Friday, April 17, 2009

More Fish Tails..

Howdy again!

Having lived in North Carolina for many years, my friend Ryan "Gimme that hog jowl!" Smith (whom I have known almost as long as my wife) and I have gone on many fishing expeditions aboard my somewhat trusty vessel "The Hungry Dawg" on the vast and open waters of Kerr Lake. Kerr Lake is a huge lake that straddles Virginia and North Carolina, due north of Durham and contains many lunkers. (I once caught a fish that swallowed whole the original fish I caught.)

On one such occasion, we were fishing in a quiet cove near Satterwhite Point for crappie, catfish and all manner of bream (bluegill for you Yankees). We had just settled in and had cast out when, suddenly, Ryan's phone rang.

"Uh oh", he says. "It's the boat anchor."

I start to get up to check the ropes that attach the anchors to the boat. Ryan waves me off and points to his phone. It's the wife. I give him the universal hand gesture that means "Gotcha, I understand."; thumbs up.

The ensuing conversation went something like this.

"I'm fishing with Bob."

"What do you mean 'It doesn't sound like I'm fishing?' What does fishing sound like? We're on a lake. It's quiet."

"I'm fishing. Really. Say 'Hi." Bob." ("Hi!")

"OK. Uh huh. Yup. OK. Bye."

He hangs up the phone and looks at me incredulously.

"College educated social worker.", he says and gives me that pained, pinched-faced look that can only mean: "I don't get it."

He sighs that big sigh that one sighs when one is trying to shrug off an enigma that has the effect of being immersed in a vat of underfed fleas.

"Let's fish.", I say and so we do.

But something is stuck in Ryan's craw like fried chicken gristle lodged between two cavity riddled molars. He looks up and spies a woman on the shore tending a garden and frolicking next to her is a very spunky sheltie. (A sheltie, for those of you who are not familiar with this breed of dog, is a miniature collie and is favored among northerners who have drifted South in search of better winter weather and cheap property.)

With all the annoyance and malice he could muster, Ryan then begins a soliloquy of pain and rancor not seen since the likes of Shakespear's Dane, Hamlet.

"A sheltie.. Will ya look at that. In Cary (his town) we have lots of those shelties. Cary, Concentrated Area of Relocated Yankees. They drive me crazy. I hate'em. They get mad and scowl at you if you change your oil in the driveway."

Then in a whiny, nasally New Yawk accent he launches into an impersonation of the stereotypical neighbor that seems to plague true rednecks everywhere.

"Ohhh.. Look at my shel-tie! Isn't he pretty? His name is Trevah! Trevah is the smartest dog evaahh! He can sit. He can fetch a bawl. He can play dead. I love my shel-tie! You know since we moved down heah, we haven't been able to find a decent bagel. Whea are all the Stah-bucks, and the delis? All these people eat down heah ahh bis-kits. Trevah doesn't even like bis-kits! Look at my shel-tie! It's so hawt down heah! It's hawt and muggy! Trevah doesn't do muggy. "

"Why don't they just go back where they came from?", he says. "Look. Don't move to the South and complain because the people here are Southern! Maybe if they ate some collard greens they wouldn't be so full of crap. Collard greens and grits. Good roughage if you ask me. Eat some collard greens and grits and save your money on that Zelnorm prescription. It's not irritable bowel syndrome. They're just backed up and need to clean out their colon!"

By the time he got to this point, his voice had been growing louder and louder as he got to the end. Mind you this was a calm, cool morning where every word traveled across the glassy lake like a whisper in Carnegie Hall.

I look up and there's the lady, leaning on her shovel, staring out across the cove at Ryan, who had forgotten all about her.

I am laughing hysterically at his impression and when I noticed the lady, I laughed even harder, tears coming out of my eyes, barely able to keep my breath.

I hardly have the physical wits to point across the cove.

Ryan figures it out in about a micro second.

Without missing a beat, he says, "Sorry shel-tie lady!" in that whiny, nasally northern accent.

She gives him the finger.

I catch my breath long enough to say, "Wanna go fish that cove where we almost caught that bass?"

"Sure." he says. "Let's fish."

"you feel better?", I ask.

He nods vigorously, a smile slowly broading across his face.

We started the motor and left the quiet cove, both us us hunched over to ward off the hairy eyeball daggers shooting our way from the slowly receding shore behind us.

It was a good day.



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