Redneck's famous last words at the family reunion...
"Hey, watch this!"
Well, I did it... while at the Packard Reunion 06 at Tiki Island, Texas, I felt the need to Carpe the old Diem. It all started as we arrived at our rented house late one evening. The lights were all out as we cousins wound around to the house entrance, facing the canal...
"ker-Splash!" cousin George pitched off the deck into the inky black waters. "Da-amn" I thought. I mean, I could see being seized by some romantic impulse.. there under the pale blue moonlight, ripping off one's shirt, and taking a brazen midnight plunge... but cousin George? Sweet, mild-mannered, cousin George? As he thrashed about, it readily became apparant this was no romantic impulse... George had tumbled in. Luckily, as we hauled him in, the only casualty was his cell-phone. I just couldn't stop laughing. The story soon took momentum in it's retelling as "Cousin George's nude moonlight two-and-a-half."
Not to be outdone, at dinner the following day I declared "I Will Now Swim Around the Island." My redneck moment had arrived. I had arranged with cousin Brian to follow along in his boat with the gang. We figured that it was under 2 miles to cousin Heidi's pad, and that the currents were working in my favor. I "Georged" off the deck, and it was on. The girls next door called out "How's the water?"... "Awesome" I replied... "Well, watch out, 'cause I was stung by a man-o-war right there yesterday." I took off like buckshot. The water got choppy and surprisingly, warmer as I plowed into the West Bay. Now, I don't like to think about it even now, but from time to time I would whack into something... unmentionable. I didn't stick around to investigate. My dad had mentioned an article about the bay's gators, so I was spurred on to an even hastier effort. Clusters of people cheered from the shore. Giving up was not an option. By the time I turned into Heidi's canal, the sun had long since set. Several canal-side homes had set up powerful halogen fishing lights, attracting schools of fish and crab. I recklessly plowed through, determined... unstoppable. Finally arriving at Heidi's pad, I scrambled up a barnacle-encrusted ladder, dashed across her lawn, and chased by a biblical swarm of mosquitos, cannonballed into her pool. God takes care of fools and drunks. Lucky, 'cause in my case... I'm both.
Another gift from God came courtesy of Alberto, the first hurricane of the season. It was picking up in the gulf and pumping us some real waves. Cousin Peter, daughter Sonja and I didn't need any convincing as we grabbed some longboards and headed out to Galveston's beaches, looking for that magical break. Surfing can be like a prayer, and in that moment I realized... I am blessed.
In the evenings we would gather to prepare meals. Sonja and I, as vegetarians, were the constant spoilers here- but we managed. Among these hardy, farm-bred types our vegetarianism was regarded with slight bemusement... and perhaps as something vaguely exotic. One evening I hit on an old joke. Remember Gene Hackman in Bonnie and Clyde, "Boy, whatever you do, don't sell that cow!"? That was me, as I regaled in the joke's telling and retelling. It went something like this: A lady goes to a sporting-goods store to find a fishing pole. After some searching around she finds a particularly sporty rod. *tap-tap-tap* A salesman in dark glasses and a white cane ambled up. "Can I help you ma'am?" "Why yes, I'm interested in purchasing this here fishing pole." *tap-tap-tap* The salesman ambled around the counter to the register. "You just go ahead and drop that rod right here on this counter." The woman plopped the rod on down. "Why that's a Berkley Cherrywood Classic. Twenty Dollars." Impressed, the woman fumbled through her purse for her credit-card, drops it, and while bending over to pick it up rips a virile fart. Startled, but determined to play it off she hands the blind salesman the card- not even bothering to excuse herself. The salesman hit the ringer: "That'll be thirty-four ninety-five." "Why, you just told me twenty dollars!" the lady protested. "Yes ma'am, twenty for the pole, eleven for the bird-call, and three ninety-five for the catfish bait."
Reactions to the joke were decidedly mixed, ranging from uproarious hilarity to flat, expressionless silence. Nonetheless, I told and retold the joke with increasing fervor... to anyone who would listen... just like Gene Hackman. It's not so much the joke itself, or even in it's telling that I found so truly delightful. Heck, I had never even smelled catfish bait prior to that week- George had spent the week fishing off of the infamous deck. The whole arcane scenario might have been lost on me had I not paused to drink in the moment. I am indeed, truly blessed.
