The Old Man's Letters - Softcover

Reisig, Michael

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0965124045 ISBN 13: 9780965124041

Publisher: Clear Creek Pr, 1999

Synopsis

Meet Jake Strider--a cantankerous old country sage with an acerbic wit and a ribald sense of humor. "The Old Man's Letters" chronicles Strider's more notable correspondence to his son over a two-decade period. It's an hilarious, remarkable perceptive panorama of rural life, and the world outside it--A combination of down-home country humor and slick, sophisticated wit that will tickle your funny bone and touch your heart.

Jake's letters run the gamut from bizarre tales of crazy friends to poignant social and political points of view. In between it all, he paints a portrait of country living so vivid that you'll taste the rain on the wind--and for an hour or two, you will become part of America's heartland.

About this title

About the Author

Michael Reisig was born in Enid, Oklahoma, in 1948. The first son of a military family, he graduated high school in Tampa, Florida, and attended Saint Petersburg Junior College. After college, he relocated to the Florida Keys, establishing a commercial diving business and traveling throughout the southern hemisphere--diving, treasure hunting, adventuring, and writing of his travels. Reisig presently resides in the Ouachita Mountains of Arkansas. He is the "Ouachita Outdoors" editor for The Mena Star, and continues to pen his novels.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Every once in a while something happens that is just so much better than anything I could invent, I just have to shake my head in wonder and smile in appreciation of the devil's sense of humor. Now this story is true, I swear. It may however, have been embellished somewhat by the time it reached me, but it was so good by then that it required little artistic license on my part. This is the tale as I heard it.... A woman went grocery shopping at one of the stores in Polk County, one of those super-sized places that ends with a "Mart." When she finished her shopping she returned to the car, put her groceries in the back seat, got in behind the wheel and relaxed for a moment while waiting for her son, who was still in the store. Time passed, it was a hot day.... A little while later, a fellow who had just left the store was walking through the parking lot when he heard someone cry out. He looked over and observed the lady behind the wheel of her car, writhing and moaning loudly, holding the back of her head with her hands. He rushed over and knocked on her window, asking if he could be of assistance. She--or he--managed to get the door open, but at that point the lady was nearing hysterics. "Help me! Help me!" she cried. "Call the police! I've been shot in the back of the head!" The man's first response was to reach forward to examine the wound, but the lady pulled back screaming, "No! No! Don't touch me! I'm holding my brains in with my hands! Please, please, call the police now!" Who would have ever thought? An innocent soul shot while waiting at a store in our quiet little county! What is this world coming to? The man, quite unnerved, dashed off to the pay phone and called for an ambulance. Within minutes the ambulance and the police arrived, prepared for the worst, searching for the sniper, the point of entry, and looking for the blood...but there wasn't any. Nope, no crazed gunman, no shattered windows or rendered flesh, no gore. When they calmed the woman down enough to examine her, they discovered that while she waited for her son, a package of refrigerated biscuits in the backseat had warmed to critical mass and exploded, the contents of which slammed her in the back of the head. Yes, you heard right, struck down in her prime by a biscuit-bullet, a gooey projectile of Pillsbury's best that had smacked her hard enough to jiggle her eyeballs. (I swear I'm not making this up.) Those precious brains she was attempting to keep from draining out of her cranium were nothing more than the Doughboy's buttermilks! Now I have to wonder what was going through the lady's mind (or what was left of it, as she perceived it) as she attempted to squeeze the biscuit/brains back into her head. Did it occur to her at any time that she was remarkably lucid for having the better part of her grey matter oozing through her fingers and dripping down the headrest? Did she notice at all that her brains seemed a little chilled? Well, these questions and many more we'll probably never have answers to, disappointing as it is. But I felt the tale itself was worth the telling. In closing, let me leave you with the moral of this little story. It just goes to show you that you have to be careful out there, because calamity can rise up at anytime and strike you when you yeast expect it....

THE GREAT TURKEY HUNT March 5, 1986 Ah, here it is--spring turkey season again. The aroma of damp earth on a misty morning, the crisp crackle of leaves underfoot, the heavy, satisfying feel of a cold weapon in your hands, and the startling first sight of your prey: these are many of the reasons we hunt. But, even with all the odds in our favor, every once in a while something goes awry. I have a hunting buddy who lives in Mount Ida. We'll call him Rodge. Now, Rodge was wrapped a little loose before he went to Nam. The field trips to Cambodia didn't help. Although he loves the outdoors (he's one of the few people I know who wishes the deer could shoot back), Rodge's approaches to the primitive instinct sports are a little unconventional, and the tangents he goes off on occasionally land him in trouble.

His idea of fishing is a baitcasting rod, 20-pound test line, and a grenade. He likes guns with sufficient stopping power to disable a bulldozer, and he owns an armory that would make the National Guard envious--or worried. A while back, Rodge called and asked me if I'd like to go turkey hunting with him. "With guns?" I asked. "Yeah, sure, with guns," he replied. "Grenades mess em up too much." Now, knowing Rodge's history with this sort of enterprise, I should have said no, but I really wanted a turkey for the larder, and the season was nearing an end. My primal instincts got the better of me, and I agreed, though my concern escalated when Rodge assured me we would get a turkey, "'cause he had a plan...." The following morning, just as the first rays of the sun began to edge the darkness, we were already in position deep in the National Forest. Rodge had brought a large duffel bag with him, but when I asked him what was in it, he wouldn't tell me. He just smiled and said it was part of "the plan." He was maybe 20 yards from me and I could hear him rustling around in the darkness, but I couldn't see him. In the distance, I heard an old tom call. A few moments later, I heard my partner use his diaphragm caller, the kind that fits in the roof of your mouth. I looked over and suddenly, out of the gloom, came Rodge. My jaw dropped. I didn't know whether to laugh out loud, or shoot him and put him out of his misery. Crazy ol' Rodge was dressed in a giant turkey suit, complete with beak protruding over his forehead, full-feathered wings that his arms fit into, beige-colored tights on his legs, and clawed tennis shoes. One arm tucked his gun to his side. The surprising part was how darned much he looked like a turkey! "Wetti ool, uh?" he said. "Take the diaphragm out of your mouth." "Pretty cool, huh?" he repeated. "I'll be just another big ol' turkey, get those suckers to walk right up to me." Closer, now, the old tom gobbled again. "Get down!" I whispered tensely. "Behind that log." As Rodge settled in behind a giant fallen oak, he put his diaphragm back in his mouth and called again. The turkey answered, insistent. Everything was going perfectly--it looked like a piece of cake. I should have known better. It seems there were a couple of factors we were unaware of. First, two other hunters were moving in to the west of us, stalking what they thought were a pair of turkeys calling to each other. Secondly, was the nest of fire ants that Rodge had sat down on: ants that were, at that moment, crawling into his feathers and leggin's. Fire ants are crafty little creatures. It's almost like they wait until they're all in place, then bite on cue. All of a sudden Rodge grunted and his eyes bulged. He stood straight up and stumbled over the log, his arms flapping, doing some kind of demented turkey jig. The turkey caller caught in his throat and he started cackling and gobbling, performing some of the finest turkey calling I'd ever heard, but I was sure that dance thing was going to scare the bird. Before I could yell at him to get back down, I heard someone call from the other side of the clearing, "Look Jeb! There's the biggest goll-derned turkey I ever seen. Get em! Shoot that son-of-a-gun!" The roar of a shotgun shattered the stillness of the morning, and a patch of feathers on Rodge's haunches exploded. He did a standing broad jump of about 15 feet (probably a record of some sort), coughing up the diaphragm as he shrieked, spitting it about 25 feet (probably another record). Rodge dashed for the woods, zig-zagging, screaming and flapping while shotgun blasts chewed the bark off trees around him. I kept my head down until the shooting stopped. When the smoke cleared, Rodge was gone. The other hunters had disappeared as well, probably still searching for the Loch Ness turkey. Two hours later, I found Rodge in the back of the car, nursing a load of birdshot--the turkey suit gone, left in the woods. I looked at him. "Don't say a word," he said."Just take me home. I want a beer and a TV dinner, in that order." "Would that be turkey and dressing?" I asked with a smile.

Edition details

• Publisher: Clear Creek Pr
• Publication date: 1999
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 0965124045
• ISBN 13: 9780965124041
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 128