Acme Flyfisher
Supply Editor Grade Kit
The day after my recent fishing
trip to Calling Panther Lake should have been one of rest and relaxation
or possibly devoted to writing, as I was using another vacation day. However,
the shrubs around my house don’t observe vacations from growing. Oh,
they slumber in the winter months, but whatever retards their growth in the
cool months also stimulates them in the warm months.
One day, I’ll actually measure the number of linear feet of hedges that
border our homes and dot the landscape, but I fear I’ll be overwhelmed
by the results. Cutting hedge is not entirely unlike hoeing cotton in that
if the length of the row is known the task may seem daunting. I’ve never
stood, hoe in hand, staring at a mile-long cotton row, but having chopped
my way along quite a few shorter ones, I’ve often tried to imagine how
long it must have taken a field hand to finish a cotton row in the Delta.
With all the shrubs and hedges that must be trimmed around here, I’ve
yet to even number the days of work required of me to finish them. With the
date of the fish fry fast approaching, I simply could not allow the opportunity
to get some yard work done slip by me, so rather than enjoying a day off
work I chose to work in the yard.
I don’t remember if I was taking a water-break or a rest-break when
the thought occurred to me to check the mail. I had missed seeing the mailman
drop off the mail and had not heard him drive by, but then when operating
a set of heavy duty gasoline-powered hedge trimmers, one is not apt to hear
much of anything but the roar of the engine and one best keep an eye on the
task at hand.
Among the envelopes and papers inside the mailbox was a small package wrapped
in what might once have been a brown paper bag. It might have been enough
to arouse suspicion, had it arrived in a government office building, but
the handwritten return address provided me a clue that the package was not
likely to contain anthrax or a bomb.
Instead, Acme Flyfisher Supply, brought a smile to my face, and my steps
became lighter.
"Hey, Little Rock, Arkansas," I mused, "Why, this is from Tony Austin. He’s
trying to be funny, I see."
Removal of the brown paper revealed a white cardboard box approximately 6"x7"x2".
As my excitement built, the contents of the box were slowly removed. Other
than a couple of handwritten notes, the only things I could readily identify
were a spool of fly line and a plastic box filled with flies. On the spool
of line, Tony had taped and marked the ends of the line, "To Leader," and
"To Reel."
"I don’t know whether to be insulted or grateful. I may not be an expert
fly fisherman, but I do know how to put fly line on a fly reel," I concluded.
"Let me see what’s on the notes?"
The first: Acme Flyfishing Kit - Editor Grade, Some assembly required. For
best results add water. Other supplements will follow.
The second: For Manufacturer Consultation: Call 501-234-5678 or 870-987-6543
(research center). Not responsible for addiction or wet
feet.
Editor’s note: The phone numbers above
are not the actual phone numbers provided. Any similarity to real phone numbers
of Arkansas residents is not intentional.
I had to laugh reading the notes. They are vivid examples of Tony’s
humor and reminded me of our college days, when Tony provided me with daily
doses of good humor.
The remaining contents of the package from Tony consisted of two packs of
tapered leaders, two spools of monofilament line, and a Tie-Fast knot tying
aid. One of the spools of line is labeled Tippet Material, but I have no
idea what that is, and it looks like I’ll have to contact the supplier
for an explanation. Likewise for the knot tying tool, as there were no
instructions included, a call to Acme may be in order.
After pouring over the contents, I dug my old fly rod out of the storage
room with the full intent of spooling on the new fly line. Yet, I remembered
a challenge Tony had set forth a few weeks ago concerning the length of a
cast. As I recall, Tony questioned my claim that I could cast a fly from
his mother’s driveway to a nearby fence. He established the distance
as twenty paces. Thus, I decided to spend a few minutes testing my claim
in my yard.
I stepped off twenty paces from one of the crepe myrtle bushes along my drive
and began casting toward the crepe myrtle. After a few attempts, I watched
the end of the leader sail past the crepe myrtle. I was about to go for a
new record, when I snagged the fly in the upper branches of my neighbor’s
oak tree and had no choice but to break the leader, ending my spectacular
exhibition of fly casting. It’s too bad Tony wasn’t there to see
it.
I still don’t have the new fly line transferred to my old reel, nor
have I attached my old reel to the new bamboo fly rod that Tony gave me last
year. I do intend to do so, hopefully, before the bream quit bedding at Joel
Hale’s lake this spring.
One of these days, perhaps in the fall, I plan to visit Tony Austin. Last
year, he and Jo Ellen finished building a cabin on a river (can’t remember
which river) where trout fishing is reportedly good, year-round. I want to
see how humorous he can be while I’m catching the most fish.
Nobody Knows
By Sarah C. Brown
Recently, I developed a slight problem with my diastolic blood pressure.
I had been meaning to get it checked, but as way leads on to way, I kept
putting off going to the doctor.
Last Wednesday, I did not feel quite right when I arrived at my hospital
job, and my co-worker urged me to have the nurse check my blood pressure.
Somewhat reluctantly, I relented. Another nurse came into the room, and began
telling me that I needed to get the pressure under control soon.
I muttered, "Yeah, but it is not high enough to be life-threatening."
A third nurse poked his head in the door and said, "It is not life-threatening
unless you have a weak vessel or an aneurism, especially in the brain. You
really ought to get that checked."
I called and made an appointment for eight the next morning, which in itself
is significant. I hate to get up before nine, now that I am retired. However,
my three friends had convinced me that I should get to the doctor soon.
I arose at six the next morning so that I could wake up enough to be coherent
by eight. I took a leisurely bath and saw that Felicia had her overnight
bag filled with her makeup, bath, and body lotions. I knew that she has this
great moisturizer and began looking in her bag for it. Sure enough, I found
the blue and white container. I liberally slathered it all over. I noticed
that it did not seem to soak into the skin as well as I remembered, but it
had that subtle, not too overpowering, scent that I remembered from earlier
use. I decided to drink another cup of coffee while I air-dried. I was pleased
that after five minutes or so my skin was dry enough to finish dressing.
Felicia slept until about seven and left for Oxford about the time I left
for the doctor. I had some blood work-up done and even an ultrasound for
possible gall bladder trouble, all of which determined I was normal. The
doctor put me on a low dose of blood pressure medicine, and we will have
to see what happens next. At least for now I do not have to worry about a
weak vessel or aneurism.
Felicia spent the night again and was home the next morning for a job interview.
As I drank my morning coffee, she came through and exclaimed, "There is my
stuff! What is it doing in here?"
One of the nice things about living alone is that I can have peace and quiet
as I slowly awaken. I must admit that I have become quite contented with
my mid-morning ritual.
I was taken aback by her hostility especially since I got up early to make
her breakfast. I calmly said that I had used it the day before.
She inquired, "You used it in here? What for?"
Still not alert for so early an hour, I responded that I used it when I was
getting ready to go to the doctor. I noticed that she looked confused as
well as miffed. I assumed it was because I did not put the bottle back in
her bag.
She sniffed, "Well, I needed it this morning and couldn’t find it."
I failed to see the problem and replied, "You still can use it this morning.
You have two hours before your interview."
Felicia stopped in her tracks, whirled on me and demanded, "What did you
use it for?"
Not accustomed to so much conversation before I finish my first cup of coffee,
I answered, "As a moisturizer, of course. You have a problem with that?"
The look on her face spoke volumes as she responded, "This is not a moisturizer,
it is moisturizing hair conditioner. You put this on your body? Didn’t
you feel sticky or gooey or something?"
When the convulsive laughter stopped and I thought about it, I realized that
my skin had not felt as soft and youthful in years. I may be on to something.
Some folks my age might worry about dementia, but I’ve been pulling
stunts like this for years. Twenty-five years ago, our choir participated
in a choral gathering at Algoma. Since I lived in Ecru, that meant I would
have to go back home, serve lunch, get my two-year-old to Mama’s house,
and get to the church to ride in a caravan to Algoma between the time we
left church shortly after noon and the 2:00 o’clock departure time.
It would cut things close, but these were the days when I thought I was
invincible.
As I recall, it was raining that Sunday. My hair has enough natural curl
to give me fits on days that are humid. Running a bit late, I raced into
the bathroom, grabbed a can of hairspray and shot a bit of it on the unruly
right side. I was taken aghast to see that I had picked up a can of Dow Scrubbing
Bubbles by mistake. I quickly blotted the foam that covered the right side
of my head, blew the hair dry, and made the best of a bad situation. I did
not realize just what a bad situation I had created until I found over the
next days, weeks, months, and years that I had changed the texture of my
hair on the right side. Students would tease me about my wild look. I should
have cut my hair, but I didn’t know how to manage that side. It had
to grow off before I began to be able to balance the two sides of my hair.
One would think I learned my lesson, but about nine years ago I was staying
at Wayne and Barbara’s house on Eighth Street. They were in Greenville,
and I looked around for some hairspray. Finding none in Barbara’s bathroom,
I looked in Wayne’s bathroom. Sure enough, I found a brown spray can
on the counter. I thought it might be some of Wayne’s special stock,
but I figured one hairspray is pretty much like all the others. I noticed
it took a while to dry, but went on about my day’s activities.
At supper, I mentioned to Jason something about my hair being really stiff
from Wayne’s super hold hairspray. Jason left the room, and being a
man of few words, I thought he was finished eating. It took me a few minutes
to ascertain why he came back brandishing the can of hairspray about the
kitchen asking if that was what I used. I frankly failed to see why he was
making such a big deal about Wayne’s hairspray unless it was really
expensive.
Jason kept saying something about shoes. None of it made any sense until
I read the can. I had used leather shoe protector. I had never heard of such
a product. Isn’t that why we have shoe polish? No wonder my hair
didn’t move in the breeze, although it did have a certain sheen I had
not previously noted. If only it had rained that day, my hair would have
been doubly protected.
Contributed by Sarah C. Brown, titled Nobody Knows The Trouble I‘ve
Seen
Subscription
Time Generosity Helps Others
May will soon end and with the end of May comes two significant events, other
than Memorial Day. May will conclude this newsletter’s tenth year of
publication, an event that will be celebrated on June 3rd, with
a backyard party at our house. As usual, a fish fry is planned. Our son,
Jason, is in charge of entertainment, though there is a possibility that
others will entertain us, also.
The second significant event is the expiration of subscriptions to this
newsletter, for some readers. Readers who receive this newsletter via regular
mail may note an expiration date on the envelope at the end of the line,
"Not Your Average Newsletter." If the subscription expires in May, the line
would read, "Not Your Average Newsletter 05-06."
In order to insure uninterrupted service, persons whose subscription is about
to expire, should remit $25.00, payable to Ridge Rider News at the address
provided on the envelope, prior to the end of May.
For some of our elderly readers, who live on a fixed income, this is a
significant sum of money. When we began charging a subscription fee last
year, several readers, who receive this newsletter via email or the Internet,
made generous contributions in order that others with more modest means and
without access to electronic media might also enjoy our newsletter.
Contributions are welcomed and gift donations may be anonymous or designated
by the giver. Contributors may contact the Editor with questions, concerning
sponsoring the subscription of another.
Bodock Beau Late
Night Humor
I have never been much of a David Letterman fan. That does not mean I can’t
appreciate his humor. I particularly like his comments on the price of gasoline,
this week.
David Letterman: Top Signs Gas Is Expensive:
-
It's so expensive, Batman is patrolling the streets on a Schwinn.
-
It's so expensive, mobsters are dousing snitches with olive oil.
-
It's so expensive, Domino's only delivers within walking distance.
-
It's so expensive, moviegoers flock to "RV" just to see someone driving.
-
It's so expensive, Tom Cruise agreed to be a guest for 5 gallons of unleaded.
-
It's so expensive, you're actually willing to car pool with Regis.
-
It's so expensive, Starbucks is selling Gasaccino.
Jay Leno: Hillary Clinton said that her childhood dream was to be
an Olympic athlete. But she was not athletic enough. She said she wanted
to be an astronaut, but at the time they didn't take women. She said she
wanted to go into medicine, but hospitals made her woozy. Should she be telling
people this story? I mean she's basically saying she wants to be president
because she can't do anything else.
At the last minute, Mexican President Vincente Fox changed his mind and announced
that he will not sign a bill legalizing marijuana, cocaine and heroin. The
Mexican Congress passed it, but he said that he will not sign it. He's worried
about too many Americans sneaking across his border.
Ted Kennedy's son, Congressman Patrick Kennedy, crashed his car into a barricade
on Capitol Hill at three o'clock in the morning. The head of Kennedy's office
said no alcohol was involved. Well, that's why it's a huge story—a Kennedy
in a car accident with no alcohol? That's never happened before.
Did you hear his excuse for hitting the barrier? He said he had to swerve
to avoid hitting Ted Kennedy who was crawling home. I guess the apple doesn't
stagger too far from the tree.
As I'm sure you know by know, Patrick Kennedy blamed this whole incident
on a sleep medication he was taking. He said he couldn't remember getting
out of bed in the middle of the night and leaving his home. And today Bill
Clinton said, "Good answer, good answer."
Kennedy has checked himself into a drug rehab clinic. He gets that 25% Kennedy
family discount. Just mention "Ted" at the door and you’re right in.
Source: Federalist Patriot No. 06-19
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