4rum
03-01-2008, 12:54 AM
Trout Seasoned
Waitin’ sucks. Just ask anybody in the doctors office. But that’s usually over in only a few hours, or days… or weeks… . Waitin’ for trout season is worse, much worse. It was said to be the major cause of divorce in married couples… single couples didn’t fair much better.
Huntin’ season had flown by. Nobody was quite sure where it had gone… just got up one dismal day an’ POOF… over… gone… . The sleek little 20’s, the thunderous 12’s, Cousin Scooter’s first .410, even Uncle Slim’s ‘Sweet Sixteen’ were wiped clean and now sat silent. Good, stout hearted beagles like Bugle Belle, Fancy an’ Ol’ Billy lay fattening in their pens. (Or in Ol’ Billy’s case the front seat of Uncle Burley’s Willy’s). The beagle’s briar torn ears and raw muzzles had been rubbed with udder ointment and were now scabbed over and healing. Tumble Creek slumbered shallowly beneath a quieting layer of blue/white ice. The only signs of life in her were the little chutes and falls at the heads of sleeping pools. It was January in Posey. April was months away… might as well cut some dang firewood!
They ain’t no excuse for March. She’s nothin’ but a tease… one day acts all sweet an’ purty… next day slams th’ lid! The only use Uncle Burley could find for March is that’s when the trucks started comin’… green trucks with strange men. Men dressed in the same green as th’ trucks, who looked straight ahead and never returned a glance or a wave.
The men always seemed to change year to year, but their way stayed the same… dark… secretive… aloof. Even a pull on a ‘horn’ of ginger brandy could not warm the cold hearts of the men on the stock trucks… Uncle Burley had tried it!
Slowly the insufferable ice age seemed to wear itself out, Old Man Loomis started layin’ in his spring opener merchandise. Boxes come in from Sauderville an’ places that the folks in Posey had only heard about or read about in the Weekly Reader. These boxes held tall green waders with that ‘fact’ry’ smell, high waisted vests with sheepskin patches, long elegant rods, reels, lines in double taper, level floating an’ weight forward… beautifully tied flies… nymphs, gnats, midges and Culverson Minners… and of course, cheese … plain ‘er garlic.
With careful planning (plotting against nosey wives), judicious cuts in the grocery list and a stern grip on the purse strings, a body just might be able to stock up without too greater infringement on his beer money. Chub Amick gulped audibly… it was going to be tight. His ol’ lady, Beula, had taken to livin’ mighty high on the hog… who ever heerd of SOAP in a bottle…? A good dishpan full of boilin’ water had been good enough fer his mammy. Then there was them fancy stepins … Lord ! eighty cents a pair ! Beula might come ahead a little on that deal though… she was about two axe handles acros’t th’ behind, so Chub couldn’t help but feel sorry for Squeek. Squeek was payin’ th’ same price for hardly enough cotton to make a decent cleanin’ patch. Then there was the terlet paper… come on a roll, it did… at least now Chub could find enough of the catalogue to order a new set of spark plugs.
“Ayyyyyyyy Loomis. How much fer them Culverson’s this year”?
“Fifteen cents ya say! … no, no, no… I didn’t want no whole durn dozen… I meant apiece!
“…… oh…. that is apiece……………..”
“Good Lord Loomis, iffin a man wanted three of ‘em… that’d be pert nigh thutty cents… right?
“Forty five, huh”?
“… tax ! …. now see hear Loomis……………. I can git cheese at th’ A&P ya know.”
…………… the weeks passed…………….
“Mornin’ Loomis, you got one of them patch kits fer muh waders? Leetle bit got through that airplane glue I tried last year… musta been old when ya sold it to me. Only lost two toes though. Reckon that’s bettr’n the arm an’ laig you’ll charge…. AH HEEE!” (Ferd Johnson always was a wit)…. ‘er maybe a half wit… come to think of it, his folks was half wits, couldn’t even down spell Fred… guess that make Ol’ Ferd a quarter wit…. AH…. HEEE !
And so each day passed, interminable, insufferable… anxiety turning to frustration, frustration to anger. If it wasn’t fer Kurt Gowdy on Sunday afternoon, followed by a good nap… a lot of them fellers wouldn’t of made ‘er!
As openin’ day finally started to draw near, the anger and frustration turned to excitement…
“I hear they drapped a eighteen inch Rainbow in th’ turnhole below ol’ lady Grimmandower’s place”.
“Zat so? Reckon I might have to swap Loomis a dozen aigs fer one of them Culverson’s.”
………………… tomorrow…………………………… at last, tomorrow!!!
All over Posey lights was turned out, clocks set, pillows pummeled… that is, everwhere except Gillians shack.
A greasy orange glow showed through a greasy grimy window. On a greasy old wood stove set a greasy black skillet full of … well… grease !
“An would you like another’n there Tarnup?”
The old ‘yeller’ tom cat didn’t bother to get up. He just yawned, farted an’ stared back expectantly with his one good eye. As some of ya’ll might remember… Uncle Burley just loved poached trout… pan fried………… .
Waitin’ sucks. Just ask anybody in the doctors office. But that’s usually over in only a few hours, or days… or weeks… . Waitin’ for trout season is worse, much worse. It was said to be the major cause of divorce in married couples… single couples didn’t fair much better.
Huntin’ season had flown by. Nobody was quite sure where it had gone… just got up one dismal day an’ POOF… over… gone… . The sleek little 20’s, the thunderous 12’s, Cousin Scooter’s first .410, even Uncle Slim’s ‘Sweet Sixteen’ were wiped clean and now sat silent. Good, stout hearted beagles like Bugle Belle, Fancy an’ Ol’ Billy lay fattening in their pens. (Or in Ol’ Billy’s case the front seat of Uncle Burley’s Willy’s). The beagle’s briar torn ears and raw muzzles had been rubbed with udder ointment and were now scabbed over and healing. Tumble Creek slumbered shallowly beneath a quieting layer of blue/white ice. The only signs of life in her were the little chutes and falls at the heads of sleeping pools. It was January in Posey. April was months away… might as well cut some dang firewood!
They ain’t no excuse for March. She’s nothin’ but a tease… one day acts all sweet an’ purty… next day slams th’ lid! The only use Uncle Burley could find for March is that’s when the trucks started comin’… green trucks with strange men. Men dressed in the same green as th’ trucks, who looked straight ahead and never returned a glance or a wave.
The men always seemed to change year to year, but their way stayed the same… dark… secretive… aloof. Even a pull on a ‘horn’ of ginger brandy could not warm the cold hearts of the men on the stock trucks… Uncle Burley had tried it!
Slowly the insufferable ice age seemed to wear itself out, Old Man Loomis started layin’ in his spring opener merchandise. Boxes come in from Sauderville an’ places that the folks in Posey had only heard about or read about in the Weekly Reader. These boxes held tall green waders with that ‘fact’ry’ smell, high waisted vests with sheepskin patches, long elegant rods, reels, lines in double taper, level floating an’ weight forward… beautifully tied flies… nymphs, gnats, midges and Culverson Minners… and of course, cheese … plain ‘er garlic.
With careful planning (plotting against nosey wives), judicious cuts in the grocery list and a stern grip on the purse strings, a body just might be able to stock up without too greater infringement on his beer money. Chub Amick gulped audibly… it was going to be tight. His ol’ lady, Beula, had taken to livin’ mighty high on the hog… who ever heerd of SOAP in a bottle…? A good dishpan full of boilin’ water had been good enough fer his mammy. Then there was them fancy stepins … Lord ! eighty cents a pair ! Beula might come ahead a little on that deal though… she was about two axe handles acros’t th’ behind, so Chub couldn’t help but feel sorry for Squeek. Squeek was payin’ th’ same price for hardly enough cotton to make a decent cleanin’ patch. Then there was the terlet paper… come on a roll, it did… at least now Chub could find enough of the catalogue to order a new set of spark plugs.
“Ayyyyyyyy Loomis. How much fer them Culverson’s this year”?
“Fifteen cents ya say! … no, no, no… I didn’t want no whole durn dozen… I meant apiece!
“…… oh…. that is apiece……………..”
“Good Lord Loomis, iffin a man wanted three of ‘em… that’d be pert nigh thutty cents… right?
“Forty five, huh”?
“… tax ! …. now see hear Loomis……………. I can git cheese at th’ A&P ya know.”
…………… the weeks passed…………….
“Mornin’ Loomis, you got one of them patch kits fer muh waders? Leetle bit got through that airplane glue I tried last year… musta been old when ya sold it to me. Only lost two toes though. Reckon that’s bettr’n the arm an’ laig you’ll charge…. AH HEEE!” (Ferd Johnson always was a wit)…. ‘er maybe a half wit… come to think of it, his folks was half wits, couldn’t even down spell Fred… guess that make Ol’ Ferd a quarter wit…. AH…. HEEE !
And so each day passed, interminable, insufferable… anxiety turning to frustration, frustration to anger. If it wasn’t fer Kurt Gowdy on Sunday afternoon, followed by a good nap… a lot of them fellers wouldn’t of made ‘er!
As openin’ day finally started to draw near, the anger and frustration turned to excitement…
“I hear they drapped a eighteen inch Rainbow in th’ turnhole below ol’ lady Grimmandower’s place”.
“Zat so? Reckon I might have to swap Loomis a dozen aigs fer one of them Culverson’s.”
………………… tomorrow…………………………… at last, tomorrow!!!
All over Posey lights was turned out, clocks set, pillows pummeled… that is, everwhere except Gillians shack.
A greasy orange glow showed through a greasy grimy window. On a greasy old wood stove set a greasy black skillet full of … well… grease !
“An would you like another’n there Tarnup?”
The old ‘yeller’ tom cat didn’t bother to get up. He just yawned, farted an’ stared back expectantly with his one good eye. As some of ya’ll might remember… Uncle Burley just loved poached trout… pan fried………… .