"New Neighbors"
The CFO, otherwise known as my wife, called me at work one morning and said, “Hey, I just met the folks who bought the house next door. You’re gonna love ‘em.” She went on to allow as how they are big college football fans, enjoy grilling out with the aid of ice cold adult refreshments, have a baby the same age as our youngest, and, best of all, “The husband is a big fisherman. He even has his own boat.”
Wow. A neighbor with a boat! Suddenly I wished the shrubs had been more recently manicured and that I’d pressure-washed the house this fall.
After being pinned down for a minute by my machine gun-like interrogation into what kind of boat it was, whether the husband prefers in-shore to off-shore fishing and whether he hunts (and if so, what), the CFO grumbled something less than complimentary about my being “obsessive,” and hung up the phone without divulging very much useful information about our neighbors-to-be, save the revelation that the husband owns a boat.
One of the few beneficial pieces of intelligence the CFO passed along before hanging up was a statement the wife made to her about how her husband “would just love to make a fishin’ buddy next door.” I immediately began picturing myself holding up a hawg of a redfish while being flanked by two beautiful women, a trophy in one’s hands and one of those humongous oversized checks in the other’s.
I was not necessarily proud of my excitement over learning that the new neighbors owned a boat before I’d even thought to ask their names, because I realized in an instant what that made me: there is a off-color moniker for an individual who does not possess his own boat but rather relies on the gracious and repeated invitations of one who does; a moniker I shall not employ here in your fine and fair company. Suffice it to say that the first word is “boat” and the second word rhymes with “store.” Suffice it to say also that the moniker suits me perfectly.
I immediately grabbed my calendar and began searching for open weekends in order to invite the husband up to the camp for a deer hunt. Alright, they close on the 22nd, I thought, so they ought to be in the house shortly after that. Perfect. The rut will just be getting underway when he unpacks the last box.
My fervent hope is that the husband is a fisher and not a serious hunter. In the most symbiotic of outdoor relationships, he can take me fishing and I, in turn, can take him hunting. Not only will such an arrangement feel more equitable, but it will also serve to assuage the lack of confidence I will feel the first few times we fish together. Somehow I won’t feel so much like a pest for having to ask him to repeatedly motor over to the bank in order for me to liberate my jointed shad from the trees, if in return I can look forward to having to spend hours on my hands and knees tracking his gut-shot deer or – worse – locating him after he gets himself turned around in the woods at night.
If he’s already an accomplished deer hunter as well as a fisherman, then I will just have to proselytize him to turkey hunting. In fact, I would relish spending time in the turkey woods with someone who didn’t know enough to recognize the depths of my ineptitude, and who would – through his own sheer unfamiliarity with the wild turkey – swallow hook, line and sinker my repeated excus -- er, explanations as to why we never seem to bag a gobbler. I figure it will take him at least two springs to figure it out and expose me for the fraud I am when the dogwoods bloom.
Should he turn out to be a seasoned turkey hunter in addition to an accomplished deer hunter and fisherman, then, hell, I guess I’ll just have to fill the boat with gas every time.
Back to the boat. My mind reeled. I suppose it could be your average 18 to 21 foot, deep-V, center console outboard just perfect for fishing the Bay and the Gulf. But the truth is I hope it’s a 14 or 16 foot delta boat, rigged for in-shore fishing and the occasional duck hunt (oh my God, what if he hunts ducks, too?). While I can appreciate off-shore fishing, getting beat up both ways on day-long trips out of sight of land just ain’t on my list of top ten outdoor pursuits any more. Now that I’m older and have kids, I much prefer slow, lazy mornings on a quiet stream or lake going after trout and bass.
But first thing’s first. We’ve got to get to know the new neighbors and lay the groundwork for years of friendship and dead battery jumping. A boat next door sure will make up for a lot of barking dogs, overgrown weeds and cups of sugar. So I suppose I’ll be helping to carry a lot of furniture and boxes full of crockery over the next couple of weeks. But it’s a small price to pay. Have you seen what a boat payment is these days?
(c) Roger Guilian 2008
Wow. A neighbor with a boat! Suddenly I wished the shrubs had been more recently manicured and that I’d pressure-washed the house this fall.
After being pinned down for a minute by my machine gun-like interrogation into what kind of boat it was, whether the husband prefers in-shore to off-shore fishing and whether he hunts (and if so, what), the CFO grumbled something less than complimentary about my being “obsessive,” and hung up the phone without divulging very much useful information about our neighbors-to-be, save the revelation that the husband owns a boat.
One of the few beneficial pieces of intelligence the CFO passed along before hanging up was a statement the wife made to her about how her husband “would just love to make a fishin’ buddy next door.” I immediately began picturing myself holding up a hawg of a redfish while being flanked by two beautiful women, a trophy in one’s hands and one of those humongous oversized checks in the other’s.
I was not necessarily proud of my excitement over learning that the new neighbors owned a boat before I’d even thought to ask their names, because I realized in an instant what that made me: there is a off-color moniker for an individual who does not possess his own boat but rather relies on the gracious and repeated invitations of one who does; a moniker I shall not employ here in your fine and fair company. Suffice it to say that the first word is “boat” and the second word rhymes with “store.” Suffice it to say also that the moniker suits me perfectly.
I immediately grabbed my calendar and began searching for open weekends in order to invite the husband up to the camp for a deer hunt. Alright, they close on the 22nd, I thought, so they ought to be in the house shortly after that. Perfect. The rut will just be getting underway when he unpacks the last box.
My fervent hope is that the husband is a fisher and not a serious hunter. In the most symbiotic of outdoor relationships, he can take me fishing and I, in turn, can take him hunting. Not only will such an arrangement feel more equitable, but it will also serve to assuage the lack of confidence I will feel the first few times we fish together. Somehow I won’t feel so much like a pest for having to ask him to repeatedly motor over to the bank in order for me to liberate my jointed shad from the trees, if in return I can look forward to having to spend hours on my hands and knees tracking his gut-shot deer or – worse – locating him after he gets himself turned around in the woods at night.
If he’s already an accomplished deer hunter as well as a fisherman, then I will just have to proselytize him to turkey hunting. In fact, I would relish spending time in the turkey woods with someone who didn’t know enough to recognize the depths of my ineptitude, and who would – through his own sheer unfamiliarity with the wild turkey – swallow hook, line and sinker my repeated excus -- er, explanations as to why we never seem to bag a gobbler. I figure it will take him at least two springs to figure it out and expose me for the fraud I am when the dogwoods bloom.
Should he turn out to be a seasoned turkey hunter in addition to an accomplished deer hunter and fisherman, then, hell, I guess I’ll just have to fill the boat with gas every time.
Back to the boat. My mind reeled. I suppose it could be your average 18 to 21 foot, deep-V, center console outboard just perfect for fishing the Bay and the Gulf. But the truth is I hope it’s a 14 or 16 foot delta boat, rigged for in-shore fishing and the occasional duck hunt (oh my God, what if he hunts ducks, too?). While I can appreciate off-shore fishing, getting beat up both ways on day-long trips out of sight of land just ain’t on my list of top ten outdoor pursuits any more. Now that I’m older and have kids, I much prefer slow, lazy mornings on a quiet stream or lake going after trout and bass.
But first thing’s first. We’ve got to get to know the new neighbors and lay the groundwork for years of friendship and dead battery jumping. A boat next door sure will make up for a lot of barking dogs, overgrown weeds and cups of sugar. So I suppose I’ll be helping to carry a lot of furniture and boxes full of crockery over the next couple of weeks. But it’s a small price to pay. Have you seen what a boat payment is these days?
(c) Roger Guilian 2008
posted by Days Afield Host | 2:11 PM
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