don’t believe it, try this:
Sometime, when Old Ed is within ear shot, casually mention to one of your camp mates that Ed is getting kind of old and you’re worried about his physical condition. Suggest that Ed shouldn’t be invited to deer camp next year - for his own good, you know.
You’ll see a startling metamorphosis. Come the next sunrise, Old Ed will prepare the breakfast and wash the dishes all by himself. He’ll take a part in every drive and clean and haul two deer out of the woods without assistance. After he’s split a cord of wood and washed the dinner dishes, he’ll want to go into town and kick over a few fire hydrants. You wouldn’t be able to get him out of deer camp with nitroglycerin.
Old Ed make have counted over sixty birthdays. He may have a wrinkle of twenty around his eyes, forehead, nose, ears, mouth and neck, but he can drive thirty feet of 1 ¾ inch well pipe in a day and wade through 300 yards of springtime white water in the Horse Race Rapids without missing a cast
The next time he pulls that wounded snipe act and asks you to bring him a drink, the proper response is: “Get it yourself, you damned old fraud. And while you’re up, don’t you think it’s about time you brought me a beer?”
The reason Old Ed isn’t old is because that thought has never occurred to him. So he’s young - and more power to him. Disintegration is a terrible thing.
Last year, Beecher Daniels walked into Casey’s Sport Shop to buy a hunting license. He was a rugged featured, slightly wind burned, well muscled, middle aged man. He entered the building as a youthful and perhaps even a jaunty man. He left the shop a stoop shouldered, shaky and trembling ancient - all because of the kid behind the counter.
Everything was going along just fine as he questioned Beecher and filled out his hunting license application. Then the little cretin came to the question “Color of Hair”. The kid looked up at him, said “Gray” and dutifully inscribed it on the form. In a split second, he aged Beecher by twenty years.
From time to time, Beecher noticed some iron gray clipping on the sheet the barber wrapped around him. He had wondered where it came from, but no one ever told him he had gray hair. Now the kid told him he was an old man. Beecher managed to walk all three blocks back to his home without stopping to catch his breath. Then he looked into the mirror. By George, the kid was right. His hair was turning gray.
Beecher called the undertaker and made arrangements for a Funeral Trust. He reviewed the terms of his Will. He pulled out the TV Guide and looked for the time of the Lawrence Welk Show. He was practicing his cackling when his wife came in. She told him how terrible it was that their neighbor would wear such a shockingly tiny bikini to get a sun tan in her back yard.
Beecher suddenly remembered how the roof needed repairing. He grabbed some shingles, a hammer and roofing nails. He climbed up on the railing, swung onto the roof and ran, leaping over the gables like a gazelle, to that part of his roof that overlooked the neighbor’s back yard.
It occurred to him he wasn’t so old after all.
Cocktail Parties
Hunters and fishers are required to endure larger annoyances and are exposed to greater miseries, agonies and distress than are the other less fortunate kinds of men. There’s no justification for it, but there’s no doubt about it, either.
Two theories have been advanced to explain that curious phenomenon. According to one hypothesis, those persons who do not participate in our field and stream activities, noting our particular serenity and joie de vivre, become uncontrollably jealous and dedicate their lives to bedeviling us. A listing of these kinds of persons include people in the IRS and the DNR and wives.
According to the other theory, the Architect of the Universe knew he was creating a favored class of superior people when he made sportsmen. He gave us additional burdens to carry in order to keep the others from crying discrimination and favoritism.
To test the second postulate, I recently ran a scientific survey. I questioned all of my hunting and fishing acquaintances. Without exception, every one of them agreed, unreservedly, that hunters and fishermen were all admirable fellows, endowed with a markedly superior intellect. I showed these decisive results to What’s-Her-Name and she said: “Humnphf,” thereby proving the first hypothesis.
The fact that additional sufferings have been assigned to the sportsman is incontrovertible. Consider the increases in license fees, the uncontrolled growth of recreational rafting on our trout streams and the probability that we will be dragged off to some wretched social event where we will be expected to wear a tie.
When the little woman has her heart set on going to the Koenigs for wine and cheese next Friday “because I hear Alyce has redone her bedroom and I want to see it and all of our friends will be there and you haven’t taken me out since the opening of the trout season last spring” - well, take my advice friends, give up. Don’t fight it.
Oh, I suppose you could come out with: “Aaeegghh, kakka kah hakk. I didn’t want to worry you hon, but yesterday I went to see Doc Fischer for a check-up. He says I’ve got the Black Plague. It’s very contagious. Maybe you’d better go without me.”
It won’t work. She’s almost certain to remember Doc Fischer is a veterinarian. If she doesn’t believe you, that tale will put an additional strain on your, at best, rather tenuous relationship. If she does buy it, you’ll only be postponing the inevitable. You might as well get it over with. You know you’ll have to attend one of those affairs every year or so. It’s part of the special price you must pay for having the magnificent good fortune of being an outdoorsman.
All right then. You’re at this party and you’re bored to death. You haven’t said a word in an hour - except for “Yes, dear” and “Ha, ha.” Your hostess will think it is incumbent upon her to bring you into the mainstream of the party and make sure you have a good time. She has read the books on the hostessing business. She has learned to put a guest at ease by starting a conversation on some subject in which he is interested.
When she gets that look in her eye and advances toward you, be prepared. You’re in for a question about the Great Out Of Doors.
A common question is: “Why does a doggie hold up one of his paws when he points at a birdie?” The answer is: “A hunting dog will frequently interrupt a step as it closes on a bird. Thus, a front foot or a hind foot, may be held in the air as the dog freezes and rigidly indicates the presence and location of a quarry. But be just a bit careful with the raised hind foot. I got fooled once.”
Last year, Doug Burris was hostess engaged, as follows: “My husband is a duck hunter. What does he mean when he talks about six chilled shot?” Doug answered: “Drinking warm whiskey on a cold day is considered by some to be injurious to your health. Your husband, madam, is addicted to sitting in a duck blind and drinking whiskey after it has been chilled for six minutes.”
When you’re at a party, it’s important to pay attention and not let your mind wander. Bob Gartzke got into trouble at a Bryn Mawr social event. He was thinking about ice fishing while his hostess was going on about bird watching. She claimed she saw something quite spectacular during the previous summer.
Bob regained consciousness in time to hear her ask if he could identify it. She said it had a yellow tail and caught flies. Bob said it must have been a Chinese outfielder.
Anyway, when Alyce Koenig approached, I was ready for her. She asked me: “How does one stop a dog from jumping up on one?” In a good loud voice
