I'd Rather be Fishing

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Trying to get up and about for a day of hunting.

Submitted: September 24, 2013

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Submitted: September 24, 2013

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The buzz of the alarm clock wakens me, so I slap it off as I glance at the time - 3 a.m.
The phone rings and after about three slaps at it, I answer.
"Hey Buddy-ro, where are you?" Skeeter booms in his always-too-loud voice. "It's 3:15 and you should've already been here."
Now where the heck did those 15 minutes go, I wonder as I stumble to the bathroom, trying too hard to not stub my toe (of course I hit the corner of the dresser with my hip).
Now cursing, I pee then go to the pile of clothes I laid out the night before.
I put on three pair of socks, a pair of thin thermal underwear followed by a thick pair of thermal underwear. Three shirts and my thickest jeans.
My thermal boots and my best toboggan go on next. Then gloves. I pick up my rifle case from beside the chair and head out the door.
As I try to start my truck, I cuss hunting in general, deer hunting in particular and Skeeter in double particular, for this was his idea of a good way to spend a Saturday morning. Myself, I'd rather be dreaming of deer.
When I decide my truck won't crank, I call Skeeter and tell him. He says he'll be by in about five minutes to pick me up.
I unload my junk out onto the frozen ground and wait for him, shivering inside my Eskimo clothes.
When he finally shows, 10 minutes later, we throw my stuff into his truck and head out.
Of course, the heater in his Jeep is gone, so we take turns cussing the cold. And at times, both of us are cussing it.
About 5 miles from home, his Jeep suddenly veers right and starts thumping.
"Flat tire," he booms.
So we get out and change the tire, putting on one of those tiny donut tires.
Now we're sweating but still cold. And about an hour later than we thought we'd be.
We drive on to our patch of woods, only to find another truck in our parking space.
We park anyway and walk into the woods, just to see. Of course, they're set up in the same clearing we had planned to use.
"To Hell with it," Skeeter says. "Let's go home."
I pretend to protest but am glad because now I can sleep. Or so I think.
Since the hunting is gone, we start drinking beer out of his cooler.
Instead of taking me home, Skeeter drives to his house and tells me I have to help him paint a room.
Great. Now I have to strip off most of my clothes so that I don't get too hot. Hopefully I don't get sick. The beer should handle that, though. Skeeter keeps an unending supply of the stuff.
By the time the room is painted, we're both covered in paint and both drunk.
We spend the rest of the day drinking and planning our next trip. I opt for fishing because we can do that any time of day.
Early mornings are for the birds.


© Copyright 2019 Gene Stanley. All rights reserved.

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