, and scallops. We even snagged a shark or two.
Dinner conversation was unequalled. Mr. and Mrs. Hand, Eleanor (Fred's sister), Hank, Fred's girlfriend Kelly, and even Fred himself provided a warm, hospitable, environment full of interesting characters and a constant sense of adventure. Eleanor even took us "scalloping" - the only activity of the week that put us in direct contact with the game warden (although several others might have put us in the back of his truck).
When DNR pulled up I was busily urinating over the transom. Our luck had extended so far this trip that the lawman didn't even give me a ticket for public indecency, but he did laugh when he saw me twist around at his approach and accidentally pee on the gunnel...directly into my own snorkel mask.
I figure he must've felt sorry for me. After all: its not just everyday you see a man pee in his own eye.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Censured by The HuntFish Adventure Club
Hank: Guys, You know what really grinds my gears? I leave Jimmy a message saying I am fishing the hooch Saturday and have 3 people so he is the 4th and we will use his canoe and mine. He responds via text “Not sure. If I do I’ll have Tyler with me which won’t help your boat situation. If you want the boat its at the house. Motor and battery in the carport.”
Jimmy, wtf? A cardinal rule that I try to follow in all circumstances is “no girls before dark.” It has kept me more or less worry-free throughout my life. It allows you to drink beer and go fishing with your friends and then get wild at night with the womenfolk. Jimmy obviously doesn’t realize the fatal mistake he is making. Plus, on top of that, girls are not fun to hang out with in the daylight, so I am doubly confused.
What are you going to do next Jimmy? Get a job?
Unemployed, single, Jimmy is one of my favorite people. Girlfriend Jimmy might get cut out of the will. I am understandably unimpressed.
Judson: I agree. Jimmy, you better slow down or you will soon wake up married with a child. Then you will find yourself changing diapers & going for walks instead of fishing and hunting during your so called “free time.”
Hank: He deserves whatever fate befalls him. I am washing my hands of the situation.
Me: Hank – its not like that. I’m at the beach! C’mon. Give me a break.
Hank: Jimmy. Please don’t respond only to me. Everyone is in this discussion now and I would choose your words wisely cuz theres alot a' splainin' to do. As for what time I am going, we are going to go out tonight and get hammered drunk while talking to girls after dark. I plan to get up in the morning, eat lunch, and get on the river around 2 or 3. I don’t want to interrupt any cuddle time though.
Fred: What is this? I return to my office from lunch to find my inbox filled with distressing emails regarding one James Ewing. I peruse the chain and find that not only does Jimmy have a girlfriend (which I was, not surprisingly, aware of), but said girlfriend is now cutting into huntfish time. Severely. I have had suspicions of as much though. Jimmy has been eerily quiet on multiple group emails that were ripe for satire. Jimmy has not inquired into the productivity of recent fishing trips, nor has he collectively mused about our next fishing trip. These are all sure signs that Jimmy has become woefully entangled in Girlfriendlandia (which is magically created when a new girlfriend divides the sum of all the awesome things that happen hunting and fishing by “0”, and we all know that you can’t divide by zero; this in turn results in a black hole of sorts that the man is dragged into where he is incapable of contacting the outside world).
Jimmy is certain to read this and think to himself, “oh, the hypocrisy! The pot deriding the kettle!”. To this I offer my simple recipe for avoiding Girlfriendlandia (of course, as we are all so painfully aware, it’s too late for Jimmy to use this): when you feel like you’re about to come down with a bad case of Girlfriend, don’t necessarily fight it. If you enjoy spending time with her and making out, you may proceed. Just before the “let’s be boyfriend – girlfriend talk” though, hereafter referred to as “The Talk”, sit the young woman down and explain in no uncertain terms how much the outdoors mean to you. And your how much your friends mean to you. And how much beer means to you. Be sure to emphasize how much time you typically devote to outdoors, friends, and beer (this is prior to entering the relationship). Then put it all in writing. Have her sign it (which she will readily do because she “knows” she can change you), have it witnessed, have it notarized, and place it in a safe deposit box that only you have access to (she will attempt to destroy this document during deer season, duck season, crow season, turkey season, dove season, and fishing season – so pretty much all the time). When the day comes when you feel guilty about going away on a sure-to-be-awesome adventure with your friends and beer, go back and read The Document. You can quote the document to Girlfriend as needed. Disaster averted. Go huntfish.
Note: this formula does not work on preexisting girlfriends.
My prognosis: Jimmy has an inoperable preexisting condition that is dragging him into another dimension where we will never hear from him again.
Hank: The only thing I have to add is this. It goes along with the “better to beg forgiveness than ask permission” mantra that ranks up there with “no girls before dark.”
If you have any doubt as to the amount of guilt-tripping that will be heaped upon you when you tell a girl you are leaving to go hunting/fishing for the weekend, use the Fred Hand method. Turn your phone off and deal with it Sunday night. I’ve seen it work more times than I can count. Better yet is a method I employed Friday before turkey season my Junior year. Call her on the way to the farm and break up with her. Said girl is happily engaged and I am happily not engaged.
Fred: There are certainly multiple treatments for Girlfriend, but there is really no cure if you don’t get The Document signed before The Talk. Jimmy has painted himself into a corner here. Actually, Jimmy painted all of us into a corner. Jimmy, you have brought Girlfriend into our midst without proper clearance and paperwork. You just handed Obama the keys to the White House with all the nuclear launch codes. Girlfriend now has the ability to destroy huntfish trips at will. Assuming she still lets you have a cell phone, she doesn’t even have to be near us to destroy a huntfish adventure.
Dammit Jimmy, I want answers. I want an explanation. A good start would be, “I’m sorry”.
Words that describe my feelings regarding the situation that Jimmy has gotten himself and all of us into: unimpressed, provoked, not amused, betrayed, heavy hearted, gut-shot, sick, queasy, irritable, flaccid, confused, broadsided, offended, and worst of all, unaggressive.
Me: I’m in the car halfway home from Charleston. I can’t respond adequately. You’re killing me. Rebuttal will follow.
Hank: If the rebuttal doesn’t include nekkid pictures*, don’t bother.
*girl pictures. Not you.
Me: You’re all sick.
Hank: Charleston, huh? You can just stay in South Carolina, Jimmy. You’ve caused enough problems for all of us today. I hope you’re happy with yourself. I’m going to have to go drown my sorrows in a bottle of single-malt. I might even have to leave work early. Luckily there is a liquor store between me and the SR 400 on ramp. My liver does not appreciate your decision-making.
Fred: This is not over Jimmy. As I have sat here toiling away on addressing plans, utility drawings, and service providers, my brow has furrowed. It has furrowed deeply, Jimmy. How you managed to wind up in this unconscionable predicament which has massive, unrealized, far reaching implications for all of us at the Huntfish Adventure Club is beyond me. I will look back on June 12, 2009 as the day I found out that Jimmy Ewing unwittingly and naively imploded the Huntfish Adventure Club (Jimmy, “unwittingly” better be the proper word. If I find out that “knowingly” is more appropriate, I will pour sand in your gas tank and break every fishing rod you own.). This is the most unaggressive decision that anyone I associate with has made. Ever. It’s downright cowardly. Even treasonous. I haven’t had a bigger Benedict Arnold pulled on me since Matt decided to date Leslie.
You don’t know Matt or his Girlfriend, but let me tell you the story. And you damn well better read this, Jimmy, because by not getting The Document signed beforehand, this is the path you’ve chosen. Matt was my huntfish adventure buddy for just about my whole life. We went on all sorts of adventures on a very regular basis. Matt was always somewhat concerned about school things because he’s from Alabama so it was harder for him, but he was good for adventuring just about any time. Then Matt went and got himself a Girlfriend. She promptly divided all our awesome adventures by zero and now Matt’s been lost in Girlfriendlandia for about 3 or 4 years now. I lose track because he can’t be reached. Do you know how many times Matt sat in a deer stand last year, Jimmy? Zero. Zero times. Do you know how many times Matt’s been fishing this year, Jimmy? Once. And do you know what Matt did the entire time we were fishing? He texted. He walked outside the cabin to talk on the phone for extended periods at night. If there’s one thing I can’t stand on huntfish adventures, it’s excessive texting.
You think about this when some unforeseen adventure pops up.
Hank: Just wait for that call to go fish Fred, Jrs in the fall. I have a suspicious feeling that it will land on a weekend when you have to go to Tyler’s best friend’s wedding or some abhorrence like that. I’m going to the liquor store and then home. The difference is I am going to by a 12 pack of natty and a bottle of scotch. Jimmy and Tyler are thinking of splitting a nice white zin tonight and cuddling up for “The Notebook”
I’m off to get lit. It’s been a long week.
Fred: I’m going dark too. I’ll call you and figure out some plans. Jimmy, you know what you can do with your “rebuttal”. You are welcome to come hang out with us tonight. I know you won’t be able to, but I’m extending the offer because I want to kick you in the shins. Judson, have a good weekend buddy.
Jimmy, wtf? A cardinal rule that I try to follow in all circumstances is “no girls before dark.” It has kept me more or less worry-free throughout my life. It allows you to drink beer and go fishing with your friends and then get wild at night with the womenfolk. Jimmy obviously doesn’t realize the fatal mistake he is making. Plus, on top of that, girls are not fun to hang out with in the daylight, so I am doubly confused.
What are you going to do next Jimmy? Get a job?
Unemployed, single, Jimmy is one of my favorite people. Girlfriend Jimmy might get cut out of the will. I am understandably unimpressed.
Judson: I agree. Jimmy, you better slow down or you will soon wake up married with a child. Then you will find yourself changing diapers & going for walks instead of fishing and hunting during your so called “free time.”
Hank: He deserves whatever fate befalls him. I am washing my hands of the situation.
Me: Hank – its not like that. I’m at the beach! C’mon. Give me a break.
Hank: Jimmy. Please don’t respond only to me. Everyone is in this discussion now and I would choose your words wisely cuz theres alot a' splainin' to do. As for what time I am going, we are going to go out tonight and get hammered drunk while talking to girls after dark. I plan to get up in the morning, eat lunch, and get on the river around 2 or 3. I don’t want to interrupt any cuddle time though.
Fred: What is this? I return to my office from lunch to find my inbox filled with distressing emails regarding one James Ewing. I peruse the chain and find that not only does Jimmy have a girlfriend (which I was, not surprisingly, aware of), but said girlfriend is now cutting into huntfish time. Severely. I have had suspicions of as much though. Jimmy has been eerily quiet on multiple group emails that were ripe for satire. Jimmy has not inquired into the productivity of recent fishing trips, nor has he collectively mused about our next fishing trip. These are all sure signs that Jimmy has become woefully entangled in Girlfriendlandia (which is magically created when a new girlfriend divides the sum of all the awesome things that happen hunting and fishing by “0”, and we all know that you can’t divide by zero; this in turn results in a black hole of sorts that the man is dragged into where he is incapable of contacting the outside world).
Jimmy is certain to read this and think to himself, “oh, the hypocrisy! The pot deriding the kettle!”. To this I offer my simple recipe for avoiding Girlfriendlandia (of course, as we are all so painfully aware, it’s too late for Jimmy to use this): when you feel like you’re about to come down with a bad case of Girlfriend, don’t necessarily fight it. If you enjoy spending time with her and making out, you may proceed. Just before the “let’s be boyfriend – girlfriend talk” though, hereafter referred to as “The Talk”, sit the young woman down and explain in no uncertain terms how much the outdoors mean to you. And your how much your friends mean to you. And how much beer means to you. Be sure to emphasize how much time you typically devote to outdoors, friends, and beer (this is prior to entering the relationship). Then put it all in writing. Have her sign it (which she will readily do because she “knows” she can change you), have it witnessed, have it notarized, and place it in a safe deposit box that only you have access to (she will attempt to destroy this document during deer season, duck season, crow season, turkey season, dove season, and fishing season – so pretty much all the time). When the day comes when you feel guilty about going away on a sure-to-be-awesome adventure with your friends and beer, go back and read The Document. You can quote the document to Girlfriend as needed. Disaster averted. Go huntfish.
Note: this formula does not work on preexisting girlfriends.
My prognosis: Jimmy has an inoperable preexisting condition that is dragging him into another dimension where we will never hear from him again.
Hank: The only thing I have to add is this. It goes along with the “better to beg forgiveness than ask permission” mantra that ranks up there with “no girls before dark.”
If you have any doubt as to the amount of guilt-tripping that will be heaped upon you when you tell a girl you are leaving to go hunting/fishing for the weekend, use the Fred Hand method. Turn your phone off and deal with it Sunday night. I’ve seen it work more times than I can count. Better yet is a method I employed Friday before turkey season my Junior year. Call her on the way to the farm and break up with her. Said girl is happily engaged and I am happily not engaged.
Fred: There are certainly multiple treatments for Girlfriend, but there is really no cure if you don’t get The Document signed before The Talk. Jimmy has painted himself into a corner here. Actually, Jimmy painted all of us into a corner. Jimmy, you have brought Girlfriend into our midst without proper clearance and paperwork. You just handed Obama the keys to the White House with all the nuclear launch codes. Girlfriend now has the ability to destroy huntfish trips at will. Assuming she still lets you have a cell phone, she doesn’t even have to be near us to destroy a huntfish adventure.
Dammit Jimmy, I want answers. I want an explanation. A good start would be, “I’m sorry”.
Words that describe my feelings regarding the situation that Jimmy has gotten himself and all of us into: unimpressed, provoked, not amused, betrayed, heavy hearted, gut-shot, sick, queasy, irritable, flaccid, confused, broadsided, offended, and worst of all, unaggressive.
Me: I’m in the car halfway home from Charleston. I can’t respond adequately. You’re killing me. Rebuttal will follow.
Hank: If the rebuttal doesn’t include nekkid pictures*, don’t bother.
*girl pictures. Not you.
Me: You’re all sick.
Hank: Charleston, huh? You can just stay in South Carolina, Jimmy. You’ve caused enough problems for all of us today. I hope you’re happy with yourself. I’m going to have to go drown my sorrows in a bottle of single-malt. I might even have to leave work early. Luckily there is a liquor store between me and the SR 400 on ramp. My liver does not appreciate your decision-making.
Fred: This is not over Jimmy. As I have sat here toiling away on addressing plans, utility drawings, and service providers, my brow has furrowed. It has furrowed deeply, Jimmy. How you managed to wind up in this unconscionable predicament which has massive, unrealized, far reaching implications for all of us at the Huntfish Adventure Club is beyond me. I will look back on June 12, 2009 as the day I found out that Jimmy Ewing unwittingly and naively imploded the Huntfish Adventure Club (Jimmy, “unwittingly” better be the proper word. If I find out that “knowingly” is more appropriate, I will pour sand in your gas tank and break every fishing rod you own.). This is the most unaggressive decision that anyone I associate with has made. Ever. It’s downright cowardly. Even treasonous. I haven’t had a bigger Benedict Arnold pulled on me since Matt decided to date Leslie.
You don’t know Matt or his Girlfriend, but let me tell you the story. And you damn well better read this, Jimmy, because by not getting The Document signed beforehand, this is the path you’ve chosen. Matt was my huntfish adventure buddy for just about my whole life. We went on all sorts of adventures on a very regular basis. Matt was always somewhat concerned about school things because he’s from Alabama so it was harder for him, but he was good for adventuring just about any time. Then Matt went and got himself a Girlfriend. She promptly divided all our awesome adventures by zero and now Matt’s been lost in Girlfriendlandia for about 3 or 4 years now. I lose track because he can’t be reached. Do you know how many times Matt sat in a deer stand last year, Jimmy? Zero. Zero times. Do you know how many times Matt’s been fishing this year, Jimmy? Once. And do you know what Matt did the entire time we were fishing? He texted. He walked outside the cabin to talk on the phone for extended periods at night. If there’s one thing I can’t stand on huntfish adventures, it’s excessive texting.
You think about this when some unforeseen adventure pops up.
Hank: Just wait for that call to go fish Fred, Jrs in the fall. I have a suspicious feeling that it will land on a weekend when you have to go to Tyler’s best friend’s wedding or some abhorrence like that. I’m going to the liquor store and then home. The difference is I am going to by a 12 pack of natty and a bottle of scotch. Jimmy and Tyler are thinking of splitting a nice white zin tonight and cuddling up for “The Notebook”
I’m off to get lit. It’s been a long week.
Fred: I’m going dark too. I’ll call you and figure out some plans. Jimmy, you know what you can do with your “rebuttal”. You are welcome to come hang out with us tonight. I know you won’t be able to, but I’m extending the offer because I want to kick you in the shins. Judson, have a good weekend buddy.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
The Legendary Martin "Marlin" Dozier
I firmly believe that I’m a good judge of character. I am. I’m not bragging – I’m just pointing out that I have developed some skills in this arena. It’s true. Judging character is an extremely difficult skill to develop because, generally, that means that you’ve gotten screwed over so many times that now you can see it coming.
I’m there.
I can sense good character a mile off. It leaps out at me. I can also sense poor character a mile away because it also leaps out at me - generally from the bushes.
I’m not saying I’m a genius, that I have 6 senses (I have 12, actually) or that I understand what “spice” was in the movie “Dune” – because I don’t. I just want to establish that I’ve been taken advantage of more times than I can count, it’s going to keep happening, and I’m ok with that. Occasionally, however, my judgments are wrong. Please allow me to give you an example.
Some years back I caught up with my (then-single) cousin Sarah Dozier (nee Brannon) and I put her through the paces of my usual cousin questionnaire: job status, family, marital prospects, etc. When I asked “who, if anyone, should be on my radar right now” she indicated that a gentleman going by “Martin Dozier”, and holding himself out as an attorney - was worthy of further inspection. Some months later I again inquired as to her relationship status and she said “Well, Marty still (I guess) but the jackass won’t pull the trigger.”
Having not yet met the young man in question, my immediate response was: “Get rid of him. It’s been too long. He’s useless and weak.” To which she replied “We’ll see what happens. He better get himself together quick though – that’s all I know.”
Shortly afterward, they were married. I know – because I was there (at the buffet). I know it was a REAL wedding, because they had lamb chops; which (as I understand it) means the bride and groom will live together happily forever – they have to; because if you waste lamb chops for 350 people you’re going to have an ex-father-in-law camped outside your house with a 30-06 until you’re dead.
I know I was happy for a long time in the buffet line, so that’s a good start. Either way – it was a fabulous wedding, but I still didn’t know much about this “Martin Dozier” character except that he had very aggressive hair and an understanding of corporate finance that would blow your clothes off.
To be honest with you – I didn’t get a full grasp of the character that is Martin Dozier until much later. In 2008 we invited Martin to the First Annual James G Ewing and Tripp Maddux Jr. Memorial Deer Camp Squirrel Hunting Championship of the World Invitational Tournament; and gentlemen: Martin Dozier made a man of himself that weekend. Due to his stellar work ethic Martin didn’t show up until after dinner on the first night of The Tournament. By the time he arrived, the majority of the gentlemen present were seated at the bar engrossed in a high-stakes poker game and, quite frankly, I had forgotten he was coming.
Shortly after ten o’clock the door banged open revealing a grim-faced, pinstriped, young man – hair standing on end; steam rising from his heated temples. One hand held a small gym bag sporting the logo of a prominent local law firm, the other; a gallon jug of Maker’s Mark Bourbon.
It was Martin.
He took one tall stride into the room of total strangers, took a long pull from the jug, and loudly announced “Deal me in, boys.”
I can spot good character when I see it.
I’m there.
I can sense good character a mile off. It leaps out at me. I can also sense poor character a mile away because it also leaps out at me - generally from the bushes.
I’m not saying I’m a genius, that I have 6 senses (I have 12, actually) or that I understand what “spice” was in the movie “Dune” – because I don’t. I just want to establish that I’ve been taken advantage of more times than I can count, it’s going to keep happening, and I’m ok with that. Occasionally, however, my judgments are wrong. Please allow me to give you an example.
Some years back I caught up with my (then-single) cousin Sarah Dozier (nee Brannon) and I put her through the paces of my usual cousin questionnaire: job status, family, marital prospects, etc. When I asked “who, if anyone, should be on my radar right now” she indicated that a gentleman going by “Martin Dozier”, and holding himself out as an attorney - was worthy of further inspection. Some months later I again inquired as to her relationship status and she said “Well, Marty still (I guess) but the jackass won’t pull the trigger.”
Having not yet met the young man in question, my immediate response was: “Get rid of him. It’s been too long. He’s useless and weak.” To which she replied “We’ll see what happens. He better get himself together quick though – that’s all I know.”
Shortly afterward, they were married. I know – because I was there (at the buffet). I know it was a REAL wedding, because they had lamb chops; which (as I understand it) means the bride and groom will live together happily forever – they have to; because if you waste lamb chops for 350 people you’re going to have an ex-father-in-law camped outside your house with a 30-06 until you’re dead.
I know I was happy for a long time in the buffet line, so that’s a good start. Either way – it was a fabulous wedding, but I still didn’t know much about this “Martin Dozier” character except that he had very aggressive hair and an understanding of corporate finance that would blow your clothes off.
To be honest with you – I didn’t get a full grasp of the character that is Martin Dozier until much later. In 2008 we invited Martin to the First Annual James G Ewing and Tripp Maddux Jr. Memorial Deer Camp Squirrel Hunting Championship of the World Invitational Tournament; and gentlemen: Martin Dozier made a man of himself that weekend. Due to his stellar work ethic Martin didn’t show up until after dinner on the first night of The Tournament. By the time he arrived, the majority of the gentlemen present were seated at the bar engrossed in a high-stakes poker game and, quite frankly, I had forgotten he was coming.
Shortly after ten o’clock the door banged open revealing a grim-faced, pinstriped, young man – hair standing on end; steam rising from his heated temples. One hand held a small gym bag sporting the logo of a prominent local law firm, the other; a gallon jug of Maker’s Mark Bourbon.
It was Martin.
He took one tall stride into the room of total strangers, took a long pull from the jug, and loudly announced “Deal me in, boys.”
I can spot good character when I see it.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Stick Your Boobs Back On, Ashley
"DAD. WHAT. ARE. YOU. DOING?" Natalie asked, loudly, through the sliding glass door; sun-scorched beach and blue sky shimmering behind her.
"I'm writing dirty words on the refridgerator" responded Uncle Robert, calmly lighting a Benson and Hedges Ultra Light Menthol 100s. "Do we have another magnetic 'c' and 's' somewhere?
I looked over to see "FUGK ME HONKY AS BOOBOO" spelled out in children's magnetic refridgerator letters.
"Quit hollering, Natalie, or I'll take away your fake ID", put a high arch in 19-year-old Natalie's right eyebrow and precipitated her rapid departure.
Robert grinned. "I ain't no dummy. Now go find me the damn 'c' and 's' before Sherry gets up" he pufffed smokily in my general direction.
Instead, I headed out to the beach.
Later that afternoon we retired from the beach to dinner upstairs. The house, basically two houses stacked atop one another (the top for "adults", the downstairs for children, Uncle Robert, and Uncle John), was full of people. The spicy scent of Uncle John's low country boil wafting in from the back porch mixed with cigar smoke and rose to cloud the rafters above, themselves fairly vibrating with the laughter and talk from the noisy throng below.
Cousin Ashley, always lovely, pranced in just before dinner with several shopping bags and loudly exclaimed "Ok everybody! Looky what I got!" She then rummaged around in a sack held at her waist, and produced two adhesive breasts. Before anyone had time to respond, Maggie popped her head out of the kitchen and exclaimed, "Is that to keep your big 'ol boobs from being all saggy?" To which Ashley immediately rejoined "MY boobs are NOT saggy!" with great distaste.
Maggie (grinning mischeviously): Well. How do you define 'saggy'? Ehhh, anyway..not 'saggy' really. I mean - you know...just a bit 'flopsy'.
Ashley: "WHAT? They are NOT 'FLOPSY' or "SAGGY" or any other 'Y', MAGGIE!!! .... GRANDMA!!! TELL MAGGIE THAT MY BOOBS ARE NOT FLOPSY!!" she shrieked.
Gma: Ashley, we don't say 'boob' at the dinner table.
Maggie: Ok Ashley. They're just. You know - 'big'.
Ashley: NO THEY ARE NOT. THEY ARE "PERKY." You have MOSQUITO BITES, MAGGIE!!! Ashley hollered, now appearing to be in a certain amount of inner turmoil.
Ashley continued to staunchly defend her youthful stature until Maggie capitulated, then when Ashley's back was turned Maggie stuck her head back out of her room and, eyes wide, silently mouthed "THEY ARE BIG, FLOPPY BOOBS!!" before slipping back into her bedroom with a sly look and a wink at the table.
Ashley, disgusted, also retired to her bedroom, only to pop back out a few minutes later and ask, "Hey, has anyone seen my boobs?"
Maggie: Oh yeah! I've seen 'em!
Ashley: No, I mean the stick-on ones that I just got.
Robert (walking in): What in the world are y'all talking about? Ashley - good grief!
Uncle John (grinning), silently lifts his shirt to expose one smooth "C" cup adhesive breast stuck firmly over his right nipple.
Uncle William: MAMMA!!!! LOOK WHAT JOHN DID!!! TELL HIM TO STOP IT!!
GMA: Well, he's a lady-doctor. He can do that.
Uncle William: WHAT in the WORLD does him being an OB-GYN have to do with this?!? I am so sick of hearing about how he's a "lady doctor"! AUGH!
Maggie (in background pointing at Ashley): "FLOOOOPPPPYYY BOOOBBBBB!!!!"
Ashley: GRANNDDDMMAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!
Ahh. The Beach.
May your Uncles live forever, may your tan lines never fade, and may your adhesive boobs always stay right where you put 'em.
Best wishes for summer 2009.
"I'm writing dirty words on the refridgerator" responded Uncle Robert, calmly lighting a Benson and Hedges Ultra Light Menthol 100s. "Do we have another magnetic 'c' and 's' somewhere?
I looked over to see "FUGK ME HONKY AS BOOBOO" spelled out in children's magnetic refridgerator letters.
"Quit hollering, Natalie, or I'll take away your fake ID", put a high arch in 19-year-old Natalie's right eyebrow and precipitated her rapid departure.
Robert grinned. "I ain't no dummy. Now go find me the damn 'c' and 's' before Sherry gets up" he pufffed smokily in my general direction.
Instead, I headed out to the beach.
Later that afternoon we retired from the beach to dinner upstairs. The house, basically two houses stacked atop one another (the top for "adults", the downstairs for children, Uncle Robert, and Uncle John), was full of people. The spicy scent of Uncle John's low country boil wafting in from the back porch mixed with cigar smoke and rose to cloud the rafters above, themselves fairly vibrating with the laughter and talk from the noisy throng below.
Cousin Ashley, always lovely, pranced in just before dinner with several shopping bags and loudly exclaimed "Ok everybody! Looky what I got!" She then rummaged around in a sack held at her waist, and produced two adhesive breasts. Before anyone had time to respond, Maggie popped her head out of the kitchen and exclaimed, "Is that to keep your big 'ol boobs from being all saggy?" To which Ashley immediately rejoined "MY boobs are NOT saggy!" with great distaste.
Maggie (grinning mischeviously): Well. How do you define 'saggy'? Ehhh, anyway..not 'saggy' really. I mean - you know...just a bit 'flopsy'.
Ashley: "WHAT? They are NOT 'FLOPSY' or "SAGGY" or any other 'Y', MAGGIE!!! .... GRANDMA!!! TELL MAGGIE THAT MY BOOBS ARE NOT FLOPSY!!" she shrieked.
Gma: Ashley, we don't say 'boob' at the dinner table.
Maggie: Ok Ashley. They're just. You know - 'big'.
Ashley: NO THEY ARE NOT. THEY ARE "PERKY." You have MOSQUITO BITES, MAGGIE!!! Ashley hollered, now appearing to be in a certain amount of inner turmoil.
Ashley continued to staunchly defend her youthful stature until Maggie capitulated, then when Ashley's back was turned Maggie stuck her head back out of her room and, eyes wide, silently mouthed "THEY ARE BIG, FLOPPY BOOBS!!" before slipping back into her bedroom with a sly look and a wink at the table.
Ashley, disgusted, also retired to her bedroom, only to pop back out a few minutes later and ask, "Hey, has anyone seen my boobs?"
Maggie: Oh yeah! I've seen 'em!
Ashley: No, I mean the stick-on ones that I just got.
Robert (walking in): What in the world are y'all talking about? Ashley - good grief!
Uncle John (grinning), silently lifts his shirt to expose one smooth "C" cup adhesive breast stuck firmly over his right nipple.
Uncle William: MAMMA!!!! LOOK WHAT JOHN DID!!! TELL HIM TO STOP IT!!
GMA: Well, he's a lady-doctor. He can do that.
Uncle William: WHAT in the WORLD does him being an OB-GYN have to do with this?!? I am so sick of hearing about how he's a "lady doctor"! AUGH!
Maggie (in background pointing at Ashley): "FLOOOOPPPPYYY BOOOBBBBB!!!!"
Ashley: GRANNDDDMMAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!
Ahh. The Beach.
May your Uncles live forever, may your tan lines never fade, and may your adhesive boobs always stay right where you put 'em.
Best wishes for summer 2009.
Sunday, June 07, 2009
New Silverware
I enjoy old people, in general, but Gma is probably my favorite of the advancing generation. At some point before my birth she came to the conclusion that she genuinely DOES NOT care what you think. Seriously. I appreciate that, but I DO care what Gma thinks - even when she's thinking cloudily (which happens occasionally); but hey - she's old! Give her a break. If she wants to consistently misplace her left flip flop, and call me "George" - fine by me; I've certainly answered to worse.
Just tonight we were all sitting around in the beach house watching "The World's Largest Man" on TV when the following exchange took place:
Gma: Paige, have you noticed that every year the silverware in this house changes? Am I going crazy? Somebody explain to me why the silverware is different.
William: MAMMA PLEASE DONT START THAT AGAIN. We've already talked about it 4 times. I told you - stuff disappears and instead of buying individual pieces each year - they just replace the whole set. Its a rental house.
Paige: William don't be ugly.
Gma: Its different from last year. The silver this year is ugly.
Paige/William: MA!!! PLEASE! HUSH!! They're about to sponge bathe the world's fattest man!!
Robert: Well, I want to see the new silverware. Paige - bring us the silverware drawer and put it right in front of William.
William: AUGH. She's been asking people about it all day! I ALREADY TOLD Y'ALL WHY ITS DIFFERENT!!!
Gma: I liked the old kind better. It had roses.
William: WHO CARES?!?!?!?
Gma: Also, the blinds in front of the kitchen sink are gone this year too. Now the sun shines in my eyes.
Robert: I can fix that for you in a jiffy because I love you more than William does.
William: Robert, you are an idiot.
Robert disappears for a second. We hear rummaging around from one of the bedrooms, then the kitchen. Shortly afterwards we hear hammering, then the bright shaft of sunlight coming from the rear of the house disappears.
William: Robert, THATS THE COMFORTER FROM MY BED!!! You have used the comforter from MY bed to cover the window, and its dragging all in the sink.
Robert: Well, fold it up a bit on the bottom edges! Turn down the air conditioner, you don't need that comforter anyway.
William: I want my comforter. Why didn't you use YOUR comforter?
Robert: Well, I have to have my comforter to protect me from Sherry in the night. You sleep alone.
William: AUGH. Stay out of my room.
An interesting facet of our family interaction is that the old, infirm, and handicapped get treated with not a whit more grace or dignity than anyone else. That might be more noteworthy in other families, but if you walked in and saw us seated for lunch I think the variety would probably preclude accurate judgment of mental capacity anyway. Fifteen years ago you might have thought, for instance, that the long-haired gentleman seated at the southeast end of the table (levis, short button-up shirt, no belt, nike tennis shoes) eating bananas dipped in mayonnaise around a heavily-ashed Benson and Hedges Ultra Light Menthol 100s was retarded; not the demure older woman seated next to my grandmother. You'd be wrong, of course; you've just met Uncle Robert. The older woman in question, Elinor, had Downs Syndrome, lived to be 67 and, unless you had spotted the dinner rolls Elinor hid beneath each armpit at Sunday lunch, you still might not know.
Why she felt the need to hide baked goods on her person, we'll never be quite sure; but just to assure visitors that we didn't have her on unreasonable rations - Gma always leaned in to newcomers at the table and, in a loud stage whisper announced: "she knows she can have whatever she wants in the kitchen!" Elinor herself never had a good explanation, but I think she just wanted the comfort of knowing, without a doubt, where her next meal was coming from. We didn't fault her for taking a little bit of the uncertainty out of life when she could.
Awhile back I was violently accosted by a young woman over my use of the word "retarded" (in a non-pejorative sense) in reference to a person who she had identified as "developmentally challenged." It caught me off guard because I didn't mean it ugly - I promise, but that was apparently not a defense to the crime. Naturally, I never called her again, but I felt bad so I did double-check with my family over Sunday lunch to make sure it was OK to continue using the term "retarded." Uncle William immediately looked up from his butter beans and said "Hey, I shared a bathroom with a middle-aged Downs Syndrome woman for 15 years. I'll say 'retarded' anytime I want, and you got grandfathered in."
I believe thats a point scored for the politically incorrect.
Thursday, June 04, 2009
He Never Needed a Helmet
I generally don’t worry too much. I find it doesn’t help things, and it’s a huge distraction from the more important elements of life such as hunting, fishing, and staying current on facebook; BUT I can’t help but worry a tiny bit about Beausie. Given recent infections, pneumonia, and enough chemo treatments to absolutely flatten a lesser man; I feel that some level of concern on my part is appropriate. So there you have it – I’m concerned. I will, however, point out a few important facts about Beau that may make the non-family reader feel a bit better about his ability to handle himself
December 26, 1984 – Beau is born. The world rejoices. Jack Gregory subsequently announces that he does not believe that Beau was "born" at all. Rather: buzzards laid him on a stump and the sun hatched him.
1989 – At 4yrs old Beau flips his first ATV attempting to jump OVER the trampoline via a dirt embankment. The ATV lands on his neck, footpeg pinning him to the ground in the backyard. His Mom looks out the window 30 minutes later to see him laying underneath it, arms and legs flailing, attempting to dig himself out from underneath the vehicle. She runs out to assist, and rolls it off his neck. Beau stands up, furious, kicks the rear tire 4-5 times as hard as he can, cranks it up, and hits the jump one last time at full speed.
1990 – Beau is riding on the tailgate of his dad’s pickup next to Rayboy, Seth, and John headed for a dove field. His legs are swinging free beneath the truck. Buster hits a bump, the tailgate sends Beau into orbit, he lands (facedown) on an expose pine root, the root knocks him senseless for a few seconds. Before anyone even has time to act, Beau jumps up hollering, chases the pickup down, jumps back into the bed between the two men, and says “I’m ok.”
1994 - A young hoodlum attempts to land a strong right on Beau's face at a football game. Beau quickly tucks his chin face-down, taking the blow square on the top of his head. Hoodlum's knuckles snap, as do his resolve. Bystanders indicate that Beau grins...and wins without firing a shot.
1996 - Beau is riding a 1971 model Honda Trail 90 motorcycle (300lbs) at full speed, un-helmeted, through a field of grass chest-high. He hits a large rock in front of a deep dirt depression, goes head-over-handlebars and ends up with the dirt bike's metal fender pinning his face to the dirt. Once again, Beau is unconscious underneath something heavy - a lifetime theme as I'm sure you will note. Heyward Adams, bystander, runs over, sees Beau's face and immediately throws up. Beau later awakens to find himself strapped to a board in an emergency room. He wiggles his feet around frantically for a bit, then finally says "Dad, can you take my shoes off?" That was his only commentary.
1998 – Beau attempts another (handbuilt) highjump; this time on a dirt bike. The 2-stroke rocket separates itself from Beau at apogee, and Beau lands solidly on his un-helmeted head; tumbling end-over-end approximately three times a la Evil Knievel. Once again, we find Beau senseless in the dirt. Jason Tidwell, bystander, attempts to awaken the facedown dirt sleeper only to hear muffled cursing and “DON’T TOUCH ME! DON’T TOUCH ME!” coming from out of the sand. Beau rights the dirtbike, and without saying a word - rides slowly home and spends three days on the couch.
2001 – Beau gets into a physical altercation with a certain local hoodlum, much smaller than Beau, who promptly squares off and gives Beau the beating of his life, for free. Bystanders suggest that the intense bruising and black eyes were the result of multiple slams into the pavement. Bystanders also indicate that all attempts to elicit the hated word “UNCLE” from Beau were unsuccessful, and the hoodlum gave up due to exhaustion. For years Beau claims the obvious bashing and 3 weeks worth of black eyes were due to a dirtbike accident. Beau goes on to dominate the world. The local hoodlum has not been promoted at Wal-Mart.
2003 – X-rays of Beau’s body indicate multiple healed fractures linked to the dirt bike incident.
2004 – Beau sells dirtbike indicating a growth of maturity and general sense of self-preservation.
July 25, 2006 10PM – Mom disappears. Beau arrives on-scene by 2am July 26, with flashlight, and begins search without food, water, any idea of where he is, how long it may take, where he is supposed to be the following day, or how he'll get home.
Winter 2009 – In a pre-race physical Beau’s doctor says “you look healthy as an ox. Anything been going on with you lately I should known about?” Beau says (in typical Beau fashion) “Well, I’ve been coughing up blood a good bit lately.” This prompts a series of chest x-rays, and just a few days later – removal of 40% of his right lung. Beau is home a few days, only to ship off shortly after that to MD Anderson for intense Chemo treatments just weeks AFTER massive lung surgery.
Spring 2009 – Beau is bald, has consistently whipped chemo treatments, various infections, homesickness, and Houston, Tx. He regularly posts pictures of his bald self doing things a normal person in chemo wouldn’t even consider READING ABOUT due to nausea. During the chemo he also contracts a wicked e. coli bacterial poisoning in his blood from...himself; proving once again that the only thing bad-ass enough to whip Beau is - Beau.
That is why, though I am concerned, I know some things are a whole lot meaner than cancer.
Ladies and gentlemen I present to you my cousin and friend: Beau Slocumb.
www.beauslocumb.blogspot.com
December 26, 1984 – Beau is born. The world rejoices. Jack Gregory subsequently announces that he does not believe that Beau was "born" at all. Rather: buzzards laid him on a stump and the sun hatched him.
1989 – At 4yrs old Beau flips his first ATV attempting to jump OVER the trampoline via a dirt embankment. The ATV lands on his neck, footpeg pinning him to the ground in the backyard. His Mom looks out the window 30 minutes later to see him laying underneath it, arms and legs flailing, attempting to dig himself out from underneath the vehicle. She runs out to assist, and rolls it off his neck. Beau stands up, furious, kicks the rear tire 4-5 times as hard as he can, cranks it up, and hits the jump one last time at full speed.
1990 – Beau is riding on the tailgate of his dad’s pickup next to Rayboy, Seth, and John headed for a dove field. His legs are swinging free beneath the truck. Buster hits a bump, the tailgate sends Beau into orbit, he lands (facedown) on an expose pine root, the root knocks him senseless for a few seconds. Before anyone even has time to act, Beau jumps up hollering, chases the pickup down, jumps back into the bed between the two men, and says “I’m ok.”
1994 - A young hoodlum attempts to land a strong right on Beau's face at a football game. Beau quickly tucks his chin face-down, taking the blow square on the top of his head. Hoodlum's knuckles snap, as do his resolve. Bystanders indicate that Beau grins...and wins without firing a shot.
1996 - Beau is riding a 1971 model Honda Trail 90 motorcycle (300lbs) at full speed, un-helmeted, through a field of grass chest-high. He hits a large rock in front of a deep dirt depression, goes head-over-handlebars and ends up with the dirt bike's metal fender pinning his face to the dirt. Once again, Beau is unconscious underneath something heavy - a lifetime theme as I'm sure you will note. Heyward Adams, bystander, runs over, sees Beau's face and immediately throws up. Beau later awakens to find himself strapped to a board in an emergency room. He wiggles his feet around frantically for a bit, then finally says "Dad, can you take my shoes off?" That was his only commentary.
1998 – Beau attempts another (handbuilt) highjump; this time on a dirt bike. The 2-stroke rocket separates itself from Beau at apogee, and Beau lands solidly on his un-helmeted head; tumbling end-over-end approximately three times a la Evil Knievel. Once again, we find Beau senseless in the dirt. Jason Tidwell, bystander, attempts to awaken the facedown dirt sleeper only to hear muffled cursing and “DON’T TOUCH ME! DON’T TOUCH ME!” coming from out of the sand. Beau rights the dirtbike, and without saying a word - rides slowly home and spends three days on the couch.
2001 – Beau gets into a physical altercation with a certain local hoodlum, much smaller than Beau, who promptly squares off and gives Beau the beating of his life, for free. Bystanders suggest that the intense bruising and black eyes were the result of multiple slams into the pavement. Bystanders also indicate that all attempts to elicit the hated word “UNCLE” from Beau were unsuccessful, and the hoodlum gave up due to exhaustion. For years Beau claims the obvious bashing and 3 weeks worth of black eyes were due to a dirtbike accident. Beau goes on to dominate the world. The local hoodlum has not been promoted at Wal-Mart.
2003 – X-rays of Beau’s body indicate multiple healed fractures linked to the dirt bike incident.
2004 – Beau sells dirtbike indicating a growth of maturity and general sense of self-preservation.
July 25, 2006 10PM – Mom disappears. Beau arrives on-scene by 2am July 26, with flashlight, and begins search without food, water, any idea of where he is, how long it may take, where he is supposed to be the following day, or how he'll get home.
Winter 2009 – In a pre-race physical Beau’s doctor says “you look healthy as an ox. Anything been going on with you lately I should known about?” Beau says (in typical Beau fashion) “Well, I’ve been coughing up blood a good bit lately.” This prompts a series of chest x-rays, and just a few days later – removal of 40% of his right lung. Beau is home a few days, only to ship off shortly after that to MD Anderson for intense Chemo treatments just weeks AFTER massive lung surgery.
Spring 2009 – Beau is bald, has consistently whipped chemo treatments, various infections, homesickness, and Houston, Tx. He regularly posts pictures of his bald self doing things a normal person in chemo wouldn’t even consider READING ABOUT due to nausea. During the chemo he also contracts a wicked e. coli bacterial poisoning in his blood from...himself; proving once again that the only thing bad-ass enough to whip Beau is - Beau.
That is why, though I am concerned, I know some things are a whole lot meaner than cancer.
Ladies and gentlemen I present to you my cousin and friend: Beau Slocumb.
www.beauslocumb.blogspot.com
Monday, June 01, 2009
Wash Your Hands, Weirdo
I generally don't publish much in the way of "serious" topics, and for good reason; I've learned that nobody wants to hear what I think unless its funny. I can respect that. I don't much care what you think either, unless you think you want to give me a million dollars. I'm willing to discuss free money pointed my way, at length, anytime.
However, if something funny happens to you - lets hear it. Did you fall down in public? Did Mike Vick invite you to a dogfight in 1998? Did your Dad know Lewis Grizzard? Have you ever had a doctor insult you during a physical exam? Did you spend an hour in a bar hitting on a transvestite unawares? Have you ever owned a ferret? Does your grandmother smoke pot on the sly? We're friends - you can tell me anything!
If its funny - I'm your man, but you can save your cute dog stories - I just don't care how high Fluffymop can jump, or that little Bosco learned to sit last week. Big deal - Bosco is 8 years old, and Fluffy is too fat to move. Get a labrador retriever of any variety you choose, and teach him to do something useful - then we'll talk, but remember: dogs aren't people - they're carnivorous mammals and they only love you if you feed them regularly. Try it - leave the door open, don't feed Barley for two weeks and let's see where he ends up. My guess is: not with you.
While we're on the dog topic: to the woman across the street who lets her dog use my lawn with impunity: SERIOUSLY???!?? Thats a mailbox right there, woman - not a PLACE DOG POOP HERE sign.
But really, I don't blame her. You people that jog around carrying dog poop in a Kroger sack are nuts. When was the last time your proctologist walked in the exam room wrapping a Kroger sack around his hands? I bet 90% of the world population that "didn't have a condom handy" probably DID have a Kroger sack handy, but that didn't do anybody any good did it? So, WASH YOUR HANDS, weirdo - and get a house with a dog door and a fence around it for crying out loud! That dog doesn't want to walk around tied to a rope anyway - he wants to chase and eat other critters. I think he ought to be free to do it.
Don't get me wrong - I'm no "animal rights activist" in the strictest sense of the term. Sure, I'll shoot a deer, but YOU are the one committing a crime against the animal kingdom; not me. Animals eat other animals all the time, but you don't often see a deer traipsing around leading a raccoon tied to a string, do you? I haven't either, but if I did I'd shoot the raccoon first, then stuff them both, and tell an awesome story about the time I shot a deer who had a pet raccoon.
As far as your silly dog tricks go - I hate to break it to you, but your dog doesn't really sit, stay, or come. I've seen everybody's dog, and I'm not impressed. You want to meet impressive dogs? Meet Allie Farmer, Cember Maddux, and Gauge Landers. If I fall asleep too early after a duck hunt and forget to brush my teeth; Cember will wake me up, breathe on the mirror and lick "BRUSH YOUR TEETH JACKASS" in the fog with her tongue. Thats what kind of a dog Cember is. Thats a man's dog. You want a beer? "CEMBER: BEERTHIRTY" will get you whatever you want, fast, and with a smile. Your wife won't even do that - I know because I've met her too and I prefer Cember.
So listen: "Sit Barney. Sit Barney. BARNEY. SIT BARNEY. Here is a treat Barney. NOW SIT BARNEY SIT PLEASE. SIT. OH DAMN YOU BARNEY PLEASE SIT." doesn't impress me - I don't care how cute Barney is. What makes me teary-eyed is when that duck goes down a quarter mile away and Cember swims through 30 degree water, breaking ice, to bring it back and doesn't mind riding in the back of the truck on the way home.
Enough with the cute dog stuff. You want a parlor trick? Give my little brother a lighter and two cans of baked beans, or get Uncle Robert to blow smoke out of his tearducts - THAT is quality entertainment, but please, PLEASE check your Kroger sacks and your brain-dead Labradoodles into doggy-day-care when I come around.
However, if something funny happens to you - lets hear it. Did you fall down in public? Did Mike Vick invite you to a dogfight in 1998? Did your Dad know Lewis Grizzard? Have you ever had a doctor insult you during a physical exam? Did you spend an hour in a bar hitting on a transvestite unawares? Have you ever owned a ferret? Does your grandmother smoke pot on the sly? We're friends - you can tell me anything!
If its funny - I'm your man, but you can save your cute dog stories - I just don't care how high Fluffymop can jump, or that little Bosco learned to sit last week. Big deal - Bosco is 8 years old, and Fluffy is too fat to move. Get a labrador retriever of any variety you choose, and teach him to do something useful - then we'll talk, but remember: dogs aren't people - they're carnivorous mammals and they only love you if you feed them regularly. Try it - leave the door open, don't feed Barley for two weeks and let's see where he ends up. My guess is: not with you.
While we're on the dog topic: to the woman across the street who lets her dog use my lawn with impunity: SERIOUSLY???!?? Thats a mailbox right there, woman - not a PLACE DOG POOP HERE sign.
But really, I don't blame her. You people that jog around carrying dog poop in a Kroger sack are nuts. When was the last time your proctologist walked in the exam room wrapping a Kroger sack around his hands? I bet 90% of the world population that "didn't have a condom handy" probably DID have a Kroger sack handy, but that didn't do anybody any good did it? So, WASH YOUR HANDS, weirdo - and get a house with a dog door and a fence around it for crying out loud! That dog doesn't want to walk around tied to a rope anyway - he wants to chase and eat other critters. I think he ought to be free to do it.
Don't get me wrong - I'm no "animal rights activist" in the strictest sense of the term. Sure, I'll shoot a deer, but YOU are the one committing a crime against the animal kingdom; not me. Animals eat other animals all the time, but you don't often see a deer traipsing around leading a raccoon tied to a string, do you? I haven't either, but if I did I'd shoot the raccoon first, then stuff them both, and tell an awesome story about the time I shot a deer who had a pet raccoon.
As far as your silly dog tricks go - I hate to break it to you, but your dog doesn't really sit, stay, or come. I've seen everybody's dog, and I'm not impressed. You want to meet impressive dogs? Meet Allie Farmer, Cember Maddux, and Gauge Landers. If I fall asleep too early after a duck hunt and forget to brush my teeth; Cember will wake me up, breathe on the mirror and lick "BRUSH YOUR TEETH JACKASS" in the fog with her tongue. Thats what kind of a dog Cember is. Thats a man's dog. You want a beer? "CEMBER: BEERTHIRTY" will get you whatever you want, fast, and with a smile. Your wife won't even do that - I know because I've met her too and I prefer Cember.
So listen: "Sit Barney. Sit Barney. BARNEY. SIT BARNEY. Here is a treat Barney. NOW SIT BARNEY SIT PLEASE. SIT. OH DAMN YOU BARNEY PLEASE SIT." doesn't impress me - I don't care how cute Barney is. What makes me teary-eyed is when that duck goes down a quarter mile away and Cember swims through 30 degree water, breaking ice, to bring it back and doesn't mind riding in the back of the truck on the way home.
Enough with the cute dog stuff. You want a parlor trick? Give my little brother a lighter and two cans of baked beans, or get Uncle Robert to blow smoke out of his tearducts - THAT is quality entertainment, but please, PLEASE check your Kroger sacks and your brain-dead Labradoodles into doggy-day-care when I come around.
Victim Impact Statement - May 19, 2009
For years it was just the two of us. I was the first of three, the oldest, and she was my mother. I remember clearly that we liked to sleep late. Dad would be long gone on his way to work before she came skipping into my room yelling RISE AND SHINE!! IT’S GOING TO BE A FUN DAY!
And she was right. It was a fun day. It was always a fun day, with Mom.
It seemed plenty big enough to me, but our house was a very small two bedroom in Decatur. Too small even. When my sister was born they had to turn the sitting room into a nursery, but we didn’t care. Nobody “sat” much anyway.
Your parents always seem older, even ageless I think - when you’re young; but now I realize they were about my age now; just starting out. And so much fun!
We spent so many brilliant, happy, days together exploring the world, she and I. We liked to take long walks in the neighborhood. The old lady down the street would let me hammer nails into her back stairs and eat oreos while she and mom sat on the porch swing. When I got tired Mom would carry me home.
I didn’t think about it then, but we spent a lot of time with our elderly neighbors. More than was usual for a 30 year old young mother, I think. And that was like her. I called all our aging neighbors “my friends” and I thought we were out “visiting” and “exploring” – and we were, but the whole time she was kindly, quietly, ministering to the people around her.
“Most of them don’t get out much like we can,” she would say. And that is how she lived – always putting the people around her first. I think that is why 1,500 showed up at her memorial service. It was so full the church had to broadcast the service for the people out in the lobby and standing in the parking lot. The dry cleaner, the pharmacist, someone she passed on the trail, people from all over the world –all came to say goodbye.
So when they asked me, a little while back, to describe to you how the miserable, violent death of the person I loved most makes me feel - all I could think about was Oreos and porch swings. And I wished, suddenly, that she was here to carry me home.
But I’m big now I guess. Too big to carry anyway - and who would do it? She’s gone. Instead we, her children, carry her with us - the memory of her softened at the edges like a faded photograph; she remains a beacon to me and a reminder that, even when I am confronted with evil -terrible, angry-strong, there is still good - and good will win if we let it.
She used to say to me “Jesus will take care of you” and I think He does; just not always how you expect. He took care of me for 26 years by giving me the kind of mother that changed the world for good literally every single day of her life.
They asked me to tell you today about the emotional impact her death has on the community, but I won’t.
I think you already know.
And she was right. It was a fun day. It was always a fun day, with Mom.
It seemed plenty big enough to me, but our house was a very small two bedroom in Decatur. Too small even. When my sister was born they had to turn the sitting room into a nursery, but we didn’t care. Nobody “sat” much anyway.
Your parents always seem older, even ageless I think - when you’re young; but now I realize they were about my age now; just starting out. And so much fun!
We spent so many brilliant, happy, days together exploring the world, she and I. We liked to take long walks in the neighborhood. The old lady down the street would let me hammer nails into her back stairs and eat oreos while she and mom sat on the porch swing. When I got tired Mom would carry me home.
I didn’t think about it then, but we spent a lot of time with our elderly neighbors. More than was usual for a 30 year old young mother, I think. And that was like her. I called all our aging neighbors “my friends” and I thought we were out “visiting” and “exploring” – and we were, but the whole time she was kindly, quietly, ministering to the people around her.
“Most of them don’t get out much like we can,” she would say. And that is how she lived – always putting the people around her first. I think that is why 1,500 showed up at her memorial service. It was so full the church had to broadcast the service for the people out in the lobby and standing in the parking lot. The dry cleaner, the pharmacist, someone she passed on the trail, people from all over the world –all came to say goodbye.
So when they asked me, a little while back, to describe to you how the miserable, violent death of the person I loved most makes me feel - all I could think about was Oreos and porch swings. And I wished, suddenly, that she was here to carry me home.
But I’m big now I guess. Too big to carry anyway - and who would do it? She’s gone. Instead we, her children, carry her with us - the memory of her softened at the edges like a faded photograph; she remains a beacon to me and a reminder that, even when I am confronted with evil -terrible, angry-strong, there is still good - and good will win if we let it.
She used to say to me “Jesus will take care of you” and I think He does; just not always how you expect. He took care of me for 26 years by giving me the kind of mother that changed the world for good literally every single day of her life.
They asked me to tell you today about the emotional impact her death has on the community, but I won’t.
I think you already know.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Press Statement - Friday May 22, 2009
Since Mom’s death in 2006 my closest friends and confidants have often asked how my family incorporates such a shocking and altogether unexpected tragedy into our worldview as Christians and how a life so beautiful, and so grounded in faith, could come to such a such a horrific end.
I’ve realized over time that they ask me because they think I may know; but I don’t.
I’m not AT ALL sure why terrible things happen to good people. I don’t know exactly WHY a good and loving God would stand for weak, evil men like Michael Ledford to persecute and murder His people. It doesn’t make sense.
My friend Aaron Harris said to me one day, “Jimmy, I just don’t think we were meant to understand these things. I think God created us for something altogether different.” And I think that’s about the closest I’ve come to an answer.
So, I can’t fully satisfy my own craving to understand what happened to Mom, and why; but what I do know is this: I represent a mother and a family who believe that Jesus is EXACTLY who He said He was. My family and I know that we were put here to serve the Lord to the best of our abilities, to minister to the needs of the people around us, to lead other people into a growing relationship with Christ, and, even in the face of terrible adversities that we may never understand, to accept and follow the Lord’s guidance in our lives regardless of where He may lead us; clinging to the promise that one day we can ask Him in person.
In the meantime, I would remind you that this catastrophic and painful time in the life of my family has NEVER been about Michael Ledford, or the death penalty, or justice, or the vagueries of a complicated legal process.
It’s about the constant struggle between good and evil. It’s about a family hurt, but not vanquished and it’s about a God big enough to love, direct, and lead us down even the darkest paths. But most importantly, it’s about the amazing, extraordinary, life of the woman who raised me and taught me to read and to write, and to laugh, and to think for myself, and what’s funny, and what isn’t, and how to love and be loved, and to be strong.
The same woman who taught me life’s every little detail from hospitality, music, good food, which fork to use, and how to dance; in her final moments taught me the power of sacrifice and courage. So today, your focus should be not crime and punishment and the filthy deeds of evil men, but my brave and beautiful mother, of whom I am so VERY proud.
I’ve realized over time that they ask me because they think I may know; but I don’t.
I’m not AT ALL sure why terrible things happen to good people. I don’t know exactly WHY a good and loving God would stand for weak, evil men like Michael Ledford to persecute and murder His people. It doesn’t make sense.
My friend Aaron Harris said to me one day, “Jimmy, I just don’t think we were meant to understand these things. I think God created us for something altogether different.” And I think that’s about the closest I’ve come to an answer.
So, I can’t fully satisfy my own craving to understand what happened to Mom, and why; but what I do know is this: I represent a mother and a family who believe that Jesus is EXACTLY who He said He was. My family and I know that we were put here to serve the Lord to the best of our abilities, to minister to the needs of the people around us, to lead other people into a growing relationship with Christ, and, even in the face of terrible adversities that we may never understand, to accept and follow the Lord’s guidance in our lives regardless of where He may lead us; clinging to the promise that one day we can ask Him in person.
In the meantime, I would remind you that this catastrophic and painful time in the life of my family has NEVER been about Michael Ledford, or the death penalty, or justice, or the vagueries of a complicated legal process.
It’s about the constant struggle between good and evil. It’s about a family hurt, but not vanquished and it’s about a God big enough to love, direct, and lead us down even the darkest paths. But most importantly, it’s about the amazing, extraordinary, life of the woman who raised me and taught me to read and to write, and to laugh, and to think for myself, and what’s funny, and what isn’t, and how to love and be loved, and to be strong.
The same woman who taught me life’s every little detail from hospitality, music, good food, which fork to use, and how to dance; in her final moments taught me the power of sacrifice and courage. So today, your focus should be not crime and punishment and the filthy deeds of evil men, but my brave and beautiful mother, of whom I am so VERY proud.
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
Man Talk
I thought you may be interested to know what a normal day of correspondence looks like in my inbox, so - here goes with some written communication between Fred, Hank, and Me.
Me: I’m not your go-to boy with a cast net. Our guide had a 13FOOT cast net he could throw a perfect hoop in. Right before he tossed it he looked like somebody had caught HIM in the thing – he’d wrap it completely around his body and up over his head. Unbelieveable. I cant get an 8foot net to do anything respectable.
Fred: Cast nets are sort of like fat girls. The ones with the big diameters are really heavy, they’re hard to throw, and they generally aren’t much fun.
Hank: I'm ignoring that. What is everyone doing this weekend?
Me: I’m up for whatever. We can go hit our place one last time if you like, then swing by Freds or something. Maybe fish a bit. We can put a boat in the water on a pond or head to Juliette for an adventure. Maybe we can get Buster involved.
Alternatively, we could float the Ocmulgee from the Juliette tailwater to the hwy 17 bridge - which might be also be fun. In short: “I'm available.” Thanks for the party invitation, but social plans are low priority in general at the moment. Any event that interferes with outdoor pursuits could quickly find itself sitting by the side of the road in a prom dress, muddy and in the rain.
Fred: I’m pretty sure there’s something statutory about you and proms at this point.
Hank: On the subject of mud and rain, but moving away from prom dresses, I think the Ocmulgee will probably be unfishable this weekend. I am game to fish some farm ponds though.
As to cute girls at the party: last time I checked, we live in Georgia, so if you get more than about 5 girls together, at least one will be cute. I think Seth’s girlfriend is principally involved in this party, so I am sure he will be there too. I will forward you all the evite.
Fred: I'm hunting this weekend after the little league game.
Me: Fred, you're coaching little league? I'm extremely interested in watching this. Can you take beer to a little league game? Are you allowed to heckle the coaches? I'm game for whatever Friday night I guess. Does anyone think Judson may be heaving with giant silent sobs at his desk right now??? Judson, sorry - you're married! When are we going to Indian pass for a shark extravaganza at your place?
Judson: I will be down there over the week of July 4th and will definitely do some shark fishing. We are targeting 10’+ hammers & Tigers. As we get closer I will let you know more details. As for this weekend: I am not doing anything. Your emails are killing me. I have to work around the house this weekend.
Hank: Fred, you should bring the Zodiac down to Judson's place! We can use it to run the shark baits 500-600 yards offshore instead of paddling that kayak way out there.
Fred: The Zodiak? You mean the HMS Dingleberry finally has purpose in its provoking, useless existence? I hate it. I hope it sinks.
Me: Judson, that fishing trip sounds great, but where will Janet and your newborn Corn Niblet sleep? Do they know we're all coming on your family vacation? Maybe we can pool our resources and get them a suitable berth at the local Travelodge. Are you really stuck not doing anything this weekend or can you slip the leash?
Judson: Last weekend I took off to fish a neighborhood lake and got the “why don’t you want to spend time with your family?” comment from certain parties. This weekend I am going to stick to doing projects around the house.
Hank: I’ll be down there the whole week before the 4th. Fred will be down there half of it. I say we let Jimmy swim the shark baits out instead of using the Zodiac.
Judson: I have boogy boarded baits out & it is not fun. I guess watching someone else do it would be quite entertaining. Fred, what is the deal with the Zodiak? I like those little boats.
Fred: Give me a minute or two while I climb up on my stump and rail about that piece of junk. It’s going to take me 5 minutes to get it all down......
Fred: Ok, Zodiaks can be useful, if they are employed as intended.
I have a sister that is 2 years younger than me. She travels a lot. She was scuba diving somewhere in the Caribbean a few years ago and the outfitter would take the divers out from the mothership on Zodiaks. They were usually going a few hundred yards.
When she got back to the States, she decided that she needed a Zodiak so that she could go scuba diving at the Cape. Her logic to my father was essentially, “Frederick has 3 boats.” Solid, but I also maintain them, which is a lot of work if you are familiar with boats and saltwater.
So, she immediately gets a nice Zodiak. 12 or 15 feet long. Magic Tilt trailer. 15hp Yamaha 4-stroke. The first time down to the Cape, she decides she’s ready to use it, at which point my father instructs me to arm and deploy the vessel. I attempt to reason with him that the Zodiak is not my ward, nor is its operation my responsibility, and that I had specifically said I wanted no part of it; none of which went well. So I carry the 15hp 4-stroke (which weights about 200lbs) down to the shore, drag the Zodiak down there, put it all together, and send my sister on her merry way. She doesn’t know how to crank the thing, doesn’t know how to navigate a tiller-drive, and doesn’t know that “choke” is also a noun. Being a girl, she also has no idea how to back a trailer (not that there are any ramps on the Gulf side anyway, but she can’t even get it out of the driveway).
The Zodiak has been used about 3 times in 5 years. I hate it because it’s the red-headed stepchild of my tiny armada and I have to care for it, so I nicknamed it the HMS Dingleberry. The Zodiak would be perfect for running shark baits offshore at night though.
Me: I think I like your sister based solely on the fact that she’s not afraid to absolutely raise cain with you and your dad. That is HILARIOUS. I say we appropriate the HMS Dingleberry for our shark purposes. I wonder if that would be a suitable hooch boat?
Fred: Fine. We can commandeer the HMS Poopcrumble, but I’m not trailering it. It can be used for anything that you would use an inner-tube for (it will float down the hooch but you can’t stand up in it and it doesn’t have any seats).
Me: Ok. Transportation is taken care of. Does anyone know what you’re supposed to do with a 10 foot long live shark on the beach? Can you legally pop him in the head with a .22? How in the world do you “RELEASE” a shark in the surf??? I mean, if you think I'm going swimming with a live TigerShark to get him safely back out to sea; you're going to have to give me some really good pointers on waterwalking my fat butt back out of there. Anything with the natural equivalent to a running chainsaw in his mouth in my immediate vicinity makes me very uncomfortable.
Judson: You just have to drag them by their tail until you get them in deep enough water at which point you spin them around. Usually they will swim off slowly and are too tired to mess with you.
Fred: "USUALLY?"
Hank: Your average serious sharksman is probably a little more sober than I imagine the dream team will be at 2am standing on the beach at the Cape. I’ll supervise (liquor drink in hand), Jimmy: you distract him, Fred and Judson: you grab the live shark by the tail and take it from there.
Fred: To me that plan screams "Double Amputee."
Me: Ok, no. I vote Judson handle the sharks. Should he become incapacitated through the endeavor we will build bookshelves etc. for his beautiful wife, Janet, until the child is old enough to build its own bookshelves, paint, etc.
CAN you shoot these sharks in the head and cut ‘em up? I like that plan better than the "swimming with angry sharks in the dark while inebriated" plan that has been submitted. Mako is supposed to be excellent meat, and you know I like shooting things. It's like the perfect meld of hunting and fishing.
Fred: Seconded. Why not throw a small caliber pistol in with 10’ sharks, an inflatable bathtub, Busch, and pitch dark? Seems like a win-win to me.
Me: Seconded. We'll also need duct tape, 2 flashlights, no batteries, ice, koozies, and some chairs.
Judson: I release all of my sharks b/c I don’t want to have to dispose of them. I can’t leave a rotting shark on the beach in front of my dad’s house b/c all the locals know that I shark fish the area. I have no problems walking in the water to throw a tail rope around a shark, but usually I have trouble finding help to assist in the release.
Hank: Let us pause. I want to compare this to a situation that I was involved in last year. Fred and I drank about two cases of beer over the course of a morning and after catching a big snook and having no luck on the reds in the keys, we found a mangrove snapper hole. On one cast around the hole, I hooked up a trophy 13” needlefish. Being highly intoxicated and highly amused that I had just caught the first needlefish of my life, I picked my rod tip up and grabbed him about halfway down his back. He turned around and bit the shit out of my arm; leaving a trail of tiny puncture wounds. This made Fred laugh so hard that he fell in the bottom of the boat. I walked away with only my pride harmed.
This situation I have just described potentially mirrors our plan for shark fishing with a few “minor” differences. Namely: I had caught a 13” fish on a 19’ fiberglass boat and when I grabbed him, he bit my arm. NOW we're talking about innertubes, 10’+ fish (with a comparable increase in the size of the teeth), and equally excessive amounts of Busch Light. This is going to be awesome…
Me: Well, all I know is I’ll be standing directly behind whoever is furthest from the shark's mouth when he comes sliding up out of the surf, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to be involved in this sort of situation without emptying a firearm of some kind.
Hank: When you say "a firearm of some kind," I can’t help but feel like anything smaller than a .45 might just piss him off. Personally, I’m going to throw empty beer cans at him while Fred hits him in the back with the hand gaff.
Me: You know I definitely won’t be throwing FULL beercans at him, that’s for sure. Is there a police code for "public drunken cavorting with a live mako shark?"; because expect to see some cavorting if something big comes out of the surf.
Fred: If we land a 20’ hammerhead, I will not be getting involved in releasing him; I will be involved in shooting him. That does not look like the sort of creature that I want to “grab by the tail and drag.” That looks like the sort of creature that could kill, or worse, maim me.
Hank: It certainly looks to have a different feel from catching redfish on topwater (which I think is about the most exciting fishing you can do). I’ve had redfish get my finger in their crab crunchers when I am holding him by the gills which kinda hurts a little. Stakes are a little higher here. I am excited. I want to catch a big hammerhead, Jimmy wants to catch a mako, Fred wants a bull shark, so Judson you can catch the big tiger. Better get on the pattern.
Fred: I have an addition to the list of required “gear” for this: 1 full sized oxygen dive tank. If we’re going to have a video of this “perfect storm”, if you will, I’d like to throw my hat into the “Recreate the Last Scene of Jaws” pool.
Hank: Fred, if you will tiptoe over and jam the oxygen tank in its mouth, I’ll shoot it.
Me: Can we eat these things? I hear Mako is tasty.
Judson: I release everything I catch. Tripeltail, reds, trout, etc.
Hank: You are out of your mind not to keep those fish. what are you?? A vegetarian?!?!?
Judson: I just don't fool with it much.
Me: Hank and Fred, where are y’all going for Cinco de Drunko tonight? My guess is Judson is going somewhere that involves a 12 pack of Budweiser, a hammer, some nails, paint, and instructions for assembling a child’s bookshelf.
Hank: Jimmy, why don't you go stake us out a table at a Mexican place nearby. We'll be there in a few hours.
Fred: Seconded.
Hank: So we are in agreement that Jimmy should go stake out an outside table at Taxco. Fred you can go grab some drinks with work people and we will meet at Taxco around 6:30; hopefully to find Jimmy heavily intoxicated at a corner table by himself. From there, we can drop my car and Jimmy’s car off at my house since it’s a hop, skip, and a jump, and Fred will drive his car back to his house if he wants to. We can walk to five paces from Fred’s.
This plan is perfect for me because:
a) I don’t really have to drive anywhere.
b) my car stays at my house
This plan is perfect for Jimmy because:
a) getting a head start is fun.
b) he is unemployed, so who cares where his car ends up tomorrow?
This plan is perfect for Fred because:
a) Taxco is on the way from the office home.
b) He knows that otherwise he will not eat dinner (unless limes from training wheel tequila shots is considered nourishment)
This plan is perfect for Judson because:
He is not involved and therefore cannot possibly get in any trouble for it.
Objections?
Me: I'll try to meet up with y'all later. I may go float the 'hooch with David. The *Local Fishing Shop* says the water is muddy though. I need a quick nap first.
Fred: Regarding that particular shop - never in all my travels and all the outdoorsmen I have met have I encountered such a collection of bozos with a more undeserved sense of self worth. Every employee over there that I have ever met makes me want to break something. They are full of theory, but devoid of practical application. They are weekend warriors for stocker trout. Worst of all, they are fly snobs. They probably drive X-Terra’s with "Sage" and "G-Loomis" stickers on them. They enjoy grandstanding to the most inexperienced, impressionable “fisherman” in the world, hometown wanna-be’s. If I had enough money, I would buy it, bulldoze it to the ground, pee on the rubble, then build a store that only sold shark fishing, bow-fishing, and gator hunting gear on the ruins. My corporate logo would be Calvin urinating on a dead osprey.
Me: Well...I like the logo idea.
Hank: Sitting in the audit room, I just had the epiphany that Jimmy had gel in his hair last night. Just wanted to remind Fred of that fact and tell Judson about it in order to open Jimmy up to ridicule. We’ll know times are hard and Jimmy has run out of money when he can no longer afford product for his hair.
Me: I deny these allegations.
Judson: Were there any designer jeans worn by the trio last night?
Hank: YES. Sometimes I feel like the only guy who doesn’t give a crap anymore. I wish Jimmy or Fred had gotten married and had a kid so Judson could come out with us in wranglers (product-free).
Me: I had on normal GAP jeans - not "designer" jeans, thank you. I can't help but recall someone sporting a collared white shirt with a little boat on it last night.
Judson: not to change the subject, but next weekend is Mother's Day. I was thinking I might take Janet to the Indian Festival PowWow in Canton for her first Mother's Day.
Hank: You must have written the book on woman-pleasing.
Judson: I'm trying to set expectations low.
Hank: How about the Renaissance Fair?
Judson: I like it. Funnel cakes, turkey legs, and big steins of grog. You can't beat that!
Hank: Definitely beats a tennis bracelet and flowers.
Hank: See you guys Friday for Fred's birthday.
And so it goes.
Me: I’m not your go-to boy with a cast net. Our guide had a 13FOOT cast net he could throw a perfect hoop in. Right before he tossed it he looked like somebody had caught HIM in the thing – he’d wrap it completely around his body and up over his head. Unbelieveable. I cant get an 8foot net to do anything respectable.
Fred: Cast nets are sort of like fat girls. The ones with the big diameters are really heavy, they’re hard to throw, and they generally aren’t much fun.
Hank: I'm ignoring that. What is everyone doing this weekend?
Me: I’m up for whatever. We can go hit our place one last time if you like, then swing by Freds or something. Maybe fish a bit. We can put a boat in the water on a pond or head to Juliette for an adventure. Maybe we can get Buster involved.
Alternatively, we could float the Ocmulgee from the Juliette tailwater to the hwy 17 bridge - which might be also be fun. In short: “I'm available.” Thanks for the party invitation, but social plans are low priority in general at the moment. Any event that interferes with outdoor pursuits could quickly find itself sitting by the side of the road in a prom dress, muddy and in the rain.
Fred: I’m pretty sure there’s something statutory about you and proms at this point.
Hank: On the subject of mud and rain, but moving away from prom dresses, I think the Ocmulgee will probably be unfishable this weekend. I am game to fish some farm ponds though.
As to cute girls at the party: last time I checked, we live in Georgia, so if you get more than about 5 girls together, at least one will be cute. I think Seth’s girlfriend is principally involved in this party, so I am sure he will be there too. I will forward you all the evite.
Fred: I'm hunting this weekend after the little league game.
Me: Fred, you're coaching little league? I'm extremely interested in watching this. Can you take beer to a little league game? Are you allowed to heckle the coaches? I'm game for whatever Friday night I guess. Does anyone think Judson may be heaving with giant silent sobs at his desk right now??? Judson, sorry - you're married! When are we going to Indian pass for a shark extravaganza at your place?
Judson: I will be down there over the week of July 4th and will definitely do some shark fishing. We are targeting 10’+ hammers & Tigers. As we get closer I will let you know more details. As for this weekend: I am not doing anything. Your emails are killing me. I have to work around the house this weekend.
Hank: Fred, you should bring the Zodiac down to Judson's place! We can use it to run the shark baits 500-600 yards offshore instead of paddling that kayak way out there.
Fred: The Zodiak? You mean the HMS Dingleberry finally has purpose in its provoking, useless existence? I hate it. I hope it sinks.
Me: Judson, that fishing trip sounds great, but where will Janet and your newborn Corn Niblet sleep? Do they know we're all coming on your family vacation? Maybe we can pool our resources and get them a suitable berth at the local Travelodge. Are you really stuck not doing anything this weekend or can you slip the leash?
Judson: Last weekend I took off to fish a neighborhood lake and got the “why don’t you want to spend time with your family?” comment from certain parties. This weekend I am going to stick to doing projects around the house.
Hank: I’ll be down there the whole week before the 4th. Fred will be down there half of it. I say we let Jimmy swim the shark baits out instead of using the Zodiac.
Judson: I have boogy boarded baits out & it is not fun. I guess watching someone else do it would be quite entertaining. Fred, what is the deal with the Zodiak? I like those little boats.
Fred: Give me a minute or two while I climb up on my stump and rail about that piece of junk. It’s going to take me 5 minutes to get it all down......
Fred: Ok, Zodiaks can be useful, if they are employed as intended.
I have a sister that is 2 years younger than me. She travels a lot. She was scuba diving somewhere in the Caribbean a few years ago and the outfitter would take the divers out from the mothership on Zodiaks. They were usually going a few hundred yards.
When she got back to the States, she decided that she needed a Zodiak so that she could go scuba diving at the Cape. Her logic to my father was essentially, “Frederick has 3 boats.” Solid, but I also maintain them, which is a lot of work if you are familiar with boats and saltwater.
So, she immediately gets a nice Zodiak. 12 or 15 feet long. Magic Tilt trailer. 15hp Yamaha 4-stroke. The first time down to the Cape, she decides she’s ready to use it, at which point my father instructs me to arm and deploy the vessel. I attempt to reason with him that the Zodiak is not my ward, nor is its operation my responsibility, and that I had specifically said I wanted no part of it; none of which went well. So I carry the 15hp 4-stroke (which weights about 200lbs) down to the shore, drag the Zodiak down there, put it all together, and send my sister on her merry way. She doesn’t know how to crank the thing, doesn’t know how to navigate a tiller-drive, and doesn’t know that “choke” is also a noun. Being a girl, she also has no idea how to back a trailer (not that there are any ramps on the Gulf side anyway, but she can’t even get it out of the driveway).
The Zodiak has been used about 3 times in 5 years. I hate it because it’s the red-headed stepchild of my tiny armada and I have to care for it, so I nicknamed it the HMS Dingleberry. The Zodiak would be perfect for running shark baits offshore at night though.
Me: I think I like your sister based solely on the fact that she’s not afraid to absolutely raise cain with you and your dad. That is HILARIOUS. I say we appropriate the HMS Dingleberry for our shark purposes. I wonder if that would be a suitable hooch boat?
Fred: Fine. We can commandeer the HMS Poopcrumble, but I’m not trailering it. It can be used for anything that you would use an inner-tube for (it will float down the hooch but you can’t stand up in it and it doesn’t have any seats).
Me: Ok. Transportation is taken care of. Does anyone know what you’re supposed to do with a 10 foot long live shark on the beach? Can you legally pop him in the head with a .22? How in the world do you “RELEASE” a shark in the surf??? I mean, if you think I'm going swimming with a live TigerShark to get him safely back out to sea; you're going to have to give me some really good pointers on waterwalking my fat butt back out of there. Anything with the natural equivalent to a running chainsaw in his mouth in my immediate vicinity makes me very uncomfortable.
Judson: You just have to drag them by their tail until you get them in deep enough water at which point you spin them around. Usually they will swim off slowly and are too tired to mess with you.
Fred: "USUALLY?"
Hank: Your average serious sharksman is probably a little more sober than I imagine the dream team will be at 2am standing on the beach at the Cape. I’ll supervise (liquor drink in hand), Jimmy: you distract him, Fred and Judson: you grab the live shark by the tail and take it from there.
Fred: To me that plan screams "Double Amputee."
Me: Ok, no. I vote Judson handle the sharks. Should he become incapacitated through the endeavor we will build bookshelves etc. for his beautiful wife, Janet, until the child is old enough to build its own bookshelves, paint, etc.
CAN you shoot these sharks in the head and cut ‘em up? I like that plan better than the "swimming with angry sharks in the dark while inebriated" plan that has been submitted. Mako is supposed to be excellent meat, and you know I like shooting things. It's like the perfect meld of hunting and fishing.
Fred: Seconded. Why not throw a small caliber pistol in with 10’ sharks, an inflatable bathtub, Busch, and pitch dark? Seems like a win-win to me.
Me: Seconded. We'll also need duct tape, 2 flashlights, no batteries, ice, koozies, and some chairs.
Judson: I release all of my sharks b/c I don’t want to have to dispose of them. I can’t leave a rotting shark on the beach in front of my dad’s house b/c all the locals know that I shark fish the area. I have no problems walking in the water to throw a tail rope around a shark, but usually I have trouble finding help to assist in the release.
Hank: Let us pause. I want to compare this to a situation that I was involved in last year. Fred and I drank about two cases of beer over the course of a morning and after catching a big snook and having no luck on the reds in the keys, we found a mangrove snapper hole. On one cast around the hole, I hooked up a trophy 13” needlefish. Being highly intoxicated and highly amused that I had just caught the first needlefish of my life, I picked my rod tip up and grabbed him about halfway down his back. He turned around and bit the shit out of my arm; leaving a trail of tiny puncture wounds. This made Fred laugh so hard that he fell in the bottom of the boat. I walked away with only my pride harmed.
This situation I have just described potentially mirrors our plan for shark fishing with a few “minor” differences. Namely: I had caught a 13” fish on a 19’ fiberglass boat and when I grabbed him, he bit my arm. NOW we're talking about innertubes, 10’+ fish (with a comparable increase in the size of the teeth), and equally excessive amounts of Busch Light. This is going to be awesome…
Me: Well, all I know is I’ll be standing directly behind whoever is furthest from the shark's mouth when he comes sliding up out of the surf, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to be involved in this sort of situation without emptying a firearm of some kind.
Hank: When you say "a firearm of some kind," I can’t help but feel like anything smaller than a .45 might just piss him off. Personally, I’m going to throw empty beer cans at him while Fred hits him in the back with the hand gaff.
Me: You know I definitely won’t be throwing FULL beercans at him, that’s for sure. Is there a police code for "public drunken cavorting with a live mako shark?"; because expect to see some cavorting if something big comes out of the surf.
Fred: If we land a 20’ hammerhead, I will not be getting involved in releasing him; I will be involved in shooting him. That does not look like the sort of creature that I want to “grab by the tail and drag.” That looks like the sort of creature that could kill, or worse, maim me.
Hank: It certainly looks to have a different feel from catching redfish on topwater (which I think is about the most exciting fishing you can do). I’ve had redfish get my finger in their crab crunchers when I am holding him by the gills which kinda hurts a little. Stakes are a little higher here. I am excited. I want to catch a big hammerhead, Jimmy wants to catch a mako, Fred wants a bull shark, so Judson you can catch the big tiger. Better get on the pattern.
Fred: I have an addition to the list of required “gear” for this: 1 full sized oxygen dive tank. If we’re going to have a video of this “perfect storm”, if you will, I’d like to throw my hat into the “Recreate the Last Scene of Jaws” pool.
Hank: Fred, if you will tiptoe over and jam the oxygen tank in its mouth, I’ll shoot it.
Me: Can we eat these things? I hear Mako is tasty.
Judson: I release everything I catch. Tripeltail, reds, trout, etc.
Hank: You are out of your mind not to keep those fish. what are you?? A vegetarian?!?!?
Judson: I just don't fool with it much.
Me: Hank and Fred, where are y’all going for Cinco de Drunko tonight? My guess is Judson is going somewhere that involves a 12 pack of Budweiser, a hammer, some nails, paint, and instructions for assembling a child’s bookshelf.
Hank: Jimmy, why don't you go stake us out a table at a Mexican place nearby. We'll be there in a few hours.
Fred: Seconded.
Hank: So we are in agreement that Jimmy should go stake out an outside table at Taxco. Fred you can go grab some drinks with work people and we will meet at Taxco around 6:30; hopefully to find Jimmy heavily intoxicated at a corner table by himself. From there, we can drop my car and Jimmy’s car off at my house since it’s a hop, skip, and a jump, and Fred will drive his car back to his house if he wants to. We can walk to five paces from Fred’s.
This plan is perfect for me because:
a) I don’t really have to drive anywhere.
b) my car stays at my house
This plan is perfect for Jimmy because:
a) getting a head start is fun.
b) he is unemployed, so who cares where his car ends up tomorrow?
This plan is perfect for Fred because:
a) Taxco is on the way from the office home.
b) He knows that otherwise he will not eat dinner (unless limes from training wheel tequila shots is considered nourishment)
This plan is perfect for Judson because:
He is not involved and therefore cannot possibly get in any trouble for it.
Objections?
Me: I'll try to meet up with y'all later. I may go float the 'hooch with David. The *Local Fishing Shop* says the water is muddy though. I need a quick nap first.
Fred: Regarding that particular shop - never in all my travels and all the outdoorsmen I have met have I encountered such a collection of bozos with a more undeserved sense of self worth. Every employee over there that I have ever met makes me want to break something. They are full of theory, but devoid of practical application. They are weekend warriors for stocker trout. Worst of all, they are fly snobs. They probably drive X-Terra’s with "Sage" and "G-Loomis" stickers on them. They enjoy grandstanding to the most inexperienced, impressionable “fisherman” in the world, hometown wanna-be’s. If I had enough money, I would buy it, bulldoze it to the ground, pee on the rubble, then build a store that only sold shark fishing, bow-fishing, and gator hunting gear on the ruins. My corporate logo would be Calvin urinating on a dead osprey.
Me: Well...I like the logo idea.
Hank: Sitting in the audit room, I just had the epiphany that Jimmy had gel in his hair last night. Just wanted to remind Fred of that fact and tell Judson about it in order to open Jimmy up to ridicule. We’ll know times are hard and Jimmy has run out of money when he can no longer afford product for his hair.
Me: I deny these allegations.
Judson: Were there any designer jeans worn by the trio last night?
Hank: YES. Sometimes I feel like the only guy who doesn’t give a crap anymore. I wish Jimmy or Fred had gotten married and had a kid so Judson could come out with us in wranglers (product-free).
Me: I had on normal GAP jeans - not "designer" jeans, thank you. I can't help but recall someone sporting a collared white shirt with a little boat on it last night.
Judson: not to change the subject, but next weekend is Mother's Day. I was thinking I might take Janet to the Indian Festival PowWow in Canton for her first Mother's Day.
Hank: You must have written the book on woman-pleasing.
Judson: I'm trying to set expectations low.
Hank: How about the Renaissance Fair?
Judson: I like it. Funnel cakes, turkey legs, and big steins of grog. You can't beat that!
Hank: Definitely beats a tennis bracelet and flowers.
Hank: See you guys Friday for Fred's birthday.
And so it goes.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Huck Finn Had Nothing On Us
Just as I swung into the crowded pickup/dropoff south terminal area at Hartsfield International Airport to pick up Uncle Buster and Jeanne; my phone rang.
"Hello"
"YEAH. Where you at?"
"I'm almost there"
"We're all the way at the end."
"Click"
After 15 minutes of easing my truck through the crowded lines, I finally spotted them. Buster was sitting as far from any other humans as the hustle-and-bustle of Harsfield would allow, and Jeanne was by his side. I hadn't even come to a complete stop and he was in the truck:
"Get me out of here" he said.
And away we went.
When I pulled up to the front door at Pea Ridge Plantation I'm not sure Buster even went inside; he went straight to the tractor and started riding. I heard the low rumble of the big John Deere for the next 3 hours. Finally, just at dusk, it subsided into a roaring harmony with the spring buzz of cicadas, the chorus of frogs, and the gentle "plooop" of fish shrugging off the lazy mantle of a hot spring day; turning back to the business of hunt-and-catch for table fare.
Finally, as the last glowing purple of a pollen-hazed sunset faded across the lake; I spied a pair of lights bobbing down the bridge road and a gravelly voice floated across the lake:
Catching any?
The answer was, as always "not many", but I didn't care.
Well. Lets go to Lake Juliette tomorrow afternoon then.
I was game, of course.
Juliette requires the use of a motor no bigger than 25 horsepower; an attempt, I think, to keep the lake relatively pristine and free of the usual cross-section of southern humanity and its penchance for "overdoing it." Given the massive powerplant belching coal-fired smoke into the air at the North end, I'm not sure why they bothered with the restriction. However, Buster happened to have such a boat handy, though in some state of disrepair, so we spent an hour or so the next morning getting the little aluminum jonboat cranked and tackle stowed before heading to the lake.
The trip was miraculously uneventful (no tag, no trailer pin, questionable trailer lights, ungreased hubs), and we were underway on the water in no time at all. After 15 minutes at top speed, and quite a long way from the dock, the motor began making a very concerning VVVROOOOMMMM sound at intervals. A look of perplexed consternation crossed Buster's face; followed by a series of derogatory remarks concerning boats in general, jonboats specifically, the laborforce, general inability of anyone (nonspecific) to follow instructions, and Mercury outboard motors. I sat very still at the front of the boat while he gently swore under his breath and fiddled with some switches at the rear, then we were underway yet again at a slightly reduced pace.
Shortly afterwards we slowed to a stop and began fishing; the soft "whiizzzz" and "splash" of the baits keeping time, somehow, with the natural order of sound on the water. After a short few minutes of fishing my attempts to untangle myself from several yards of stray line was violently interrupted by a howl of fury from the rear of the boat and the sudden exclamation from the captain: "WE ARE TAKING ON WATER."
Now, in boat lingo I understood that to mean that we were, in short, "sinking." Sure enough, a quick glance to the rear confirmed that Buster, and my jar of pickled okra, were both beginning to resemble bath toys at the rear of the boat. Several inches of water had crept in through a faulty drain plug of some kind. The lack of profanity (suggesting dangerously intense concentration) and the rapid rocking of the boat, coupled with the frantic activity taking place at the rear, confirmed my worst fears. We were, in fact, headed for a long swim.
To my surprise, Buster cranked the motor up, reached down, and SNATCHED the entire plug out of the bottom. "We'll just outrun it" he grinned in response to my unintelligible expression of horror. His plan was simple: run the boat wide-open allowing the rushing water below, and the upward tilt of the boat, to drain the water inside.
It worked, and we continued performing his genius quick-save tactic periodically during the rest of the afternoon. The only real problem I noticed with his method was this: the captain would periodically disappear under the motor to struggle with the drain plug for long periods of time while running at a full-clip towards the middle of the lake; our tiny boat hurtling headlong, hither-and-yon, as the tiny craft willed. Since he didn't seem particularly concerned, I just put on a 1960's vintage life jacket and faced backwards. I figured if I was going to die in a jon-boat collision I really didn't want to see it coming.
Disaster averted - we resumed fishing, then took off again for the northern reaches of the lake. A few minutes had gone by and I had only just begun to un-pucker from the first sinking incident, when the boat began to slow once again. I sat very still, looking forward, waiting on the next series of clankings and swearings from the rear of the boat, but none came. I turned around, slowly, to find Buster looking at me with a huge grin on his face: "BabyJimmy, we're on an ADVENTURE!" he crowed.
And really, that's all that you need.
"Hello"
"YEAH. Where you at?"
"I'm almost there"
"We're all the way at the end."
"Click"
After 15 minutes of easing my truck through the crowded lines, I finally spotted them. Buster was sitting as far from any other humans as the hustle-and-bustle of Harsfield would allow, and Jeanne was by his side. I hadn't even come to a complete stop and he was in the truck:
"Get me out of here" he said.
And away we went.
When I pulled up to the front door at Pea Ridge Plantation I'm not sure Buster even went inside; he went straight to the tractor and started riding. I heard the low rumble of the big John Deere for the next 3 hours. Finally, just at dusk, it subsided into a roaring harmony with the spring buzz of cicadas, the chorus of frogs, and the gentle "plooop" of fish shrugging off the lazy mantle of a hot spring day; turning back to the business of hunt-and-catch for table fare.
Finally, as the last glowing purple of a pollen-hazed sunset faded across the lake; I spied a pair of lights bobbing down the bridge road and a gravelly voice floated across the lake:
Catching any?
The answer was, as always "not many", but I didn't care.
Well. Lets go to Lake Juliette tomorrow afternoon then.
I was game, of course.
Juliette requires the use of a motor no bigger than 25 horsepower; an attempt, I think, to keep the lake relatively pristine and free of the usual cross-section of southern humanity and its penchance for "overdoing it." Given the massive powerplant belching coal-fired smoke into the air at the North end, I'm not sure why they bothered with the restriction. However, Buster happened to have such a boat handy, though in some state of disrepair, so we spent an hour or so the next morning getting the little aluminum jonboat cranked and tackle stowed before heading to the lake.
The trip was miraculously uneventful (no tag, no trailer pin, questionable trailer lights, ungreased hubs), and we were underway on the water in no time at all. After 15 minutes at top speed, and quite a long way from the dock, the motor began making a very concerning VVVROOOOMMMM sound at intervals. A look of perplexed consternation crossed Buster's face; followed by a series of derogatory remarks concerning boats in general, jonboats specifically, the laborforce, general inability of anyone (nonspecific) to follow instructions, and Mercury outboard motors. I sat very still at the front of the boat while he gently swore under his breath and fiddled with some switches at the rear, then we were underway yet again at a slightly reduced pace.
Shortly afterwards we slowed to a stop and began fishing; the soft "whiizzzz" and "splash" of the baits keeping time, somehow, with the natural order of sound on the water. After a short few minutes of fishing my attempts to untangle myself from several yards of stray line was violently interrupted by a howl of fury from the rear of the boat and the sudden exclamation from the captain: "WE ARE TAKING ON WATER."
Now, in boat lingo I understood that to mean that we were, in short, "sinking." Sure enough, a quick glance to the rear confirmed that Buster, and my jar of pickled okra, were both beginning to resemble bath toys at the rear of the boat. Several inches of water had crept in through a faulty drain plug of some kind. The lack of profanity (suggesting dangerously intense concentration) and the rapid rocking of the boat, coupled with the frantic activity taking place at the rear, confirmed my worst fears. We were, in fact, headed for a long swim.
To my surprise, Buster cranked the motor up, reached down, and SNATCHED the entire plug out of the bottom. "We'll just outrun it" he grinned in response to my unintelligible expression of horror. His plan was simple: run the boat wide-open allowing the rushing water below, and the upward tilt of the boat, to drain the water inside.
It worked, and we continued performing his genius quick-save tactic periodically during the rest of the afternoon. The only real problem I noticed with his method was this: the captain would periodically disappear under the motor to struggle with the drain plug for long periods of time while running at a full-clip towards the middle of the lake; our tiny boat hurtling headlong, hither-and-yon, as the tiny craft willed. Since he didn't seem particularly concerned, I just put on a 1960's vintage life jacket and faced backwards. I figured if I was going to die in a jon-boat collision I really didn't want to see it coming.
Disaster averted - we resumed fishing, then took off again for the northern reaches of the lake. A few minutes had gone by and I had only just begun to un-pucker from the first sinking incident, when the boat began to slow once again. I sat very still, looking forward, waiting on the next series of clankings and swearings from the rear of the boat, but none came. I turned around, slowly, to find Buster looking at me with a huge grin on his face: "BabyJimmy, we're on an ADVENTURE!" he crowed.
And really, that's all that you need.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
The Golden Egg in Four-Part Harmony
"You mean you're going to Macon to watch the little grandchildren hunt for Easter Eggs, right?" she said, quizzically.
"No. I mean - right. I mean - I'm going to Macon for The Great Golden Egg Hunt of 2009." I responded.
Not to be put off by a cleverly-turned phrase, she continued: "But you're not actually HUNTING for Easter Eggs, right? Because thats for small children."
"Mmpph, eh...Ahem." I responded, wittily, with an inscrutable look and a quick jerk of the steering wheel intended to distract any occupants with the possibility of sudden impact - a mild form of the "Impending Collision Scare" (see previous post so-titled).
"AHH, ARGH!" she responded, gripping the doorhandle. "What was that?" she gurgled through a half-swallowed piece of chewing gum.
"Sorry. I thought I saw The Golden Egg." I said.
"Thats not funny." She said.
"I've heard THAT before." Said I.
"No, seriously. I almost choked." She responded, undaunted by my witticisms.
"Sorry about that. The truck just sort of jerked a bit. Alignment. You know."
"Well, explain this Great Golden Egg Hunt of 2009, then. I don't understand. You're almost 30 years old. Isn't it time to turn that over to the young grandchildren? Like, TWENTY YEARS AGO?? I'm worried about you. You're regressing"
In true female fashion she had encapsulated a whole host of accusations and cast various aspersions on my character in one long, run-on sentence; an onslaught in the face of which I was powerless to resist.
So, her point was: I'm immature. Stop the presses. I know. Does that mean I can't hunt for Easter Eggs like all the other immature people in the world? NO. Does it matter that their maturity is based on age and experience? NOT TO ME. I WANT THAT GOLDEN EGG AND NO PINK-CHEEKED ANKLE BITER IS GOING TO BEAT ME TO IT WHILST I STILL DRAW BREATH.
Fortunately, I did indeed claim the prize this year: a small golden egg hidden cleverly in the base of an old, forgotten, electric snowman; remnants of Christmas past meeting Easter present in a beautiful, Protestant, melody. A bright light shone down on me, illuminating the Golden Prize, I heard the flutter of doves' wings, and a faint refrain floated down from the heavens. I couldn't say exactly, but it sounded as if the angel choir was softly singing "We Are The Champions" in 4 part harmony....All for ME.
Like most perfect moments in life, it was not to last. Cousin Daniel tripped gaily by, interrupting my holy reverie and holding aloft a much lesser prize. Not seeing me there in the shadow of the house; I extended a foot.....and sent him flying headlong into the bushes.
How's THAT for immature, eh lady!!?!?
Naturally, there was a victory interview:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5dXs5_u4XXo
"No. I mean - right. I mean - I'm going to Macon for The Great Golden Egg Hunt of 2009." I responded.
Not to be put off by a cleverly-turned phrase, she continued: "But you're not actually HUNTING for Easter Eggs, right? Because thats for small children."
"Mmpph, eh...Ahem." I responded, wittily, with an inscrutable look and a quick jerk of the steering wheel intended to distract any occupants with the possibility of sudden impact - a mild form of the "Impending Collision Scare" (see previous post so-titled).
"AHH, ARGH!" she responded, gripping the doorhandle. "What was that?" she gurgled through a half-swallowed piece of chewing gum.
"Sorry. I thought I saw The Golden Egg." I said.
"Thats not funny." She said.
"I've heard THAT before." Said I.
"No, seriously. I almost choked." She responded, undaunted by my witticisms.
"Sorry about that. The truck just sort of jerked a bit. Alignment. You know."
"Well, explain this Great Golden Egg Hunt of 2009, then. I don't understand. You're almost 30 years old. Isn't it time to turn that over to the young grandchildren? Like, TWENTY YEARS AGO?? I'm worried about you. You're regressing"
In true female fashion she had encapsulated a whole host of accusations and cast various aspersions on my character in one long, run-on sentence; an onslaught in the face of which I was powerless to resist.
So, her point was: I'm immature. Stop the presses. I know. Does that mean I can't hunt for Easter Eggs like all the other immature people in the world? NO. Does it matter that their maturity is based on age and experience? NOT TO ME. I WANT THAT GOLDEN EGG AND NO PINK-CHEEKED ANKLE BITER IS GOING TO BEAT ME TO IT WHILST I STILL DRAW BREATH.
Fortunately, I did indeed claim the prize this year: a small golden egg hidden cleverly in the base of an old, forgotten, electric snowman; remnants of Christmas past meeting Easter present in a beautiful, Protestant, melody. A bright light shone down on me, illuminating the Golden Prize, I heard the flutter of doves' wings, and a faint refrain floated down from the heavens. I couldn't say exactly, but it sounded as if the angel choir was softly singing "We Are The Champions" in 4 part harmony....All for ME.
Like most perfect moments in life, it was not to last. Cousin Daniel tripped gaily by, interrupting my holy reverie and holding aloft a much lesser prize. Not seeing me there in the shadow of the house; I extended a foot.....and sent him flying headlong into the bushes.
How's THAT for immature, eh lady!!?!?
Naturally, there was a victory interview:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5dXs5_u4XXo
North to Lanier
As you may have guessed by my protracted absence; turkey season and bass fishing are both in full swing at the moment. In short: I've been busy. Not "successful" so much, but definitely "busy."
Several weeks ago my good friend, Hank, called to suggest we take "Spring Break" and spend it turkey hunting each morning in the mountains, and fishing for spotted bass on Lanier in the afternoons. Naturally, I was game.
After the requisite 50 or so phone calls, and at least that many emails discussing timing, baits, weaponry, and food and beverage requirements; we loaded up and headed north to Lanier. Two men that are boys, one black dog (answering to both "Buddy" and "Allie" for some reason), two shotguns, 40 shells for same, two turkey vests, 10 fishing rods, minimal clothing, 6 decoys, and untold quantities of baits, calls, cheap beer, electronics, and lunchmeats found their way into the house and, friends, we were home for the week.
By the time I got into the cabin Hank had dug up some classic James Taylor vinyl from his Dad's extensive record collection. James was crackling loudly across the north end of the lake (did you know Stevie Nicks used to be a perfect "10"?), I heard a poptop pop, and we were officially Spring Breakin'.
The weather caught us off our game to start with, and the turkeys didn't cooperate as well as we might have hoped, but we had a ball. It turns out - the mountains aren't nearly as easy to hunt as you might think. At one point, standing on a beautiful ridgetop with the sun just peeking up over the trees I suggested the fatal plan, "lets just drop down off this ridge into the creek bottom and work our way back to the truck."
Oversimplifications are my recent specialty.
It turns out - the creek bottoms are essentially impassable, and there is no "just dropping down." Everything turns into a ridge somehow, then you generally end up sliding at least 100 yards to a stop, hopelessly entangled in the thick bank of mountain laurels that guard each stream. 3hrs, and untold slides later, a sweaty Hank Farmer looked over at me from our precarious positions sprawled facedown in the dirt during an attempted crawl up an 80 degree grade, and said "We started out hunting, but now I think we're just crawling around in the woods."
Well put Hank Farmer.
Several weeks ago my good friend, Hank, called to suggest we take "Spring Break" and spend it turkey hunting each morning in the mountains, and fishing for spotted bass on Lanier in the afternoons. Naturally, I was game.
After the requisite 50 or so phone calls, and at least that many emails discussing timing, baits, weaponry, and food and beverage requirements; we loaded up and headed north to Lanier. Two men that are boys, one black dog (answering to both "Buddy" and "Allie" for some reason), two shotguns, 40 shells for same, two turkey vests, 10 fishing rods, minimal clothing, 6 decoys, and untold quantities of baits, calls, cheap beer, electronics, and lunchmeats found their way into the house and, friends, we were home for the week.
By the time I got into the cabin Hank had dug up some classic James Taylor vinyl from his Dad's extensive record collection. James was crackling loudly across the north end of the lake (did you know Stevie Nicks used to be a perfect "10"?), I heard a poptop pop, and we were officially Spring Breakin'.
The weather caught us off our game to start with, and the turkeys didn't cooperate as well as we might have hoped, but we had a ball. It turns out - the mountains aren't nearly as easy to hunt as you might think. At one point, standing on a beautiful ridgetop with the sun just peeking up over the trees I suggested the fatal plan, "lets just drop down off this ridge into the creek bottom and work our way back to the truck."
Oversimplifications are my recent specialty.
It turns out - the creek bottoms are essentially impassable, and there is no "just dropping down." Everything turns into a ridge somehow, then you generally end up sliding at least 100 yards to a stop, hopelessly entangled in the thick bank of mountain laurels that guard each stream. 3hrs, and untold slides later, a sweaty Hank Farmer looked over at me from our precarious positions sprawled facedown in the dirt during an attempted crawl up an 80 degree grade, and said "We started out hunting, but now I think we're just crawling around in the woods."
Well put Hank Farmer.
Fishing at 70mph
I came home from Christmas this year and found a printed form on my bed that said “Skeeter Eliminator Series” and a note from my best friend, cousin, and roommate, Seth “BassMonster” Slocumb, indicating that instead of our ordinary exchange of Christmas hunting paraphernalia; he had entered me in the Skeeter Eliminator Series tournament on Sinclair. As we’re both poor in the boat department, we were to go “no-boat.”
In due course our registration materials came in the mail, followed immediately by several expensive trips to Bass Pro Shops, and a general sprinkling of fishing equipment in inappropriate places throughout the house. I didn’t notice quite how overboard we’d gone until my girlfriend (at the time) hopped in my truck, hollered “HEY! OUCH!” loud enough to override the Robert Earl Keen sounds coming through the stereo, and gingerly removed a chartreuse crankbait from her nether regions. At that point I realized “I think we’re good in the lure department.”
She’s long gone, but I’ve still got that crankbait.
I received a friendly call from Mike Millsaps, my boat-owning partner a few days before the tournament and we arranged to pre-fish beforehand. We fished for an afternoon and I realized – “I like this Millsaps guy.” He knew what he was doing and used his equipment like a surgeon, hitting his spots fast and with precision. We ran around the lake, talked fishing a bit and decided on a productive pattern; then arranged to meet at Little River Park before blastoff
The morning of the tournament dawned at the usual time but, due to the pea-soup fog engulfing the lake; we never saw it. Blastoff was delayed an hour or so – a good thing for me since it was 30 degrees on the water and I had forgotten my gloves, but by the time we were all waiting to start it was still freezing cold and the fog had only just begun to lift. Once on the water, Mike looked at me and said “Wwwaayyuull, holler at me when they call out number 15” then, to my surprise, he reached behind him, lifted a motorcycle helmet out of his rod locker, and slid it down over his head – kicking the faceguard shut with a snap of his neck.
Not being terribly familiar with fast-boat tournament fishing, I was a bit taken aback, but it was so cold that I just sat down on the padded seat of his Ranger Z19 and stuffed my hands under my knees to stay warm. Mike grinned through his rapidly-fogging lenses and said “hey there fella’ – you better haaawwlld awwn!” then, they called our number.
Friends, the boat ahead of us disappeared into the fog about 200 yards off our bow and when Mike laid the hammer down on that Evinrude Etec 225 all I could think was “I am going to die without ever owning my own boat.” I looked over at Mike, tears streaming out of my eyes, hands numb, and realized: “the fog is so thick, he’s just following the other boat’s bubble trail.” The speedometer said 70mph, my brain said 200mph, and my mouth WOULD have said something too, but the excessive drool whipping out behind the boat in a slobbertrail befitting a Great Dane prevented any timely remarks.
We hit the first wake and my entire body flew up out of the boat, hovered for a second, then came back down sprawled out on the bilge drain. Grinning, Mike slowed in order that I might collect myself, and said “Tawwldd you to hawwld awwn to that there handle little fella’!”
Held on I did, for dear life, and we scalded the topwater of the mud-brown reservoir for another ten minutes to reach our destination.
It was tough on the lake that day and the fish weren’t biting like we had hoped, but we had a ball. We talked about strategy, and baits (most of mine were wrong); Mike showed me some great tips for finesse fishing and rigging (I broke off frequently); we played with rods tried new tackle; we got hung up, and fell over, and stuck the trolling motor on hidden structure. We even caught a fish or two here and there – Mike more than I, but still - it was a huge success.
In due course our registration materials came in the mail, followed immediately by several expensive trips to Bass Pro Shops, and a general sprinkling of fishing equipment in inappropriate places throughout the house. I didn’t notice quite how overboard we’d gone until my girlfriend (at the time) hopped in my truck, hollered “HEY! OUCH!” loud enough to override the Robert Earl Keen sounds coming through the stereo, and gingerly removed a chartreuse crankbait from her nether regions. At that point I realized “I think we’re good in the lure department.”
She’s long gone, but I’ve still got that crankbait.
I received a friendly call from Mike Millsaps, my boat-owning partner a few days before the tournament and we arranged to pre-fish beforehand. We fished for an afternoon and I realized – “I like this Millsaps guy.” He knew what he was doing and used his equipment like a surgeon, hitting his spots fast and with precision. We ran around the lake, talked fishing a bit and decided on a productive pattern; then arranged to meet at Little River Park before blastoff
The morning of the tournament dawned at the usual time but, due to the pea-soup fog engulfing the lake; we never saw it. Blastoff was delayed an hour or so – a good thing for me since it was 30 degrees on the water and I had forgotten my gloves, but by the time we were all waiting to start it was still freezing cold and the fog had only just begun to lift. Once on the water, Mike looked at me and said “Wwwaayyuull, holler at me when they call out number 15” then, to my surprise, he reached behind him, lifted a motorcycle helmet out of his rod locker, and slid it down over his head – kicking the faceguard shut with a snap of his neck.
Not being terribly familiar with fast-boat tournament fishing, I was a bit taken aback, but it was so cold that I just sat down on the padded seat of his Ranger Z19 and stuffed my hands under my knees to stay warm. Mike grinned through his rapidly-fogging lenses and said “hey there fella’ – you better haaawwlld awwn!” then, they called our number.
Friends, the boat ahead of us disappeared into the fog about 200 yards off our bow and when Mike laid the hammer down on that Evinrude Etec 225 all I could think was “I am going to die without ever owning my own boat.” I looked over at Mike, tears streaming out of my eyes, hands numb, and realized: “the fog is so thick, he’s just following the other boat’s bubble trail.” The speedometer said 70mph, my brain said 200mph, and my mouth WOULD have said something too, but the excessive drool whipping out behind the boat in a slobbertrail befitting a Great Dane prevented any timely remarks.
We hit the first wake and my entire body flew up out of the boat, hovered for a second, then came back down sprawled out on the bilge drain. Grinning, Mike slowed in order that I might collect myself, and said “Tawwldd you to hawwld awwn to that there handle little fella’!”
Held on I did, for dear life, and we scalded the topwater of the mud-brown reservoir for another ten minutes to reach our destination.
It was tough on the lake that day and the fish weren’t biting like we had hoped, but we had a ball. We talked about strategy, and baits (most of mine were wrong); Mike showed me some great tips for finesse fishing and rigging (I broke off frequently); we played with rods tried new tackle; we got hung up, and fell over, and stuck the trolling motor on hidden structure. We even caught a fish or two here and there – Mike more than I, but still - it was a huge success.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Merry Christmas, Bruce
I was luxuriating in bed this morning when my phone rang. I looked down at the phone and, not recognizing the number, I stuffed it under a pillow.
Ordinarily, I tend to screen phone calls from people I KNOW for various reasons (nothing sinister) but I always (and I do mean ALWAYS) answer numbers I don’t know because; what if its publisher’s clearinghouse calling to confirm that finally, FINALLY “Jlaay Ewwing” (me) is a real finalist? Maybe it’s someone calling me with their last breath to tell me a secret destined to make me wealthy! What if it’s an ex-girlfriend calling with groundbreaking news, or a secret crush finally revealing herself?
What if its CINDY CRAWFORD AND SHE WANTS TO MEET AND DISCUSS MY BLOG AND OUR FUTURE TOGETHER?
When it’s an unknown number, ESPECIALLY an unknown area code (oh glory!) – anything can happen. If it’s Dad calling at 6:30 on a monday chances are good he has one question - “want to eat out or scrounge for leftovers?” He’s not calling to let me know that Cindy Crawford called and wants me to call her back – I’m pretty sure of that. He claims that occasionally, but let’s face it – it’s never true; so I don’t get excited about it anymore.
THIS particular morning it was my friendly banker, Jeff, calling; so I called him back. I like Jeff, generally, and we normally chat for a second but today he just said “Hey man did you write 4 checks totalling $12,000 to a guy named Bruce?”
“Yea, it was for three mules and some really awkward yoga instruction” I said.
…..“Really?” He said.
“NO OF COURSE NOT, JEFF! WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!?!”
The long and short of it is simply this: I just gave some guy named Bruce $12,000 and it’s not even Christmas.
Ordinarily, I tend to screen phone calls from people I KNOW for various reasons (nothing sinister) but I always (and I do mean ALWAYS) answer numbers I don’t know because; what if its publisher’s clearinghouse calling to confirm that finally, FINALLY “Jlaay Ewwing” (me) is a real finalist? Maybe it’s someone calling me with their last breath to tell me a secret destined to make me wealthy! What if it’s an ex-girlfriend calling with groundbreaking news, or a secret crush finally revealing herself?
What if its CINDY CRAWFORD AND SHE WANTS TO MEET AND DISCUSS MY BLOG AND OUR FUTURE TOGETHER?
When it’s an unknown number, ESPECIALLY an unknown area code (oh glory!) – anything can happen. If it’s Dad calling at 6:30 on a monday chances are good he has one question - “want to eat out or scrounge for leftovers?” He’s not calling to let me know that Cindy Crawford called and wants me to call her back – I’m pretty sure of that. He claims that occasionally, but let’s face it – it’s never true; so I don’t get excited about it anymore.
THIS particular morning it was my friendly banker, Jeff, calling; so I called him back. I like Jeff, generally, and we normally chat for a second but today he just said “Hey man did you write 4 checks totalling $12,000 to a guy named Bruce?”
“Yea, it was for three mules and some really awkward yoga instruction” I said.
…..“Really?” He said.
“NO OF COURSE NOT, JEFF! WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!?!”
The long and short of it is simply this: I just gave some guy named Bruce $12,000 and it’s not even Christmas.
Friday, February 13, 2009
The BoxerBrief Arson Squad
Ask someone what they think is man’s greatest, most groundbreaking, important invention and you tend to get run of the mill answers like "the wheel", "domesticated animals", "flight", "space travel", "irrigation systems," "the cotton gin", "electricity", "the peanut", and, occasionally, “the spork.” I tend to agree with the latter – why bother with a spoon and a fork, when you can have both in one hand? But lets face it - Carver didn't invent the peanut - he just figured out what to do with it, ok?
Continue asking for awhile and often someone will come across your bows with “fire!” Not bad, I think, despite the obvious truth that man didn’t actually CREATE fire, it’s still a good point – where would we be without it? Pick a product and work it backwards in your mind to its raw materials, then think about the process required to create it and, ultimately, fire is most likely going to play a part in there somewhere; except in beef jerky (man’s other most important invention) - no need for fire there – just the sun. Oops, wait – the sun is made of fire! Got myself stuck in a thought loop there for a second.
Hate it or love it, raw, hot, fire is a part of your life. Open up your heater tonight - what do you see?
Fire.
What makes your car run? Gasoline? Nope. Not exactly. Fire.
I don’t know about you – but I’ve had a long and fruitful relationship with open flame. Campfires, fireplace fires, bonfire, lighters, fireworks, firearms - it’s a pyromaniac’s world out there and I bleed kerosene. Men are firebugs - it’s like a natural law. I think that’s why we like to have bonfires in the firepit at the Duderanch: they’re cheerful, tend to spur on great conversation, and they keep you warm. Plus, who doesn’t love burning aluminum cans? I know I do.
In fact, we had a great fire here on Thursday night. We told manly stories, had a few drinks, then called it a night. I put the grate over the pit about 11pm to avoid errant sparks and went to bed; smoke-cured and satisfied. This afternoon when I returned home from my last round of interviews I dumped the ashes and headed in the house to change. Ragone was loitering around on the couch and Austin was enjoying a light afternoon nap in his boxers.
I changed out of my suit and hung around my room for awhile in my boxers, then wandered in the den to check on Ragone. I felt a bit thirsty so I bypassed the couch and went straight to the fridge.
When I walked past the kitchen window I couldn’t help but notice that my entire backyard was engulfed in 10-foot-high orange flames.
Naturally my first instinct was to scream like a woman, which I did. This brought Ragone into the kitchen at a clip. He want straight past me through the screen door and began hopping up and down in the back yard spewing forth an ingenious litany of profanity so profound as to defy description. I swear to you the fire receded a bit in the face of his apopleptic fury.
I joined him for a second, then dove back in the house, woke up Austin with “GET UP THE YARD IS ON FIRE CALL 911” then dove under the kitchen sink for the fire extinguisher.
I couldn't figure out how to get the retaining pin out, so of course – I had to read the instructions. Bear in mind – we have a vintage 1993-yellowstone forest fire absolutely blazing in my backyard at this point and I’m hopping up and down in terror attempting to read fine-print.
I managed to figure it out, pulled the pin, ran out into the fire, and started spraying. Ragone went for the hose. Naturally, it was tied in a double bow, kinked in 14 places, and in the front yard – not the back.
We managed to get it working, but the fire was too hot – so Ragone and Austin started cutting a fire brake around the edges of the rapidly-spreading flames which, by this point, were headed directly for my house – on purpose, I’m sure.
I was engulfed in thick smoke trying to soak down the hottest parts, but over the crackling roar of the flames I clearly heard Ragone shout “f&ckity, f*ck, f@ck, d*mn, f*ck, sh%t, holy sh*t, its hot, oh its so d&mn hot, oh F*ck me, f@ck, d*mn that hose, d*mn you stupid f*cking, f%ckhead hose, horse’s @ss, son-of-a-b*tch leaves, Austin you f*cker give me that f*cking, d*mn rake!!!!!” Which, I have to admit was exactly what I was thinking. Then, mercifully, the first fireman showed up. Then another. After that a lady fireman ran up, looked at me condescendingly, and said into her radio “better bring up the big hose. Randy.”
Randy, who appeared to be about 17 and was apparently in training, trudged up with a gigantic fire hose and immediately began blasting water all over creation. It was at this point that I realized: I’m in my underwear and black dress socks, and my right sock is completely burned off except for the part around my ankle.
That might not sound too bad to you, initially, but let's back up for a second so I can impress upon you the gravity of this situation. Rewind, if you will to approximately 8:00AM this morning. I got up, took a shower and slid on my favorite pair of boxers. I then marched out of my room into the kitchen for a glass of water. Austin met me in the hallway and said "Hey man. nice boxers." I returned a congenial "Thanks! They're my lucky boxers!" - glad that he recognized how special those particular boxers were. He just grinned. Walking back from the kitchen I caught a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror and realized: the crotch of my lucky boxers is entirely gone. I'm wearing a swiss-cheese boxer skirt with holes in all the wrong places. I do not know how this happened, but it wasn't intentional.
My first thought was "let me change my boxers and throw these away. What if I find myself in a situation where someone might see my boxers?!" My second thought was "Nah. Who is going to see these boxers? These things are even MORE comfortable now - I'm going with it."
Perhaps now you understand.
I don’t know what it is about my life, but anytime something really out of the ordinary happens I always end up standing around in the yard in my underwear surrounded by strangers.
By the time it was all over – we were standing around in the mudhole that was my backyard with 9 firemen, one fire chief, two policemen, a paramedic, and two neighbors – all looking at me for an explanation.
I didn’t know what else to do, so: I offered them refreshments. They declined.
The fire itself was pretty memorable, in fact it may have been the single greatest happening of 2009 on River Springs court to-date; but the thing I remember most clearly was Austin K. Lee, who adjusted his white v-neck, leaned over to me and whispered “you know Jimmy, we have way too many stories that start with us all sitting around the house half-naked.”
Viva La Duderanch
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
25 Things About Me! NOT YOU!!! ME!! ME ME ME!! ME!!!
1. I broke the hubcap off my Uncle Buster’s truck in 1986 and blamed it on the hound dog, Barney.
2. My house has a name and everyone who lives in it eventually gets married and moves out…..except me. Which I think means I’m going to have to sell it and buy a new house that likes me better than my roommates. Stupid house!
3. On the way back from the deercamp one day I asked my friend Agador Spartacus (name changed) if he preferred sex or deer hunting. When we pulled in his driveway an hour later he was still working through the pros and cons; then, his wife walked out of the house and we forgot what we were talking about. That’s one of my favorite conversations EVER.
4. I want to go to Africa and hunt big scary angry things with claws and teeth and tusks, but I really don’t want to get eaten. “Eaten by something” is probably my second least favorite way to die – right behind “crushed by something.”
5. I am not afraid to hang big, mounted, too-large-for-the-room animal heads in my house wherever I feel like it and I’m going to keep it up; so get used to the idea.
6. Granddad gave me a cigar when I was 8 to prove the point that tobacco would make you sick and not to mess with it. I smoked it to a nub and asked for another one. Right then Grandma walked in and he got in trouble, then he got mad at ME for smoking a cigar. Hey, did you want me to smoke the cigar or not? Make up your mind.
7. I know my cousin Maggie harbors a long-buried desire to go hunting with the guys, but she refuses to admit it. Come clean, Maggie, and we’ll buy you a rifle.
8. I can hit a chimney swift, flying, with a .22 rifle and so can my cousin Seth; but we bet you can’t.
9. I shot a squirrel in the head (on purpose) with a pellet rifle at 97 yards and I have a witness. Actually, I have two witnesses: Seth, and the neighbor whose birdfeeder the squirrel was sitting on. Only one of the witnesses was impressed.
10. I am always ready to go on an adventure of any kind.
11. Aaron Harris is one of my most trusted confidantes and greatest friends. He snores and gurgles in his sleep like a wounded grizzly bear, but still has the audacity to complain about MY snoring. It’s our only regular area of personal contention.
12. Emily Jones is one of my best friends, ever, in the world, period. Sometimes I have to holler at her, then she hollers at me, then we go out for dinner and fight over the check.
13. I would trade the next 30 years for October 1989, Grandma’s house, and a red ryder bb gun sighted in just the way I like it.
14. If I could get any one thing to put in my yard right now it would an Olympic trampoline. I would set it up behind the house so that when I bounced just high enough my head would pop up over the roofline every so often and people passing by on the street would see me and freak out.
15. I can’t think of anyone I actually “hate” but I can think of a whole bunch of people that would be much better off on an island together…with no electricity…..or telephones…..or clean underwear….If we could wire all the houses and broadcast their antics on the internet – that would be even better.
16. Dairy products make me feel itchy and hot which leads me to believe that yes, I’m still allergic to them.
17. I recently conquered my lifelong fear of sour cream by accidentally biting into a taco that was absolutely slam-full of it….but the conquering nearly killed me.
18. I’ve chosen a life without motorcycles, even though I love them, because I know my limitations: one of them is an inability to NOT go fast on machines that are built to GO FAST. When confronted with temptation I always think “well, I’ll just hop on here and putt around for a second to get a feel for the road” then 20 seconds later I’ve got bugs in my teeth, one eye won’t open, and my brain is screaming “I BET IT WILL GO FASTER IF YOU JUST LEAN INTO IT A BIT.”
19. I got on the back of a waverunner once with a tall blonde woman and to this day I still hate…………waverunners.
20. I hate to love fishing because it alternately bores me to tears and thrills me to death. Fishing with me is like watching a horror movie - long periods of boredom and awkward social interaction punctuated by moments of sheer terror and glory.
21. Michael Brock, John Dickens, Cody Broome, my Uncle Robert and Aaron Harris have the best dating stories the world has ever known. I could tell you one of their legendary dating stories entitled “BoomBoom Boiler Room”, but I refuse to contribute to the downfall of humanity.
22. I slammed on brakes once to scare a date who wasn’t paying attention to the road. That taught me the important lesson that sometimes I think things are funny that other people don’t think are funny…ever.
23. If I had to list my top 1000 favorite things in life it would include everything you might guess and some things you might not, like: marshmallows in the microwave, gasoline smell, fire, The Ragone when he’s on his game, The Ragone when he’s way OFF his game, leather smell, Labrador retrievers, burned gunpowder, heavy recoiling firearms, driving, Strib Stribling and Josh Youssef (preferably together), the word “dillydally”, and beef jerky.
24. I once dated a woman whose perfume gave me a headache and made my stomach hurt. Then one day I realized: it’s not the perfume.
25. Austin Lee just walked into the room in his nearly-see-through boxers with his gut hanging out, stopped at the dining room table, tied Ragone’s necktie around his neck, then danced around the room singing “I could be a Chippendale, oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah.” Nobody seemed surprised.
2. My house has a name and everyone who lives in it eventually gets married and moves out…..except me. Which I think means I’m going to have to sell it and buy a new house that likes me better than my roommates. Stupid house!
3. On the way back from the deercamp one day I asked my friend Agador Spartacus (name changed) if he preferred sex or deer hunting. When we pulled in his driveway an hour later he was still working through the pros and cons; then, his wife walked out of the house and we forgot what we were talking about. That’s one of my favorite conversations EVER.
4. I want to go to Africa and hunt big scary angry things with claws and teeth and tusks, but I really don’t want to get eaten. “Eaten by something” is probably my second least favorite way to die – right behind “crushed by something.”
5. I am not afraid to hang big, mounted, too-large-for-the-room animal heads in my house wherever I feel like it and I’m going to keep it up; so get used to the idea.
6. Granddad gave me a cigar when I was 8 to prove the point that tobacco would make you sick and not to mess with it. I smoked it to a nub and asked for another one. Right then Grandma walked in and he got in trouble, then he got mad at ME for smoking a cigar. Hey, did you want me to smoke the cigar or not? Make up your mind.
7. I know my cousin Maggie harbors a long-buried desire to go hunting with the guys, but she refuses to admit it. Come clean, Maggie, and we’ll buy you a rifle.
8. I can hit a chimney swift, flying, with a .22 rifle and so can my cousin Seth; but we bet you can’t.
9. I shot a squirrel in the head (on purpose) with a pellet rifle at 97 yards and I have a witness. Actually, I have two witnesses: Seth, and the neighbor whose birdfeeder the squirrel was sitting on. Only one of the witnesses was impressed.
10. I am always ready to go on an adventure of any kind.
11. Aaron Harris is one of my most trusted confidantes and greatest friends. He snores and gurgles in his sleep like a wounded grizzly bear, but still has the audacity to complain about MY snoring. It’s our only regular area of personal contention.
12. Emily Jones is one of my best friends, ever, in the world, period. Sometimes I have to holler at her, then she hollers at me, then we go out for dinner and fight over the check.
13. I would trade the next 30 years for October 1989, Grandma’s house, and a red ryder bb gun sighted in just the way I like it.
14. If I could get any one thing to put in my yard right now it would an Olympic trampoline. I would set it up behind the house so that when I bounced just high enough my head would pop up over the roofline every so often and people passing by on the street would see me and freak out.
15. I can’t think of anyone I actually “hate” but I can think of a whole bunch of people that would be much better off on an island together…with no electricity…..or telephones…..or clean underwear….If we could wire all the houses and broadcast their antics on the internet – that would be even better.
16. Dairy products make me feel itchy and hot which leads me to believe that yes, I’m still allergic to them.
17. I recently conquered my lifelong fear of sour cream by accidentally biting into a taco that was absolutely slam-full of it….but the conquering nearly killed me.
18. I’ve chosen a life without motorcycles, even though I love them, because I know my limitations: one of them is an inability to NOT go fast on machines that are built to GO FAST. When confronted with temptation I always think “well, I’ll just hop on here and putt around for a second to get a feel for the road” then 20 seconds later I’ve got bugs in my teeth, one eye won’t open, and my brain is screaming “I BET IT WILL GO FASTER IF YOU JUST LEAN INTO IT A BIT.”
19. I got on the back of a waverunner once with a tall blonde woman and to this day I still hate…………waverunners.
20. I hate to love fishing because it alternately bores me to tears and thrills me to death. Fishing with me is like watching a horror movie - long periods of boredom and awkward social interaction punctuated by moments of sheer terror and glory.
21. Michael Brock, John Dickens, Cody Broome, my Uncle Robert and Aaron Harris have the best dating stories the world has ever known. I could tell you one of their legendary dating stories entitled “BoomBoom Boiler Room”, but I refuse to contribute to the downfall of humanity.
22. I slammed on brakes once to scare a date who wasn’t paying attention to the road. That taught me the important lesson that sometimes I think things are funny that other people don’t think are funny…ever.
23. If I had to list my top 1000 favorite things in life it would include everything you might guess and some things you might not, like: marshmallows in the microwave, gasoline smell, fire, The Ragone when he’s on his game, The Ragone when he’s way OFF his game, leather smell, Labrador retrievers, burned gunpowder, heavy recoiling firearms, driving, Strib Stribling and Josh Youssef (preferably together), the word “dillydally”, and beef jerky.
24. I once dated a woman whose perfume gave me a headache and made my stomach hurt. Then one day I realized: it’s not the perfume.
25. Austin Lee just walked into the room in his nearly-see-through boxers with his gut hanging out, stopped at the dining room table, tied Ragone’s necktie around his neck, then danced around the room singing “I could be a Chippendale, oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah.” Nobody seemed surprised.
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