Sunday, April 16, 2017

Drive - A Memoir 95th Installment

Russ said, “Could we share your fire?”
Be our guest” the beefy, bearded man said.

Can we put this wood on the fire?” I pointed at some small logs. “We’ll get more after we get warm.”

No worries” said the other hunter. This guy seemed a little less dangerous.

As we were standing there the big guy growled “You hungry?” and as we looked up at him, we must have looked hungry enough, so he tossed a can of lima beans on the fire. “What are you boys doing up here?”

We’re bird dogging for our Old Man, but I think we took the wrong ridgeline” Russ said. “Have you guys seen an angry looking farmer with a gruff looking companion in a blue truck come thru here?”

Yeah we did, they drove right past going down that way,” the kinder looking man said.
Down!” I cried. “They left us.” As we hunched closer to the warming hot fire, the can of lima beans suddenly blew up. Kabooom, it almost blew the fire out, a cloud of steam rolled up like an atomic bomb cloud. Lima beans are big beans, and when blasted at substantial force, they sting like crazy. They hit our jeans, snapped where they hit our coats, and inflicted painful hot stings to our faces and bare hands. We danced around raking at our faces to get the hot beans off our skin.

The beefy hunter, who forgot to poke a vent hole in the can said, “Sorry boys.” The other guy said nothing.

I think we’d better go,” I said looking away in case there were tears that would show. We started down the road feeling a little better in the icy air, and as we walked we picked beans off our clothes and ate them for lunch. A short while later, after traveling about a mile we came upon the Old Man and Chick coming up the road. They’d gone down looking for us and were coming back up. We were a sight for sore eyes, they said, but we were the ones who had sore eyes, sore faces and sore hands. We told them all about our trials and the great lima bean explosion. As we drove out of the mountains, the Old Man or Chick would look at the white spots all over our jeans and the red spots on our faces and burst out laughing in spite of themselves.

After I had related this story to Victor, he was duly impressed. “Wow, I don’t blame them for laughing at you,” he said, “Funny story. I guess I was lucky. When I went bird dogging, they sent me places but always kept me in sight.”

What I think is our folks always treated us as equals and not as kids,” Russ said somewhat morosely.

Russ, you shouldn’t say ‘always’ and ‘never.’

500 more words tomorrow

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