Tuesday, February 17, 2015

News Flash

Sitting by the fireplace during a snowstorm, we feel moved to interrupt the Fall picture reveal with a couple of important announcements.

1.  Peter Fucking Feldman has accepted the role of Head Chef for the Saturday night dinner on the Spring trip this April.   Scouts were in attendance when he served the mufalletta on the Upper Duck Spring of 2013 and came away impressed.   

Pete has not settled on the full course yet but early indications are that he will be cooking a dead animal.  Phil and the Night Varmint will serve as sous chefs.  

2.   Hard to believe, but this spring will be the 10 year-year anniversary of the trip where we took out and camped at at Mrs. Cooper's shack.


Because the RRCC likes anniversaries and celebrating important milestones, we will put in this Spring exactly where we left off one decade ago.  It's a section we need to do anyway.  Don't know how Mrs. Cooper is holding up 10 years later, but we're probably not looking much better.  

You may now return to your regularly scheduled blizzard..

Having slept heavily, I woke early and lay there unwilling to slide out into the cold air beyond the quilts.  At six thirty Old Man Willett came in and switched on the light.  He was wearing flap-backed long underwear and slippers and seemed to be dancing a little with contained emotion.

He said:  "You're a blowed Jew!"

The pup started barking without showing himself from under the blanket I'd folded over him on the floor.  "Why?" I said.

"Hit's a-snowin'!" the old man cackled, and gave a caper, and disappeared.

Rolling up, I looked at the window and sure enough, hit was.

Big wet white globs were whirling out of the half-darkness and flattening themselves against the glass and sliding down to stack up against the partition moldings.

I got up  and dressed and went out to the kitchen, where the old man was patting out biscuit dough and the radio, full-blast loud, was gloating over the fact that the weather was in a hell of a shape and likely to stay that way.  I sipped coffee and listened and looked out the window at the snow-dimmed bulk of the log house, and the old man laughed every time he glanced my direction. 

"November ain't so bad for a canoe trip," he said, misquoting words of mine from the afternoon before.  "November's the nicest month they is, in Texiss."  

Goodbye to a River, p. 100.