Road-trip from the past

"K" was at the high school buddy lunch. He sat across from me and reminded me of an almost forgotten memory.

It was Christmas Break of our senior year in high-school. The more affluent members of our high school class went down south: Jackson, Toledo, Louisville. Or they went out west: Grand Rapids...maybe even Chicago!

Alas, "K", his best buddy "K" and I were not rich.

BUT, one of the "K"'s families had a cottage on a lake "up Nort", that magical land that home-body ERJ had never really visited.

In an act of extraordinary kindness and generousity, "K" and "K" invited me to go up-Nort and go hunting "pats". It was to be a multi-day safari.

You might get the impression that I have always been a country-boy. Alas, that is not the case. I was raised in an urbane, genteel, Sears-kit and ginger-bread-house enclave surrounded by what demographics-types call "inner-city".

My dad used to engage in all kinds of outdoor pursuits until the weight of a growing family drove him into taking a second job. The loss of his Uncle Wheeler, his hunting and fishing buddy was body-blow to that part of his life. I only know this because I found an un-fired, 30-30 Winchester shell in the back of a drawer in the shed. It was a memento of a life Dad had left behind. I asked. He talked. Priorities and all that.

Taking pity on me, and figuring I couldn't do much damage with it, one of my buddies had an old pellet gun that they let me lug around as we trudged around the pucker-brush looking for "pats". "K" from DeWitt had an old Brittany who kept trying to advise us but we were not smart enough to listen to her.

We never saw any "pats" although (statute of limitations expired) I may have shot a rural mailbox that was in the shape of a chicken. I am not saying I did or did-not, but rest assured that no damage was inflicted. All I had was a pellet gun. I may have bent a feather. Just sayin...

During the long drive south, the Brittany expressed her opinion of our hunting prowess by crapping on the vinyl upholstered back-seat of the Duster. I was berated for not stopping her as we stood outside of the vehicle with all four doors open while it aired out. What was I supposed to do, stick a finger in it to stop it from coming out.

Oh, the simple problems of youth!

Coming back to the bountious arms of civilization (pizza) after a subsistence diet of bologna sandwiches and Faygo soda, we learned that "pat" season had ended a week before we started our trip.

God is good. I had a blast. What great guys, willing to take a total newbie along on an expedition like that.