Well, folks, guess I don’t feel much older at age 71 than I did at 70, so let’s get the 41st year of this column going.
Speaking of age, I pulled a stunt last week that pretty well proves that my old mind ain’t what it used to be. My good hunting buddy, Rollin Birdz, came over on a decent weather day and brought 18 of our pen-raised quail for us to hunt.
I hooked up my dog trailer and down the road I went — for about a half mile. Then I pulled into a prairie meadow, turned my rig around and went home and took my two Brittany bird dogs, Annie and Liv, out of their kennel and loaded them into their boxes on the trailer. Ol’ Annie is 10-years-old and gets around worse than I do, but I swear by the look she gave me when I pulled up the kennel, that if she could talk, she’d have called me an “old dummy,” or something worse in dog talk.
But, that’s not the only stunt I pulled on the hunt. After our first stop, we decided to move on a few hundred yards to a new spot to release birds. When we got there, I couldn’t find my shotgun. So, I walked a backtrack to find it because I figgered I’d left it laying unloaded on top of the dog box on the trailer.
I backtracked to our previous stop, but still no shotgun. As I scoured the ground back to my pickup, ol’ Rollin yelled at me and held up my 20-gauge over and under. He’d found the shotgun in the most unlikely place. It wuz lodged under the trailer between the axle and the bed.
Apparently what happened is this: The double-barrel — which I always leave broken open when I’m at rest — had bounced off the front of the trailer and as the trailer passed over it, somehow the barrel got flipped up and lodged under the trailer.
The gun wuz unmarked by the incident, so we just laughed and continued with our hunt. We’d walked 50 yards or so when I turned to Rollin and said, “I’m so old and absent-minded, that I’m glad I never have to be my own hunting partner.” Oh, by the way, we harvested 17 of the 18 birds we planted in the native grass.
While I’m on the subject of hunting, I recall something I overheard during the gun auction I wrote about recently. I listened to one camo-clad gun owner tell his buddy, “My greatest fear is that, when I die, my wife will sell all my guns for what I told her I paid for them.”
Two old cowboys stopped in the local tavern after hauling cattle all day and, as these occasions too often go, one beer turned into another and before either old-timer realized the time, it wuz dark.
Tex looked at Gene and said, “I didn’t realize what time it is. I’d better let my little lady know where I am.”
So, he took out his SmartPhone and sent his wife this text message: “Dear, I’m having one more beer with Gene at the Dew Drop Inn. If I’m not home in a half-hour, read this message again.”
A soybean farmer from Missouri had flown to a national soybean convention and wuz on his return flight to Kansas City when the captain spoke a message to the passengers over the intercom.
He said, “Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your captain. Welcome to Flight 293. We just passed over St. Louis and will be in Kansas City in less than an hour. The weather ahead is good, so we should have a smooth uneventful flight. So, sit back, relax, and ... OH ... MY GOD!”
Silence followed. Some moments later, the captain came back on the intercom. “Ladies and Gentlemen, I’m sorry if I scared you. While I was talking to you, a flight attendant accidentally spilled hot coffee in my lap. You should see the front of my pants!”
The soybean farmer leaned over to the guy seated next to him and said, “If he thinks what happened to him is bad, the captain should come back here and take a look at the back of my pants.”
A couple of days ago, I spoke by phone to a family friend in Iowa. I didn’t get him, but his wife of 40 years answered.
When I asked her about the Iowa winter and how her hubby had been doing, she said that, since early this morning, the snow has been nearly waist high and was still falling. The temperature was 20 below zero and the north wind wuz blowing at gale force. Wind chill was minus 40. And her hubby had gone outside to do the chores.
Then she said her husband had been staring at her for the last half hour through the kitchen window. She said, if the weather got much worse, she might have to unlock the door and let him in.
I overheard an off-the-cuff definition of the (Un) Affordable Care Act. The fellow defined it this way: “To insure the uninsured, the government first makes the insured uninsured and then makes them pay more to be insured again so the original uninsured can be insured for free.”
I can’t think of wiser words to close this column. So, tie down your ear-flappers, tie your handkerchief around your neck, put on 20 pounds of warm clothing, then go outside and have a good ’un. ❖