"Work Weekend: Part Two"
Later that night, the group sat down to dinner together in the makeshift dining room just off the camp house’s living room, around a table fashioned out of a hefty old red door. It was encased in a thick coat of lacquer that resembled heavy ice.
Dinner consisted of rib eye steaks, instant mashed potatoes, microwaved steamed vegetables, and bag Caesar salad, all served on paper plates. Richard cooked the rib eyes over charcoal, as the rest of the group leaned against porch railings or perched atop the assembled four-wheelers and golf carts, and supervised. During dinner, most continued to drink beer; Wayne had sweet tea. Don drank red wine from a bottle he’d brought with him. Just like his motorcycle outfit, he caught hell from the rest of the guys for his wine, too.
After dinner was complete and the kitchen was cleaned up, everyone gathered in the living room. Chris fired up the 20-year old big screen TV, adjusted the rabbit ears and pulled in a snowy broadcast of a major league baseball game. Two-and-one-third-innings later, Bill got up out of a recliner, stood in front of the brick hearth and said, “Okay, y’all, let’s figure out what we’re doing tomorrow.” Immediately, the TV went off and the group reconvened outside around the firepit which, by now, was burning with steady blue flames and almost no smoke.
“We’ve got a lot to do, but I think if we get an early start, we can get most of it done before it gets too hot. If so, we’ll spend the afternoon working around the camp house.” Bill walked them through his list of chores, and they discussed and debated which ones warranted the highest priority and which ones they could skip. Eventually, everyone agreed that the shooting houses needed to be sprayed for wasps and swept out; firewood needed to be located and cut; tree limbs and brush needed to be trimmed back along all the roads and around all the shooting houses; the fields and some roads needed to be bush-hogged; poison ivy around ladder stands and other high-traffic areas needed to be sprayed with Round-Up. The moving of shooting houses, creating of new openings for food plots, and cutting of new roads would have to wait for the time being. Bill could go a little bit overboard sometimes.
After the business portion of the evening was concluded, everyone sat around the fire and shared stories, told jokes, recalled memorable events in the camp’s history and made lofty predictions about the upcoming deer season.
By the time the fire died down well past midnight, the top of the stone firepit was littered with empty bottles and cans, a pair of flip-flops, a Skoal can, a cell phone, one of Don’s wine bottles, and a crumpled-up cigarette box. The fire slowly burned itself out while the men snored inside the camp house.
Around 1:45 the following afternoon, Chris pulled up to the camp house on a four-wheeler. A few minutes later, Pete and Lester, the fellow who’d ridden up with him the day before, arrived in Pete’s truck. Both the truck bed and the trailer behind it were full of freshly sawed water oak. They began unloading and stacking it in the wooden racks just off the back door to the camp house.
“Man, I sure don’t remember it ever being this hot up here before,” Pete said.
“Gets worse and worse every year,” Chris retorted.
“At least this year maybe we’ll avoid our usual work weekend calamities,” Pete said. “I’m ready for a cold beer.”
“Don’t jinx us, Pedro,” Chris said in his slow, syrupy drawl.
The three were still unloading and stacking the logs when Richard pulled up on his four-wheeler. Round-Up sloshed inside the white opaque sprayer tank attached to the back. The three men working on the firewood looked up to see Richard help Don off the back of the four-wheeler.
“What happened?” asked Lester.
“Ol’ Evel Knievel here got attacked by wasps when he was cleaning out the shooting house on the Horseshoe Patch, and he ain’t feelin’ so swooft.”
“Jeez, Don, you alright?” Lester asked.
“He’ll be alright,” Richard interjected. “But that ain’t all – check this out: Bill got into some poison ivy when he was weed-whacking around a ladder stand, and he’s blown up about as big as a sumo wrestler. Said on the radio that he can’t barely see to drive back in.”
“Damn,” offered Chris. “Seems like he gets into that stuff every time we’re up here. Why doesn’t he let somebody else crawl around in that stuff?”
“Get this,” Richard continued. “Tom and Wayne are way up by 34 on the tractor – stuck as hell in that drain off the back side of the field. Tom was turning around and totally sunk both right side tires. That thing’s leaning over 45 degrees; left side tires are barely touching.”
“Damn gumbo mud,” muttered Pete. “How the hell are we supposed to get them out? Just when I was starting to look forward to plopping down in that chair right there with a cold beer.”
“Well,” Richard offered, “I’m gonna get Don situated in the house; y’all load up a cooler and let’s get back out there and see what we can do.”
Pete, Chris and Lester looked at one another as the camp house screen door slapped closed behind Richard and Don. Pete hopped off the wood pile inside the trailer. Chris threw down the log he was holding in his hand.
“Told ya,” Chris said, disgustedly.
“Well,” Pete groaned. “Just your average work weekend at the camp, I reckon.”
With that, two of the men began loading a cooler with bottled water, ice and beer while the other filled up a four-wheeler with gas from a red plastic five-gallon can. Then they headed out into the heat and the critters and the woods to help their friends.
(c) Roger Guilian 2011
Dinner consisted of rib eye steaks, instant mashed potatoes, microwaved steamed vegetables, and bag Caesar salad, all served on paper plates. Richard cooked the rib eyes over charcoal, as the rest of the group leaned against porch railings or perched atop the assembled four-wheelers and golf carts, and supervised. During dinner, most continued to drink beer; Wayne had sweet tea. Don drank red wine from a bottle he’d brought with him. Just like his motorcycle outfit, he caught hell from the rest of the guys for his wine, too.
After dinner was complete and the kitchen was cleaned up, everyone gathered in the living room. Chris fired up the 20-year old big screen TV, adjusted the rabbit ears and pulled in a snowy broadcast of a major league baseball game. Two-and-one-third-innings later, Bill got up out of a recliner, stood in front of the brick hearth and said, “Okay, y’all, let’s figure out what we’re doing tomorrow.” Immediately, the TV went off and the group reconvened outside around the firepit which, by now, was burning with steady blue flames and almost no smoke.
“We’ve got a lot to do, but I think if we get an early start, we can get most of it done before it gets too hot. If so, we’ll spend the afternoon working around the camp house.” Bill walked them through his list of chores, and they discussed and debated which ones warranted the highest priority and which ones they could skip. Eventually, everyone agreed that the shooting houses needed to be sprayed for wasps and swept out; firewood needed to be located and cut; tree limbs and brush needed to be trimmed back along all the roads and around all the shooting houses; the fields and some roads needed to be bush-hogged; poison ivy around ladder stands and other high-traffic areas needed to be sprayed with Round-Up. The moving of shooting houses, creating of new openings for food plots, and cutting of new roads would have to wait for the time being. Bill could go a little bit overboard sometimes.
After the business portion of the evening was concluded, everyone sat around the fire and shared stories, told jokes, recalled memorable events in the camp’s history and made lofty predictions about the upcoming deer season.
By the time the fire died down well past midnight, the top of the stone firepit was littered with empty bottles and cans, a pair of flip-flops, a Skoal can, a cell phone, one of Don’s wine bottles, and a crumpled-up cigarette box. The fire slowly burned itself out while the men snored inside the camp house.
Around 1:45 the following afternoon, Chris pulled up to the camp house on a four-wheeler. A few minutes later, Pete and Lester, the fellow who’d ridden up with him the day before, arrived in Pete’s truck. Both the truck bed and the trailer behind it were full of freshly sawed water oak. They began unloading and stacking it in the wooden racks just off the back door to the camp house.
“Man, I sure don’t remember it ever being this hot up here before,” Pete said.
“Gets worse and worse every year,” Chris retorted.
“At least this year maybe we’ll avoid our usual work weekend calamities,” Pete said. “I’m ready for a cold beer.”
“Don’t jinx us, Pedro,” Chris said in his slow, syrupy drawl.
The three were still unloading and stacking the logs when Richard pulled up on his four-wheeler. Round-Up sloshed inside the white opaque sprayer tank attached to the back. The three men working on the firewood looked up to see Richard help Don off the back of the four-wheeler.
“What happened?” asked Lester.
“Ol’ Evel Knievel here got attacked by wasps when he was cleaning out the shooting house on the Horseshoe Patch, and he ain’t feelin’ so swooft.”
“Jeez, Don, you alright?” Lester asked.
“He’ll be alright,” Richard interjected. “But that ain’t all – check this out: Bill got into some poison ivy when he was weed-whacking around a ladder stand, and he’s blown up about as big as a sumo wrestler. Said on the radio that he can’t barely see to drive back in.”
“Damn,” offered Chris. “Seems like he gets into that stuff every time we’re up here. Why doesn’t he let somebody else crawl around in that stuff?”
“Get this,” Richard continued. “Tom and Wayne are way up by 34 on the tractor – stuck as hell in that drain off the back side of the field. Tom was turning around and totally sunk both right side tires. That thing’s leaning over 45 degrees; left side tires are barely touching.”
“Damn gumbo mud,” muttered Pete. “How the hell are we supposed to get them out? Just when I was starting to look forward to plopping down in that chair right there with a cold beer.”
“Well,” Richard offered, “I’m gonna get Don situated in the house; y’all load up a cooler and let’s get back out there and see what we can do.”
Pete, Chris and Lester looked at one another as the camp house screen door slapped closed behind Richard and Don. Pete hopped off the wood pile inside the trailer. Chris threw down the log he was holding in his hand.
“Told ya,” Chris said, disgustedly.
“Well,” Pete groaned. “Just your average work weekend at the camp, I reckon.”
With that, two of the men began loading a cooler with bottled water, ice and beer while the other filled up a four-wheeler with gas from a red plastic five-gallon can. Then they headed out into the heat and the critters and the woods to help their friends.
(c) Roger Guilian 2011
posted by Days Afield Host | 3:18 PM
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