Fishing - Penn's Clave 2005

Well, Mark, since you live south of the Mason Dixon line, let me put the
story into words ya'll can unnerstan:

ah love Central Pennsylvania. Thar is some wonnerful fishin' t'be foun', so
ev'ry year in May, ah pack up th' campin' gear (which fo' me intails fillin'
th' bed of mah pickup truck wif th' entire corntents of mah gareege) an'
haid up thar t'meet wif friends an' fish Penns Creek an' th' environs. Last
year's trip went fine. Got up thar on Saturday an' fished mah brains out. On
Tuesday, ah cooked a huge kettle of mah famous Hungarian Barley Stew, fo' 30
o' so of mah closess buddies. On Thursday, it was Lobster Night at th'
Millheim Hotel, ah reckon. Fished all day an' ett two lobsters thet night.
Life don't git much better than thet. Af'er returnin' fum th' hotel, ah went
t'mah bran'-spankin'-noo Kelty tent-mahal (20' X 17' tent), grabbed a sixer
of Yuenglin' an' walked up t'mah friend's trailer in th' campgroun' t'go on
over th' next day's plans. At about 11:30, ah decide t'pack it in an' haid
back down th' trail t'mah tent. As ah crosted th' meadow, ah heard a bit of
a ruckus behind mah tent. Hmm, time t'go investigate. ah turned th' co'ner
of th' tent an' foun' a giant, black throw rug gwine through mah right
fineer. At thet moment, t'other friend of mine, Wo'fy, in th' next tent
growls in a sleepy voice; "Ole Man Frank, is thet yo'?" Wal, ah sized up th'
situashun an' calmly replied; "BEEAAAAARRRR! Fry mah hide!" Th' bar removes
his nose fum mah right fineer, raises hisse'f on his hind legs t'his full
six feet height, looks me straight in th' eye, huffs twice an' then hisses
at me. This hyar is bar talk fo' "git away fum mah munchies o' ah's gonna
give yo' sech a smack! Fry mah hide!" ah flash mah flashlight in his eyes
an' juntly explain t'him thet he's chowin' down mah grub an' beer an' ax him
politely t'leave. Harkin' back t'sto'ies of Dr. Doli'l, ah use bar talk, so
this hyar came outta mah mouth soun'in' like th' scream of a 12-year-old gal
at a Ichabod Chattanoogason corncert. About this hyar time, Wo'fy makes an
appeareence in his bess bar fightin' outfit. Kinda like a bul'fighter's
sueyt of lights. In this hyar case, it's a t-shirt an' BVDs. He spotlights
th' bar wif his light. Hah Ha! Fry mah hide! We now haf this guy
outnumbered, cuss it all t' tarnation. Between mah intellyjunt repartee, two
flashlights an' Wo'fy's bar fightin' outfit, Yogi decides thet discreshun is
th' better part of valo'. He drops t'all fours, turns an' lopes off into th'
woods. Af'er about 15 yards, he turns an' sits down, as enny fool kin
plainly see. He's foun' th' Mammy load in thet right fineer an' is not about
t'aban'on it. Quickly, Wo'fy an' ah decide on a strategy. ah run up t'th'
trailer, bo'row a large pot an' wooden spoon an' dash back down t'th'
meadow. We scream at th' bar an' poun' on th' pot. Th' bar gits up an' goes
on over behind Wo'fy's tent an' sits back down, as enny fool kin plainly
see. Okay, plan B. ah decide t'git in mah truck, put th' haidlights on an'
honk th' ho'n, as enny fool kin plainly see. As ah haid fo' th' truck, th'
bar decides it's a fine time t'come out an' finish his repast. Wo'fy
reluckantly decides t'join me in th' truck. Shet mah mouth! To this hyar
day, ah have no idea how he got into th' passenger seat of mah locked truck
befo'e ah even retched it. Wal, this hyar did th' trick. Shet mah mouth! Our
reluckant heroes won th' day. Th' bar shambles deeper into th' woods,
leavin' us in peace. ah git out an' survey th' damage. Th' bar has
completely destroyed th' contents of mah right fineer. Two quarts of
slightly fermented barley stew is gone, along wif ha'f a ten-poun' loaf of
rye bread, a ha'f-gallon of milk, two poun's of butter, an' three pints of
sour cream, dawgone it. Wal, ah can at least salvage th' ha'f rack of
Yuenglin'. ah clean up th' mess an' decide t'spend th' night in mah friend's
trailer. Wo'fy decides t'hit one of th' group's cabins. Didn't even bother
t'change, jest showed up at th' dore. Eeeww! Fry mah hide! Don't yo' hate
them "come as yer" parties? In th' mo'nin', ah go back down t'mah tent. Yogi
had come back durin' th' night. On account o' th' right fineer was gone, he
decided t'check out th' contents of mah tent. I've gotta larn thet guy how
t'use a zipper. He sliced open th' front of th' tent an' tosted th' place.
Thar was no grub in thar, but he did find mah back pain medicine bottle. ah
had about 40 flexaril in thar along wif 10 darvocet. Wal, th' medicine
bottle was crushed on th' flore (sh'd haf gotten th' chile proof lids). Ha'f
th' flexaril were gone an' all of th' nice, sugar-coated darvocet were
missin'. Th' tent was toast. He had tried t'make a noo exit dore out th'
back t'no avail, ah reckon. Thar was jest inough damage t'th' stress point
thet th' tent'd no longer hold togither. So, barley stew, sour cream,
butter, an' drugs. Th' camp groun' owny did menshun thet thar had been a bar
at th' dumpsters on overnight wif a bad case of th' projeckile diarrhea. ah
figger thet bar had a real fine fiber an' grease system flush in th' wawks.
ah decided t'sleep in a local cabin thet Friday night an' at th' local B&B
on Saturday. ah had t'stay aroun' 'cuz th' green drakes decided t'hatch two
weeks early, but ah did not be hankerin' t'meet up wif a
high-colonic-lovin', drug-crazed junky bar lookin' fo' some Cappain Crunch
an' mo'e milk. Shet mah mouth! Besides, mah tent was now crost ventilated
an''d not keep out th' skeeters. By th' way, befo'e th' night was out,
ev'ryone in th' li'l hamlet near th' campgroun' knowed me as th' idiot thet
lef' a right fineer out next t'his tent. ah even heard about it at th'
co'ner grill an' grocery sto'e in town, as enny fool kin plainly see. Oh
fine, it gave me reason t'stay at th' cabin Friday night an' take ev'ryone's
poker money.

--
Frank Reid
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