White Oak Mountain Ranger: Drought - May And June

  • Saturday, June 18, 2022

“That’s what the old boy said, you know, when somebody asked him if he believed in infant baptism:

  “Believe in it?” Hell, I’ve seen it done!” - Roy Blount

 

“A woman moved from Kentucky to Dayton, Ohio. One day a fire started in her house, and she called the fire department.

  “Hello, I’ve got a fire out here in my house.”

  “Okay, where is it?”

  “It’s in the kitchen.”

  “I mean, how do we get to it?”

  “Well, you come in off the back porch or through the living room, either one.”

  “No, I mean, how do we get from here where we are to you out where you are?”

  “Ain’t you got one of them big red trucks?” - Loyal Jones

 

“A girl from the country went into town and got a job with a lawyer’s family who were pretty high-faluting.

The girl cooked, cleaned the house, and did the wash and that sort of thing. The daughter in the family got engaged to a young man up the street. One day the lady of the house called to the hired girl, “Have you seen my daughter’s fiancé?”

“No she ain’t put it in the wash yet.” - Loyal Jones

 

“Dogs - To Bubba’s way of thinking, there aren’t many things more entertaining than rolling around on the carpet with a slick haired dog. Dogs have many splendid virtues, he says:

1.     They are entirely sympathetic about your problems at the office.

2.     They enjoy hearing about your golf game, hole by hole, shot by shot.

3.     They like the same TV programs you do.

4.     Food will square most any differences you have with them.

5.     They hardly ever object to anything on moral grounds.” - Dan Jenkins

 

Back in May, when the short corn, the bush beans and the squash were literally crying for rain, I was involved in a considerable amount of discussion with the Great Rain maker concerning necessary atmospheric conditions. This daily conversation went on for weeks while I was feeling sorry for young vegetables and carrying water in a can.

 

Finally, the Great Rain Maker decided he must have had heard enough from me and the whining vegetables. And, then in May, it rained hard for most of one day. It poured so hard I fled to the safety of the porch with muddy boots and a flood of thanks and thoughts.

 

I swear I heard the corn singing old gospel songs.

 

All day rains in May used to be optimal times for battles with big bass. Predatory bass seem to hover on the shallow banks like sharks in the surf, scarfing up what ever washes their way with warm rains in May.

 

One particular memorable May rain, I witnessed a huge bass eating baby birds that had been flushed out of a nest and washed down a bank.

 

When there was no attending lightening, and in times of higher stress, or feelings of youthful invincibility, even with some lightening, the fish and I danced in May’s downpours.

 

These deluges were looked forward to. Some kind of strange Christmas in May for those of us that needed big presents more than once a year.

 

An old bass fishing mentor, Mr. Roy “Thunderbolt” Jackson, used to say, “Them big fish ain’t bothered by no rain, they like water, the more the better, it makes ‘em meaner. You don’t need no rain jacket or hat neither, cause we’ll be getting drowned anyhow.”

 

A strong May deluge never seems to disappoint if you can find the right over hanging bank.

 

I remembered one duck season when it rained thirteen straight Saturdays and Sundays. Weekends were about the only days available for duck chasing in those days unless you could conjure up a good enough lie. Lying to the boss man was never all that successful thirteen times in any one duck season, so we just gritted it out next to some muddy stump, under some old leaky army poncho, until the ducks cooperated. Or, the waders filled up, or a minor bout of old fashioned hypothermia showed up.

 

Sitting on the porch, listening to the corn sing gospel songs, made me ask myself why I wasn’t wading the shallows, dragging a rubber worm around the nose of something that could bend the rod to design limits.

 

I guess not fishing in a good squall on this particular day was the fact that I was just simply entertained enough listening to the new corn belting out the third verse of “Amazing Grace.”

 

Maybe I’ve simply gotten lazier lately. I do have to admit that being well soaked all day can make me a little more testy than it used to. I’ve even noticed that the dog reacts differently to a good downpour in her later years. And, I will also freely testify that lately, if there’s even a slight hint of sitting in the rain, waiting for some Northern duck to land in what’s left of my decoys, I’m sleeping in.

June turned dry. I’m back to daily conversations with the Great Rain Maker and carrying emergency water supplies in a can. The ground has cracked open again. I’m getting mental images of the dust bowl and a bunch of Okie’s in the Grapes of Wrath.

 

Right before dark, the beans, the cucumbers, the squash can all be heard moaning softly. They’ve filled their purpose for multiple family and friends, but they tell me that they’re not yet ready to give up.

 

Odd how a suffering field of vegetables can make you question a lackadaisical commitment to fishing the next rain storm. Hunting wet, for some big predator that you would just drop back in the water any way.

 

                                                    Benediction

 

Dear God:

 

We ain’t what we ought to be.

 

We ain’t what we gonna be.

 

We ain’t what we wanta be.

 

But, thank God,

 

We ain’t what we was.

 

-    Anonymous

 

 

Hope your vegetables are singing old gospel songs. Send your comments to whiteoakmtnranger@gmail.com

 

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