Uncle Vern

I was over at the Forum, reading this thread, and it reminded me of a story.

My (first) wife had an uncle. A crotchety old crank with a wicked sense of humor. We'll call him Vern. He lived on the shore of a little lake in a crumbling house that he didn't own. His place was on a huge plantation and he rented that place from the owners of the plantation. With the rent came hunting and fishing rights. After I had known Vern for some time, I learned that he was a retired Game Warden. A retired Federal game warden. He had worked in some of the finest game fields in the United States, and he had some stories to tell.

One afternoon while we were cleaning fish and drinking beer a woodcock flew over, and Vern began reminiscing.

There was this time when my buddy and I were headed for the LDWF offices in Pineville. As we crossed the O.K. Allen bridge, I thought I heard a gunshot.

This was late in February, and the only season open was for rabbits. The O.K. Allen bridge is real close to town, so we decided to go back across and investigate. We took the truck on to the levee and started easing along and sure enough, on a side trail we found a pickup truck and I heard another gunshot, down near the river in an alder thicket.

Well, we got out of the truck and I started around that thicket one way while my buddy went the other. It was thick in there, man, you couldn't see five feet, but every so often, a woodcock would flush and there'd be a shot, so I continued on. I finally found a hunter and his back was toward me, so I just eased up through the trees, real quiet like, and put my hand on his shoulder.

That fellow turned, and saw me, then said "Here. Hold this." He handed me the shotgun, then dropped his pants and loosed the worst, foulest, nastiest diarrhea I have ever smelled. It was explosive, and loud, and violent. I was kind of embarrased for him, squatting there in that thicket.

I told him, "Look, fellow, I didn't mean to startle you."

The guy told me, "You just did me a great favor, friend. I've been stopped up for a week and didn't think I was ever going to get it to turn loose."

When he was finished, I wrote him a ticket. I didn't want to arrest him and put him in my truck smelling like he did. I guess you could say I scared the shit out of him. I suspect he paid the ticket, cause I never went to court on it.

From that day on, Uncle Vern was known as the Old Fart. He died a couple of years ago, and I miss him sometime.