Part VI – We meet the Amazing Woody and the lovely Grace
Bill and I had directions to an old trailer at a dirt crossroads where Woody was to meet us and escort us the rest of the way to the camp on Frenchmen’s Pond. We were to be joined by Woody’s wife, Gracie, and his pal, board member Pmag, for drinks, a steak cookout, some rod casting, a little fishing, some lie-swapping and story telling… it promised to be an all around delightful evening.
So off we went, back up 510 to the 502. It was a lovely late afternoon in May, the sun was shining, the temperature in the seventies, and I was filled with anticipation and thoroughly enjoying the ride through unfamiliar country.
We made our way to the trailer landmark at the crossroads and there, across the railroad tracks, was the Amazing One himself, standing next to some sort of all-terrain vehicle festooned with a Confederate Battle Flag, a prodigious plug of tobacco in his jaw.
“Waalll, howdy fellers!” (he spat tobacco juice; most of it dribbling down his chin) “Hell fahr, it shore is mahty fahn to meet y’all!”
He then apparently swallowed some of his chaw as he was racked with a spasm of uncontrollable coughing.
“You ok, Woody?”
Red faced, unable to speak, the only response was more hacking and hiccupping accompanied by a nonchalant wave of his hand meant, I assumed, to dismiss our concerns.
Woody, at this point, seemed to be in severe distress, but waved off all attempts to thump him on the back and – still unable to speak – hopped onto his ATV and motioned for us to follow.
It was a short drive across a scrubby, recently cut section of jack pine forest, down a hill and around a bend, and there we were at the legendary Voelker’s pond.
The camp was every bit as homey, pretty and redolent of past good times as pictures I’d seen and my imagination had led me to think it would be.
Woody hopped off his little car, having composed himself by this time, and seemed none the worse for wear other than a slightly detectable greenish tinge, and began to introduce us to his wife, Grace.
“Fellers”, he said - although it came out more like “Ferrers” owing to the chaw - “Ferrers, ‘is is ma w…”
“Woody! Why are you talking like that?”
“Aw, Gracie”
“And spit out that disgusting tobacco”
“Ye…(patooie) Yes’m”
“And stop saying, ‘Yes’m’”
“Yes’m…I mean OK, Gracie”
Grace turned to Bill and me with a smile and said “You’ll have to excuse Woody. He’s been doing this redneck routine ever since we moved here. Trying to fit in, I guess. Drives me nuts”
“But people around here don’t speak with a southern accent”, I said.
“I keep telling him the same thing, but he just goes on watching these stupid Hee-Haw tapes…”
“Aw, Gracie; yore embarrassin’ me in front of the fellers…”
“Woody! Stop it!!”
“Awww…”
We managed to persuade Woody that he needn’t be a redneck on our account, and he actually seemed somewhat relieved – likely at the prospect of not having to chew Red Man for the duration of our visit. I don’t know if he would have survived.
Bill and I had brought gifts. Knowing that the traditional camp cocktail was an Old Fashioned, I had picked up a bottle of green crème de menthe, it being the oldest fashioned liquor I could think of. I had also brought one of my custom made, collector’s edition Formerly Clark’s Moderator t-shirts; one of my most popular designs, “The Ralphie”, unworn and still in its original plastic bag.
Bill and I had directions to an old trailer at a dirt crossroads where Woody was to meet us and escort us the rest of the way to the camp on Frenchmen’s Pond. We were to be joined by Woody’s wife, Gracie, and his pal, board member Pmag, for drinks, a steak cookout, some rod casting, a little fishing, some lie-swapping and story telling… it promised to be an all around delightful evening.
So off we went, back up 510 to the 502. It was a lovely late afternoon in May, the sun was shining, the temperature in the seventies, and I was filled with anticipation and thoroughly enjoying the ride through unfamiliar country.
We made our way to the trailer landmark at the crossroads and there, across the railroad tracks, was the Amazing One himself, standing next to some sort of all-terrain vehicle festooned with a Confederate Battle Flag, a prodigious plug of tobacco in his jaw.
“Waalll, howdy fellers!” (he spat tobacco juice; most of it dribbling down his chin) “Hell fahr, it shore is mahty fahn to meet y’all!”
He then apparently swallowed some of his chaw as he was racked with a spasm of uncontrollable coughing.
“You ok, Woody?”
Red faced, unable to speak, the only response was more hacking and hiccupping accompanied by a nonchalant wave of his hand meant, I assumed, to dismiss our concerns.
Woody, at this point, seemed to be in severe distress, but waved off all attempts to thump him on the back and – still unable to speak – hopped onto his ATV and motioned for us to follow.
It was a short drive across a scrubby, recently cut section of jack pine forest, down a hill and around a bend, and there we were at the legendary Voelker’s pond.
The camp was every bit as homey, pretty and redolent of past good times as pictures I’d seen and my imagination had led me to think it would be.
Woody hopped off his little car, having composed himself by this time, and seemed none the worse for wear other than a slightly detectable greenish tinge, and began to introduce us to his wife, Grace.
“Fellers”, he said - although it came out more like “Ferrers” owing to the chaw - “Ferrers, ‘is is ma w…”
“Woody! Why are you talking like that?”
“Aw, Gracie”
“And spit out that disgusting tobacco”
“Ye…(patooie) Yes’m”
“And stop saying, ‘Yes’m’”
“Yes’m…I mean OK, Gracie”
Grace turned to Bill and me with a smile and said “You’ll have to excuse Woody. He’s been doing this redneck routine ever since we moved here. Trying to fit in, I guess. Drives me nuts”
“But people around here don’t speak with a southern accent”, I said.
“I keep telling him the same thing, but he just goes on watching these stupid Hee-Haw tapes…”
“Aw, Gracie; yore embarrassin’ me in front of the fellers…”
“Woody! Stop it!!”
“Awww…”
We managed to persuade Woody that he needn’t be a redneck on our account, and he actually seemed somewhat relieved – likely at the prospect of not having to chew Red Man for the duration of our visit. I don’t know if he would have survived.
Bill and I had brought gifts. Knowing that the traditional camp cocktail was an Old Fashioned, I had picked up a bottle of green crème de menthe, it being the oldest fashioned liquor I could think of. I had also brought one of my custom made, collector’s edition Formerly Clark’s Moderator t-shirts; one of my most popular designs, “The Ralphie”, unworn and still in its original plastic bag.
On the back, of course, was emblazoned the Formerly Clark’s Moderator Maxim, “Power Corrupts…Trivial Power Corrupts Trivially” and the Formerly Clark’s logo. A great shirt.
To my disappointment, Woody seemed not much interested in either the crème de menthe – which he didn’t even use when he made the Old Fashioneds, substituting bourbon - or the t-shirt, and instead made a big fuss over Bill’s gift which was just an old, used English fly reel. It didn’t even come in a plastic bag. Nonetheless, Woody and Bill seemed to bond at that point and were inseparable for the remainder of the trip.
My feelings were kind of hurt, to tell you the truth, but I got over it.
Next: Part VII - We are joined by the only-slightly-less-Amazing Pmag
To my disappointment, Woody seemed not much interested in either the crème de menthe – which he didn’t even use when he made the Old Fashioneds, substituting bourbon - or the t-shirt, and instead made a big fuss over Bill’s gift which was just an old, used English fly reel. It didn’t even come in a plastic bag. Nonetheless, Woody and Bill seemed to bond at that point and were inseparable for the remainder of the trip.
My feelings were kind of hurt, to tell you the truth, but I got over it.
Next: Part VII - We are joined by the only-slightly-less-Amazing Pmag
I am glad I'm along for the ride.
ReplyDeleteCwfly
you may never waffle on cloozoe-land, but we miss you at clarks. come back.
ReplyDeleteI seem to recollect that this is where the narrative stalled at the other place as well......
ReplyDeleteZenCane
To be fair, this is where the narrative stalls in most group fishing trips. Almost formulaic.....The Premise, The Journey, The Arrival, Introduction of Characters/Setting, Unpacking The Booze.................@%^&...smf yjrh er xcrrom gpm yp s[uiu///..........blurred fish pictures...blurred vehicle in a ditch pictures....rain and tent collapse photos....magazine editors' rejection notices.....
ReplyDeleteOhhh, noooo! Just like the last time at the other place! The narrative gets to this point, and then for the following 6 months the only posts are from this poor yooper, hoping for more of the CI's wonderful descriptions of my homeland, and then the thread dies. Deja Vu all over again!
ReplyDeleteXenCane
Are we kaput already?
ReplyDeletethe Mayfly Mon