| ~~Tunes For The Troops~~ |
| Patrick F. McManus~A Good Deed Goes Wrong |
| Real Ponies Don't Go Oink |
| Want more information about the artists we play? Perhaps you'd like to buy concert tickets or their CDs? Click the links provided at the top of the thread for more information! |
~~Tunes For The Troops~~
Grand Funk Railroad~The Locomotion
Want more information about the artists we play?
Perhaps you'd like to buy concert tickets or their
CDs? Click the links provided at the top of the
thread for more information!
Hey Dere!
I see you and Luvvy were discussin’ eatin’ joints in Maine.
I promise we will eat at Reds this year.
Then we can explore Wiscassett!
For years my fishing associates and I had gone by the casual but descriptive title of The Blight County Irregulars, meeting by chance at Kelly's Bar & Grill, where the topics of conversation would invariably turn to fishing and in particular to fly-fishing. Then one evening Bart Fleegle, the chiropractor, blurted out, "You know what? I think we should turn the Irregulars into an actual club." "Good idea!" shouted Rosy McQuire, the beautician. "That might bring a little sense and order to this motley mob."
Everyone present agreed that a club was a good idea. I quickly added my two cents' worth. "I don't like calling it a club. We need something with a little more class. How about calling it a society?"
"Yes, indeed," contributed Father Jimmy O'Brien, the Catholic priest. "I like that-The Blight County Fly-Fishing Society. We could have regular meetings, rules of order, collect dues, and even do good works, those sorts of things."
Several of the potential members questioned the need for good works. Bob Perkins, the car salesman, mentioned the possible threat of good works cutting into our fishing time.
"Good gosh, what was I thinking?" the priest responded. "I must have been carried away by the excitement of the moment."
Kelly walked out from behind the bar, wiping his hands on a towel. "Fly-Fishing Society! " he sneered. "You guys spend far more time shooting the bull than you do fly-fishing. You should call it The Blight County Bull Society-BS for short."
"Naw," I said. "That has too much of an agricultural ring to it. Besides, what we do is philosophize. Maybe we should call it The Blight County Fly-Fishing and Philosophical Society."
Shouts of approval went up from around the room, because there was general agreement among the Irregulars, myself included, that our discussions often attained the intellectual level of philosophical discourse. Here is just one actual example that I overheard this past weekend. Voice One: "I was out fishing for Kokanee yesterday and caught quite a few, but danged if half the fish I hooked didn't get off."
Voice Two: "That's because their mouths are so soft the hooks pull loose. You'd think that is we can send a man to the moon we'd be able to come up with a better way to hook fish with soft mouths." Voice three: "I got an idea. How about a spring-loaded clamp? When the fish grabs the bait, the clamp snaps shut around its head!"
Voice One: "Might work. But you'd have to set the spring just right. Otherwise, you'd be seeing a lot of pictures of fishermen standing there holding up a string of fish heads!"
I don't mean to imply that all our conversations attain that high a level of intellectual brilliance. Such a thing is actually quite rare.
Fred Smithers, the high school vice principal, had a complaint. "I don't think we should name our society after the dumb county, or more specifically, the robber baron the county was named after. We should name it after a famous fisherman, someone like, say, Izaac Walton. "Izaac's been taken already," I said. "But maybe we could name it after one of our own truly great Blight County fishermen. Any suggestions?"
The Irregulars stared modestly down at the floor, each thinking he was the greatest fisherman ever to wet a fly in Blight County and mentally preparing his acceptance speech for the moment he received the nomination. When no nomination was forthcoming, the Irregulars took their eyes off the floor and shot one another irritable looks. "Well," I said, "obviously no one here is going to get the nomination. So maybe we should select someone from the past. I happen to have a candidate in mind."
"You bet!" cried out Retch Sweeney, one step ahead of me. "Old Rancid Crabtree! We can call our club The Rancid Crabtree Fly-Fishing and Philosophical Society!"
Several of the more recent arrivals to Blight looked puzzled. "Who's this Rancid Crabtree?" Bart Fleegle asked. The old-timers in the room all remembered Rancid Crabtree, of course. He had been the mentor to many of them in all things outdoors, and some things indoors, and they immediately shouted out their approval for naming our new organization The Rancid Crabtree Fly-Fishing and Philosophical Society. For the newcomers, I went on to explain about Crabtree.
He lived in a little shack back up against the mountain a few miles north of town. He never worked a single day in his entire life, as least as far as anyone knew or that Rancid himself would admit to. "Sounds like a man I could learn from," said Dale Peas, the plumber.
"Indeed," I said. "We could all learn from Rancid. He was quite the philosopher, too, which makes him even more appropriate as an individual to be honored by our affixing his name to the society." I immediately recollected some of Rancid's favorite sayings:
"Ah ain't never been lost in the woods, no sir. But Ah been places where Ah had a mighty strong hankerin' to git to where Ah wasn't."
"Don't never take baths. Soap and water will eat holes in your protective crust and allow the jarms to git in." "If a man ain't fishin' or huntin', he's fritterin' away his life, with maybe a couple exceptions." "The two best times to go fishin' is when it's rainin' and when it ain't."
"Ah was born retired but Ah actually enjoy a bit of work from time to time, if it ain't too dull. Ah hear of a feller workin' at somethin' halfway entertainin', why Ah'll hop right up and go watch him do it." After I had recited a few more of Rancid's favorite sayings, Father O'Brien glanced about the room. "Well, I can see that this Mr. Crabtree had a profound influence on the lads of Blight County. Do I assume correctly that he is no longer with us?"
"Only in spirit," I said. No sooner were those words out of my mouth than a strange sensation came over me, accompanied by a shudder. "Now that's eerie," I said. "I could almost sense Rancid's presence hovering here in this very room."
"Me, too," said Retch Sweeney. "Kind of lifted my neck hairs for a sec. But all it was, the breeze just shifted and put us downwind of the cattlemen's feed lot." "So much for the poignant moment," I said. Artie Arntson, the night manager at Blight City Supermarket ("We sell live bait"), then suggested that we have some patches made up to sew on our fishing vests to indicate that we are members of The Rancid Crabtree Fly-Fishing and Philosophical Society. Retch Sweeney, who is a pretty good artist, was assigned that task of designing the patch, with a likeness of the old woodsman in the center of it. Intent upon making his own creative contribution, Bart Fleege suggested that the words "Fly-Fishing" on the patch be spelled "Phly-Phishing." Retch immediately objected. "We're going to spell it the right way or not at all," he told Bart. "I hate cutesy spelling."
I was a bit surprised to learn that Retch cared that much about spelling. It just goes to show that no matter how well you know a person, he can still surprise you. Father O'Brien then stated that we should have some standards for admitting persons to the society. He said he thought only persons of high principles should be allowed in.
An uneasy silence fell upon the room, at last broken by Shorty Vetch. "I had a principle once," Shorty said, "but I've forgot what it was. It should still count, though."
Father O'Brien contemplated the problem of the forgotten principle. Finally, he allowed that it was far better to have had a principle once than never to have had one at all. Shorty most certainly would qualify for membership on that basis, he said, and the fact that Shorty supplied him with exceptionally effective dry flies had nothing to do with the decision. A collective sigh was heaved by the other Irregulars. If Shorty Vetch could be admitted to the Society, surely no one could be refused, convicted ax murderers being a possible exception.
A week later, when Retch Sweeney showed up at my house with the completed design of the patch, he responded crossly to my suggestion for a slight change. "Just like I told Fleegle, we ain't using any cutesy spelling on the patch, and I don't want to hear no more about it." You're probably right," I said. "Simple spelling is more appropriate, particularly considering our membership." And that is how The Rancid Crabtree Fly-Fishing and Filosofical Society came into being.