Why Does A Northeastern Yankee like Myself Hold Such A Strong Bond With The South?
- Thread starter philly rabbit
- Start date
Cancel 2016.11
Darla
omg he is going all 007
zappasguitar
Well-known member
I'd guess it has something to do with being intolerant of those different from you...
THE LAST YEAR THE TROUT CAME UP HAYMAN CREEK
Gone now the old fart. Hayman Creek was named for
Charles Hayman, a sort of half-assed pioneer in a country
that not many wanted to live in because it was poor and ugly
and horrible, He built a shack, this was in 1876, on a little
creek that drained a worthless hill. After a while the creek
was called Hayman Creek.
Mr. Hayman did not know how to read or write and considered
himself better for it. Mr. Hayman did odd jobs for years
and years and years and years.
Your mule's broke?
Get Mr. Hayman to fix it.
Your fences are on fire?
Get Mr. Hayman to put them out.
Mr. Hayman lived on a diet of stone-ground wheat and
kale. He bought the wheat by the hundred-pound sack and
ground it himself with a mortar and pestle. He grew the kale
in front of his shack and tended the kale as if it were prize
winning orchids.
During all the time that was his life, Mr. Hayman never
had a cup of coffee, a smoke, a drink or a woman and thought
he'd be a fool if he did.
In the winter a few trout would go up Hayman Creek, but
by early summer the creek was almost dry and there were
no fish in it.
Mr. Hayman used to catch a trout or two and eat raw
trout with his stone-ground wheat and his kale, and then one
day he was so old that he did not feel like working any more,
and he looked so old that the children thought he must be evil
to live by himself, and they were afraid to go up the creek
near his shack.
It didn't bother Mr. Hayman. The last thing in the world
he had any use for were children. Reading and writing and
children were all the same, Mr. Hayman thought, and
ground his wheat and tended his kale and caught a trout or
two when they were in the creek.
He looked ninety years old for thirty years and then he
got the notion that he would die, and did so. The year he died
the trout didn't come up Hayman Creek, and never went up
the creek again. With the old man dead, the trout figured it
was better to stay where they were.
The mortar and pestle fell off the shelf and broke.
The shack rotted away.
And the weeds grew into the kale.
Twenty years after Mr. Hayman's death, some fish and
game people were planting trout in the streams around there.
"Might as well put some here, " one of the men said.
"Sure, " the other one said.
They dumped a can full of trout in the creek and no sooner
had the trout touched the water, than they turned their white
bellies up and floated dead down the creek.
Gone now the old fart. Hayman Creek was named for
Charles Hayman, a sort of half-assed pioneer in a country
that not many wanted to live in because it was poor and ugly
and horrible, He built a shack, this was in 1876, on a little
creek that drained a worthless hill. After a while the creek
was called Hayman Creek.
Mr. Hayman did not know how to read or write and considered
himself better for it. Mr. Hayman did odd jobs for years
and years and years and years.
Your mule's broke?
Get Mr. Hayman to fix it.
Your fences are on fire?
Get Mr. Hayman to put them out.
Mr. Hayman lived on a diet of stone-ground wheat and
kale. He bought the wheat by the hundred-pound sack and
ground it himself with a mortar and pestle. He grew the kale
in front of his shack and tended the kale as if it were prize
winning orchids.
During all the time that was his life, Mr. Hayman never
had a cup of coffee, a smoke, a drink or a woman and thought
he'd be a fool if he did.
In the winter a few trout would go up Hayman Creek, but
by early summer the creek was almost dry and there were
no fish in it.
Mr. Hayman used to catch a trout or two and eat raw
trout with his stone-ground wheat and his kale, and then one
day he was so old that he did not feel like working any more,
and he looked so old that the children thought he must be evil
to live by himself, and they were afraid to go up the creek
near his shack.
It didn't bother Mr. Hayman. The last thing in the world
he had any use for were children. Reading and writing and
children were all the same, Mr. Hayman thought, and
ground his wheat and tended his kale and caught a trout or
two when they were in the creek.
He looked ninety years old for thirty years and then he
got the notion that he would die, and did so. The year he died
the trout didn't come up Hayman Creek, and never went up
the creek again. With the old man dead, the trout figured it
was better to stay where they were.
The mortar and pestle fell off the shelf and broke.
The shack rotted away.
And the weeds grew into the kale.
Twenty years after Mr. Hayman's death, some fish and
game people were planting trout in the streams around there.
"Might as well put some here, " one of the men said.
"Sure, " the other one said.
They dumped a can full of trout in the creek and no sooner
had the trout touched the water, than they turned their white
bellies up and floated dead down the creek.
philly rabbit
Verified User
Socrtease
Verified User
oooo I am going to cry!!! You called me a thithy!
Good thing you are a Calvinist and believe you are saved forever, but I think Jesus is a little disappointed by this post.
Socrtease
Verified User
That is NOT a stick video.
tekkychick
New member
Really? you REALLY served up such a soft ball? OHHHH I Just can't resist! I have to do it!
As Elmer Fudd would say: "You are a vewy siwwy wabbit"
philly rabbit
Verified User
That sounds like a faggot response to me.
What's lame and boring about it?
I think it was a good topic. It's not my fault that you're a progressive south hater. I'm just making a connection here to my people.
TROUT DEATH BY PORT WINE
It was not an outhouse resting upon the imagination.
It was reality.
An eleven-inch rainbow trout was killed. Its life taken
forever from the waters of the earth, by giving it a drink of
port wine.
It is against the natural order of death for a trout to die
by having a drink of port wine.
It is all right for a trout to have its neck broken by a fisherman
and then to be tossed into the creel or for a trout to die from
a fungus that crawls like sugar-colored ants over its body
until the trout is in death's sugarbowl.
It is all right for a trout to be trapped in a pool that dries
up in the late summer or to be caught in the talons of a bird
or the claws of an animal.
Yes, it is even all right for a trout to be killed by pollution,
to die in a river of suffocating human excrement.
There are trout that die of old age and their white beards
flow to the sea.
All these things are in the natural order of death, but for
a trout to die from a drink of port wine, that is another thing.
No mention of it in "The treatyse of fysshynge wyth an
angle," in the Boke of St. Albans, published 1496. No mention
of it in Minor Tactics of the Chalk Stream, by H. C. Cutcliffe,
published in 1910. No mention of it in Truth Is Stranger than Fishin',
by Beatrice Cook, published in 1955. No mention of it in
Northern Memoirs, by Richard Franck, published in 1694.
No mention of it in I Go A-Fishing, by W. C. Prime, published
in 1873. No mention of it in Trout Fishing and Trout Flies, by Jim
Quick, published in 1957. No mention of it in Certaine Experiments
Concerning Fish and Fruite, by John Taverner, published in 1600.
No mention of it in A River Never Sleeps, by Roderick L. Haig Brown,
published in 1946. No mention of it in Till Fish US Do Part, by Beatrice
Cook published in 1949. No mention of it in The Flyfisher & the
Trout's Point of View by Col. E.W.Harding, published
in 1931. No mention of it in Chalk Stream Studies, by Charles
Kingsley, published in 1859 No mention of it in Trout Madness
by Robert Traver, published in 1960.
No mention of it in Sunshine and the Dry Fly, by J. W.
Dunne, published in 1924. No mention of it in Just Fishing,
by Ray Bergman, published in 1932. No mention of it in Matching
the Hatch by Ernest G. Schwiebert, Jr,, published in 1955. No mention
of it in The Art of Trout Fishing on Rapid Streams by H. C. Cutcliffe,
published in 1863. No mention of it in Old Flies in New Dresses by
C.E. Walker, published in 1898 No mention of it in Fisherman's
Spring, by Roderick L, Haig-Brown, published in 1951.
No mention of it in The Determined angler and the Brook Trout,
by Charles Bradford, published in 1916. No mention of it in Women
Can Fish by Chisie Farrington, published in 1951. No mention
of it in Tales of the Angler's El Dorado New new Zeland
by Zane Grey, published in 1926. No mention of it in The Flyfisher's
Guide, by G.C. Bainbridge, published in 1816.
There's no mention of a trout dying by having a drink of
port wine anywhere.
To describe the Supreme Executioner: We woke up in the
morning and it was dark outside. He came kind of smiling
into the kitchen and we ate breakfast.
Fried potatoes and eggs and coffee.
"Well, you old bastard, " he said. "Pass the salt. "
The tackle was already in the car, so we just got in and
drove away. Beginning at the first light of dawn we hit the
road at the bottom of the mountains, and drove up into the
dawn.
The light behind the trees was like going into a gradual
and strange department store.
"That was a good-looking girl last night, " he said.
"Yeah, "I said. "You did all right. "
"If the shoe fits....." he said.
Owl Snuff Creek was just a small creek, only a few miles
long, but there were some nice trout in it. We got out of the
car and walked a quarter of a mile down the mountainside to
the creek I put my tackle together. He pulled a pint of port
wine out of his pocket and said wouldn't you know."
"No thanks," I said.
He took a good snort and then shook his head, side to side,
and said, "Do you know what this creek reminds me of?"
"No," I said, tying a gray and yellow fly onto my leader.
"It reminds me of Evageline's vagina, a constant dream
of my childhood and promoter of my youth."
"That's nice," I said.
"Longfellow was the Henry Miller of my childhood," he
said.
"Good," I said.
I cast into a little pool that had a swirl of fir needles going
around the edge of it. The fir needles went around and around.
It made no sense that they should come from trees. They looked
perfectly contented and natural in the pool as if the pool had
grown them on watery branches.
I had a good hit on my third cast, but missed it.
"Oh, boy, " he said. "I think I'11 watch you fish. The stolen
painting is in the house next door. "
I fished upstream coming ever closer and closer to the
narrow staircase of the canyon. Then I went up into it as if
I were entering a department store. I caught three trout in
the lost and found department. He didn't even put his tackle
together. He just followed after me, drinking port wine and
poking a stick at the world.
"This is a beautiful creek, " he said. "It reminds me of
Evangeline's hearing aid. "
We ended up at a large pool that was formed by the creek
crashing through the children's toy section. At the beginning
of the pool the water was like cream, then it mirrored out
and reflected the shadow of a large tree. By this time the
sun was up. You could see it coming down the mountain.
I cast into the cream and let my fly drift down onto along
branch of the tree, next to a bird.
Go-wham !
I set the hook and the trout started jumping.
"Giraffe races at Kilimanjaro!" he shouted, and every
time the trout jumped, he jumped.
"Bee races at Mount Everest !" he shouted.
I didn't have a net with me so I fought the trout over to
the edge of the creek and swung it up onto the shore.
The trout had a big red stripe down its side.
It was a good rainbow.
"What a beauty, " he said.
He picked it up and it was squirming in his hands.
"Break its neck, " I said.
"I have a better idea, " he said. "Before I kill it, let me
at least soothe its approach into death. This trout needs a
drink. " He took the bottle of port out of his pocket, unscrewed
the cap and poured a good slug into the trout's mouth.
The trout went into a spasm.
Its body shook very rapidly like a telescope during an
earthquake. The mouth was wide open and chattering almost
as if it had human teeth.
He laid the trout on a white rock, head down, and some
of the wine trickled out of its mouth and made a stain on the
rock.
The trout was lying very still now.
"It died happy, " he said.
"This is my ode to Alcoholics Anonymous.
"Look here !"
It was not an outhouse resting upon the imagination.
It was reality.
An eleven-inch rainbow trout was killed. Its life taken
forever from the waters of the earth, by giving it a drink of
port wine.
It is against the natural order of death for a trout to die
by having a drink of port wine.
It is all right for a trout to have its neck broken by a fisherman
and then to be tossed into the creel or for a trout to die from
a fungus that crawls like sugar-colored ants over its body
until the trout is in death's sugarbowl.
It is all right for a trout to be trapped in a pool that dries
up in the late summer or to be caught in the talons of a bird
or the claws of an animal.
Yes, it is even all right for a trout to be killed by pollution,
to die in a river of suffocating human excrement.
There are trout that die of old age and their white beards
flow to the sea.
All these things are in the natural order of death, but for
a trout to die from a drink of port wine, that is another thing.
No mention of it in "The treatyse of fysshynge wyth an
angle," in the Boke of St. Albans, published 1496. No mention
of it in Minor Tactics of the Chalk Stream, by H. C. Cutcliffe,
published in 1910. No mention of it in Truth Is Stranger than Fishin',
by Beatrice Cook, published in 1955. No mention of it in
Northern Memoirs, by Richard Franck, published in 1694.
No mention of it in I Go A-Fishing, by W. C. Prime, published
in 1873. No mention of it in Trout Fishing and Trout Flies, by Jim
Quick, published in 1957. No mention of it in Certaine Experiments
Concerning Fish and Fruite, by John Taverner, published in 1600.
No mention of it in A River Never Sleeps, by Roderick L. Haig Brown,
published in 1946. No mention of it in Till Fish US Do Part, by Beatrice
Cook published in 1949. No mention of it in The Flyfisher & the
Trout's Point of View by Col. E.W.Harding, published
in 1931. No mention of it in Chalk Stream Studies, by Charles
Kingsley, published in 1859 No mention of it in Trout Madness
by Robert Traver, published in 1960.
No mention of it in Sunshine and the Dry Fly, by J. W.
Dunne, published in 1924. No mention of it in Just Fishing,
by Ray Bergman, published in 1932. No mention of it in Matching
the Hatch by Ernest G. Schwiebert, Jr,, published in 1955. No mention
of it in The Art of Trout Fishing on Rapid Streams by H. C. Cutcliffe,
published in 1863. No mention of it in Old Flies in New Dresses by
C.E. Walker, published in 1898 No mention of it in Fisherman's
Spring, by Roderick L, Haig-Brown, published in 1951.
No mention of it in The Determined angler and the Brook Trout,
by Charles Bradford, published in 1916. No mention of it in Women
Can Fish by Chisie Farrington, published in 1951. No mention
of it in Tales of the Angler's El Dorado New new Zeland
by Zane Grey, published in 1926. No mention of it in The Flyfisher's
Guide, by G.C. Bainbridge, published in 1816.
There's no mention of a trout dying by having a drink of
port wine anywhere.
To describe the Supreme Executioner: We woke up in the
morning and it was dark outside. He came kind of smiling
into the kitchen and we ate breakfast.
Fried potatoes and eggs and coffee.
"Well, you old bastard, " he said. "Pass the salt. "
The tackle was already in the car, so we just got in and
drove away. Beginning at the first light of dawn we hit the
road at the bottom of the mountains, and drove up into the
dawn.
The light behind the trees was like going into a gradual
and strange department store.
"That was a good-looking girl last night, " he said.
"Yeah, "I said. "You did all right. "
"If the shoe fits....." he said.
Owl Snuff Creek was just a small creek, only a few miles
long, but there were some nice trout in it. We got out of the
car and walked a quarter of a mile down the mountainside to
the creek I put my tackle together. He pulled a pint of port
wine out of his pocket and said wouldn't you know."
"No thanks," I said.
He took a good snort and then shook his head, side to side,
and said, "Do you know what this creek reminds me of?"
"No," I said, tying a gray and yellow fly onto my leader.
"It reminds me of Evageline's vagina, a constant dream
of my childhood and promoter of my youth."
"That's nice," I said.
"Longfellow was the Henry Miller of my childhood," he
said.
"Good," I said.
I cast into a little pool that had a swirl of fir needles going
around the edge of it. The fir needles went around and around.
It made no sense that they should come from trees. They looked
perfectly contented and natural in the pool as if the pool had
grown them on watery branches.
I had a good hit on my third cast, but missed it.
"Oh, boy, " he said. "I think I'11 watch you fish. The stolen
painting is in the house next door. "
I fished upstream coming ever closer and closer to the
narrow staircase of the canyon. Then I went up into it as if
I were entering a department store. I caught three trout in
the lost and found department. He didn't even put his tackle
together. He just followed after me, drinking port wine and
poking a stick at the world.
"This is a beautiful creek, " he said. "It reminds me of
Evangeline's hearing aid. "
We ended up at a large pool that was formed by the creek
crashing through the children's toy section. At the beginning
of the pool the water was like cream, then it mirrored out
and reflected the shadow of a large tree. By this time the
sun was up. You could see it coming down the mountain.
I cast into the cream and let my fly drift down onto along
branch of the tree, next to a bird.
Go-wham !
I set the hook and the trout started jumping.
"Giraffe races at Kilimanjaro!" he shouted, and every
time the trout jumped, he jumped.
"Bee races at Mount Everest !" he shouted.
I didn't have a net with me so I fought the trout over to
the edge of the creek and swung it up onto the shore.
The trout had a big red stripe down its side.
It was a good rainbow.
"What a beauty, " he said.
He picked it up and it was squirming in his hands.
"Break its neck, " I said.
"I have a better idea, " he said. "Before I kill it, let me
at least soothe its approach into death. This trout needs a
drink. " He took the bottle of port out of his pocket, unscrewed
the cap and poured a good slug into the trout's mouth.
The trout went into a spasm.
Its body shook very rapidly like a telescope during an
earthquake. The mouth was wide open and chattering almost
as if it had human teeth.
He laid the trout on a white rock, head down, and some
of the wine trickled out of its mouth and made a stain on the
rock.
The trout was lying very still now.
"It died happy, " he said.
"This is my ode to Alcoholics Anonymous.
"Look here !"
Cancel 2016.11
Darla
Administrator Darla??
Another Crazy Calvinist, lol!
philly rabbit
Verified User
You're low.
And like most people such as yourself, you'd thought you'd be PC funny and you went after immediate family members which should get you an immediate banning if we weren't talking about the southern Scots Irish and my blood connection to them.
THE AUTOPSY OF TROUT FISHING IN AMERICA
This is the autopsy of Trout Fishing in America as if Trout
Fishing in America had been Lord Byron and had died in
Missolonghi, Greece, and afterward never saw the shores
of Idaho again, never saw Carrie Creek, Worsewick Hot
Springs, Paradise Creek, Salt Creek and Duck Lake again.
The Autopsy of Trout Fishing in America:
"The body was in excellent state and appeared as one that
had died suddenly of asphyxiation. The bony cranial vault
was opened and the bones of the cranium were found very
hard without any traces of the sutures like the bones of a
person 80 years, so much so that one would have said that
the cranium was formed by one solitary bone. . . . The
meninges were attached to the internal walls of the cranium
so firmly that while sawing the bone around the interior to
detach the bone from the dura the strength of two robust men
was not sufficient. . . . The cerebrum with cerebellum
weighed about six medical pounds. The kidneys were very
large but healthy and the urinary bladder was relatively
small. "
On May 2, 1824, the body of Trout Fishing in America
left Missolonghi by ship destined to arrive in England on the
evening of June 29, 1824.
Trout Fishing in America's body was preserved in a cask
holding one hundred-eighty gallons of spirits: 0, a long way
from Idaho, a long way from Stanley Basin, Little Redfish
Lake, the Big Lost River and from Lake Josephus and the
Big Wood River.
This is the autopsy of Trout Fishing in America as if Trout
Fishing in America had been Lord Byron and had died in
Missolonghi, Greece, and afterward never saw the shores
of Idaho again, never saw Carrie Creek, Worsewick Hot
Springs, Paradise Creek, Salt Creek and Duck Lake again.
The Autopsy of Trout Fishing in America:
"The body was in excellent state and appeared as one that
had died suddenly of asphyxiation. The bony cranial vault
was opened and the bones of the cranium were found very
hard without any traces of the sutures like the bones of a
person 80 years, so much so that one would have said that
the cranium was formed by one solitary bone. . . . The
meninges were attached to the internal walls of the cranium
so firmly that while sawing the bone around the interior to
detach the bone from the dura the strength of two robust men
was not sufficient. . . . The cerebrum with cerebellum
weighed about six medical pounds. The kidneys were very
large but healthy and the urinary bladder was relatively
small. "
On May 2, 1824, the body of Trout Fishing in America
left Missolonghi by ship destined to arrive in England on the
evening of June 29, 1824.
Trout Fishing in America's body was preserved in a cask
holding one hundred-eighty gallons of spirits: 0, a long way
from Idaho, a long way from Stanley Basin, Little Redfish
Lake, the Big Lost River and from Lake Josephus and the
Big Wood River.
Cancel 2016.11
Darla
It's like, what?? I used to be very close to an administrator, but did you see Grind publicly broke up with me Rana?? Now I don't have him to do everything I say and run this board to my liking. Now I am just like everyone else! I don't even know who is going to protect me anymore. Damo used to, and I could probably get him to do it again, but...he extracted a price. And it was only fun sometimes...for me I mean.
tekkychick
New member
Doesn't the Vewy siwwy wabbit sound like SJJ?
Dungheap, trout fishing - unique! nice idea.
Dungheap, trout fishing - unique! nice idea.
philly rabbit
Verified User
You're a liberal feminist without a soul.
Do yourself a favor and don't bring up the J word to me.
He is young and fickle, he will return to his true love!
Damo is here so rarely now, best not pay the price with such dismal results.
I know you will woo Grind back, just with your awesomeness!