Now, I don't write things like this unless someone's died. So if he croaks before his shindig, sorry, that's probably on me.
As I sit here, 50 damn years old, with my glass of whiskey and Merle Haggard playing, I can't help but reflect on how Aunt Jerry shaped various aspects of this life I'm living. For starters...About 5 minutes ago I just got done booking a mountain cabin for me and the family for a well deserved retreat. That's all Jerry. Fishing trips, man-trips, outdoor escapes, those were from him. Well, mainly the Hill boys, but that "Okay, fine" had to go through Jerry. I'm sure the conversations between Larry & Randy and Jerry were quick and to the point-- "Can he fish?" "Yeah, he can fish." "Is he annoying?" "Well, yeah. He's a teenage boy and he's related to me." "Okay. As long as he can fish." Can't remember the first trip I joined them on. Had to be Stockton State Park. But apparently I didn't f-up too bad, because I was invited back. Those trips were all fishing. Get on the lake before light. If the weather's bad, put a jacket on. If they aren't biting, you're going to owe someone a dollar. Load up after the sun sets, head to the cabin, get a bowl of food, go to bed. Rinse and repeat. Those guys treated me as an equal. Lots of bullshitting and laughing. Lots of fishing stories, each one funnier the more you told it. The one trip that still kind of shocks me that we took was on the Mississippi. It was me and Jerry, dad and grandpa. We took Jerry's boat over to a muddy shoal on the Illinois side and set up camp. Yeah, camp. I remember we had an old canvas tent with about 87 different pole parts to put together. Really warm and breezy out. I sloshed around in the mud, up to my knees, catching moderately-sized channel catfish off the sandy-muddy shoal that was now our home. Like usual, I'm pretty sure I left all the work of setting up camp for the grownups while I traipsed around in the slimy mud and over piles of driftwood, all over that river bank. Grandpa sat in one place. And I'm sure outfished me. Towards dusk, I remember we dug a pit and started a fire. We placed a grill over the sunken coals and laid some bratwursts on top for our supper. The reasoning for the pit, I'm assuming now, 40yrs later, was because it was windy out and would be easier and safer to have a fire. But that pit didn't stop the wind from blowing a solid blanket of sand all over our dinner. Gritty, nasty, Mississippi River mud-tasting bratwursts for supper it was. We all laughed at how shitty they were. We all put extra mustard on them to drown the grit. They were terrible, and were a bit of a metaphor for how the whole trip had gone and was going to go. I think I had two.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorI am Earl. Archives
May 2024
|