No Shirt, No Shoes...No Problem!

by Jeff Foxworthy

  So I blasted him.

  Larry Burns heard the shotgun report, came running over, and we stood around and admired the dead animal for half an hour. Then we got the truck, drove it into the woods to get the deer, and got the truck stuck in the mud. We had to trudge back to the house and ask my dad to bring another truck and a shovel to get ourselves unstuck.

  Our troubles didn’t dull our enthusiasm for the kill. Deer hunting is cathartic. I know guys who have hunted a hundred times between deer kills, and yet they keep coming back. Here’s one secret reason why: The biggest thrill of deer hunting is not actually killing anything. No one really expects that. What the guys want to know is what you saw. After four hours up a tree, breakfast is just a bunch of guys stuffing their faces and saying, “Bill, did you see anything?”

  “Nah, I didn’t see anything.”

  “Tom, did you see anything?”

  “Yeah, I saw two does about 9:00 A.M.”

  You had to list what it was and the time, what it did, and how long it stayed around. That was enough to get you back out the next weekend. If somebody saw a buck, that was enough to keep you coming back all year.

  Our hunting reports were very much like sex stories. Once you get it, it doesn’t really count until you tell everybody every detail. That’s how you learned that there were different degrees of serious hunters.

  For instance, Big George was one of the unluckiest hunters among my dad’s friends. George was five foot six, weighed 310 pounds. Good shape for deer hunting, right? George loaded trucks down at the Pepsi plant. He was bald and very funny, and the first guy I ever knew who had a monster truck. He let us drive it and that made George a really good egg. But through the years it became clear that George was the only guy in camp who had never killed a deer. However, there were some “almosts.”

  “I saw a buck.”

  “Where were you, George?”

  “Well, I was down there behind Skeet’s house, down in that cornfield down there.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, I’d been sittin’ there for about forty minutes, and I looked up, and saw a big buck jump the fence. He looked like a six-pointer, maybe seven even. He just stood there, eating right at the edge of the soybeans. So I picked up my gun, turned down the radio, lowered the window…”

  “Wait a minute…you’re in the truck?”

  “Yeah, and I’d just turned the heat back on.”

  No wonder he’d never killed a deer: George drank coffee, smoked, and listened to country music with the truck running. None of those ingredients are listed on a bottle of Buck Lure. I know because I’ve bought all that stuff: Buck Lure, Doe In Heat Lure. You’re supposed to put it on your clothes with the hope of attracting a deer. I think one was nothing but deer urine.

  That’s another female turn-on.

  “Oh, if you could just wipe some of that doe urine on you, that would really get me hot.”

  After you kill a deer, then what? Clean it. Eat it. If the buck is particularly impressive, visit the taxidermist. Gazing at the face of your adversary forever frozen, right above the fireplace or the marital bed (in the kitchen or guest powder room is bad taste), warms the hunter’s heart. I’ve mounted and displayed my share of trophies, but my favorite deer-head story is about the one I gave away.

  After college I worked at IBM. I first worked in dispatch, answering the phones and handing out service assignments. One of the guys, Ray Stubblefield, hailed from Florence, Alabama. Ray was a big deer hunter and I learned a lot about the sport from him. Every time he came to Atlanta, he would bring a stack of pictures of himself with these incredible trophy deer. We all believed that Stubblefield was the greatest deer hunter in history.

  We were all wrong.

  What we didn’t know then was that while Stubblefield rode around all day as an IBM serviceman, he also kept a camera in his car. Any time he saw hunters with a nice kill in their truck at a gas station, at a country store, or at a meatpacking plant, Ray stopped and asked if they would take his picture with their deer. What kept us off the scent of this bighearted imposter was that he made sure he never wore his regulation IBM uniform—suit, white shirt, tie, wingtips—in any picture. Apparently he kept a camouflage jumpsuit in the car. I’ve always meant to check, but I believe all Florence, Alabama, males of hunting age had to keep at least one camouflage jumpsuit with them always. It was the law.

  Ray’s desire to impress didn’t end with his IBM colleagues. He’d pose with these celebrity deer and then send the photos to regional magazines like Georgia Outdoors or Alabama Outdoors, for their camera corner. Soon Ray was a hero to hunters throughout the Southeast. Ray’s freezer was empty, but he owed the film processing people his annual salary.

  When Ray came to Atlanta for a few weeks that coincided with deer season, I invited him to come down to my dad’s farm one weekend. I got lucky and shot a deer. It was a little spike. The horns were more like two half-pencils. In the middle of cleaning the deer and wondering what it would taste like, Ray asked me what I was going to do with the head.

  I said, “I’m gonna throw it away.” It certainly wasn’t one I would mount.

  Ray said, “May I have it?”

  “What do you want it for?” I asked.

  Ray had an idea, which he shared with me. It was so wonderful that I had to give him the head. Then he took it home and froze it.

  Turns out Ray worked with another guy named Garrett—Garrett Quartier. Quartier was a very serious guy and much more strait-laced than Stubblefield or me. After Stubblefield went back to Alabama, Quartier came to Atlanta for two weeks for an IBM class. He asked Stubblefield to look after his house and feed his cat. On Stubblefield’s last night he took the deer head out of his freezer and put it in Garrett’s master bathroom toilet, and shut the lid.

  Try to picture what happened. Garrett Quartier came home, settled in, and eventually went to the bathroom. As he took a seat, he happened to glance down and there, between his legs, is a deer head looking up at him. Garrett Quartier swore that he had never been that scared in his entire life.

  That’s also when they discovered that Garrett Quartier had a heart murmur. His doctor prescribed medication and he avoided any further serious complications. It was Stubblefield’s idea, but my deer head, so I’m taking half-credit for saving Garrett Quartier’s life.

  It’s five o’clock in the morning and he’s waking me up. But it’s hard. It’s summertime, I’m ten years old, and this is supposed to be vacation. The days of rest and relaxation. Then my eyes squint open. I can barely see his face, lined and ancient. But I’m happy. Very happy. Today my granddaddy and I are going fishing.

  He creeps into the kitchen while I put on the clothes I selected the night before. Blue jeans, but not the good ones; instead the jeans I hoped would later that day bear the mud stains and the fish smell. It almost seemed like a rule. The more disgusting the clothes the better the day had been. If Mom made me undress on the porch before I even dared enter her clean house, I knew it had been a wonderful day indeed.

  The shirt couldn’t be white. Granddaddy said it spooked the fish, so I’m wearing my old blue football jersey. It is full of holes and has been placed on the forbidden schoolwear list. A dumb call in my opinion because this is one cool shirt. The numbers on it are white, but I’m banking on the fact that fish can’t read.

  I find my way into the kitchen. He has made me a cup of coffee. Lots of sugar and lots of cream. I can’t imagine anyone drinking the stuff any other way. I bet none of my friends are drinking coffee this morning. I bet they won’t drink coffee for another eight or ten years. I watch as he finishes loading up the cooler. There are no wasted movements. This is a task he has perfected over the years. You do something a million times, you learn to get it right.

  The menu rarely changes. A thermos of ice water. Four Coca-Cola’s in the little bottles. A few packs of peanut butter crackers and two ham sandwiches. White bread. Mustard and mayonnaise.

  He tells m
e to get my coat. It’s always cold before the sun comes up. Even in July. I grab my zip-up sweatshirt with the hood. I wish I had a jacket like his: a blue jean jacket with a red and black flannel lining. The jacket bears many miles, and they’re not highway miles. I’ve never seen another one quite like it. He and the jacket seem to belong together. They fit each other.

  Granddaddy unlocks the camper top and slides the cooler into the back along with the rest of the gear we loaded the night before. Everything has it’s place. The cooler goes in back of his tackle box, but in front of the trolling motor battery. I always insist on carrying the battery to prove I am a worthy fishing companion. Man, is it heavy! But I will never say so out loud even though I’m sure my labored stagger must give it away. I don’t think I’ve ever picked up that battery without a warning not to spill acid on myself. Through all the years I’ve never seen one drop of anything come out of that battery, but I fear it nonetheless. Granddaddy’s warning always makes it sound like the acid will burn a hole clear through my leg before I can even get my pants off. Very scary stuff.

  He is a very methodical driver. I not sure of very many things in life, but I would be willing to bet everything I own, Ted Williams model baseball glove included, that he has never gotten a speeding ticket. Sometimes I have to glance down to make sure he’s actually mashing the gas. I assume that he is because the black work shoe is resting on the pedal. Black work shoes with white socks. If he has another combination I’ve never seen it. Granddaddy is a man of few fashion surprises. I find the consistency to be comforting.

  Our trips are never cluttered with chitchat. When he talks it is to brag about having the fastest radio in Georgia. He turns it on and off twice to back up his words. I’m confident that they don’t hold contests to determine such things, but I still can’t imagine anyone capable of proving him wrong. This is one fast radio. And it is always set to the same station. WSB AM, “The Voice of the South, with all the latest in news, weather, and sports.” He always seems to be most concerned about the weather. I guess it’s true what they say, people can always find something to worry about. I don’t really care if it rains, I just want to catch a fish.

  I can’t remember riding with Granddaddy where he did not find at least one opportunity to pull the same corny joke on me. He points down the road and says, “There’s your name on a sign.

  ‘Old Stopper Head.’” Of course the sign really reads “Stop Ahead,” but it never fails to make the two of us laugh. It’s just one more reason I know the old man likes me.

  We have a few regular fishing holes. Most of them are small ponds located on the property of different farmers he has met over the years. He always stops at the house to confirm that it is okay that we fish. I am required to go with him and to say “Thank you for letting us fish.” We are always extra careful to lock gates and to never leave a mess.

  Being the passenger, the opening and closing of the gates usually falls on me. I always hope that cows are not lingering too close to the gate. It’s not that I’m afraid of cows, it’s just that I don’t like them to get too close. I’ve never heard of someone being killed by a cow, but they are big, and they have a funny way of looking at you—always with one eye. Cows never look you directly in the face. It’s like they have a plan of escape, and they are just trying to work up the nerve to pull it off.

  When we reach our fishing spot we unload the gear in the same fashion we loaded it: meticulously and painstakingly slow. But I’m always in a hurry. I worry that the fish will stop biting at any moment. Time is of the essence.

  We always put the tackle boxes and the rods and reels into the boat last. Granddaddy’s tackle box is roughly the size of a small barn. I’m sure it carries one of everything ever designed to entice a fish. Sometimes when the fish aren’t biting I entertain myself just looking through it. I’m always asking what different things are, and he usually explains, and follows with a grand story of a fish that fell victim to it’s charm.

  My tackle box, on the other hand, is about the size of a shoe box. I have painted my name and a picture of a bass jumping out of the water on top of it. It contains mostly the cherished discards from his box. There are a few lures I have bought myself—all replicas of the ones he holds in highest regard. Unfortunately, they never seem to catch nearly as many fish as his lures do.

  My rod and reel is also a hand-me-down. It’s old but in fine working order. His are the paintbrushes of a master. A Shakespeare Wonder Rod supporting an open-faced Mitchell reel. He has three of them. All exactly alike. I’m sure that if the manufacturers knew, they’d be flattered that he has picked them as his tools of choice.

  I am always amazed at the ease and accuracy with which he casts. Granddaddy will always say something like, “Well if I hadn’t of throwed right there I never would have caught this one.” Then with the flick of his wrist he sends his lure sailing through the air and it comes to rest inches from a semisubmerged log that should have a sign painted on it that reads “Home of a monster bass.” I try to emulate his technique, but I spend lots of my fishing time trying to pull my lure out of the limb in which it is firmly anchored. “Trolling for tree bass again?” I hear him say. This always fills me with a slight degree of panic. I don’t want him to have to stop fishing to help me. Not that he ever seems to mind, but I am afraid that he’ll one day grow weary of his fishing partner’s ineptitude and chose someone with the ability to keep his lure in the water instead.

  He always catches more fish than I do. Usually about fifteen to my one. How can he be so lucky every single time? When he hooks one he really seems to enjoy reeling it in. As he cranks he gives a play-by-play commentary complete with estimates about the fish’s size, where he hit it, and guesses about what the scoundrel might do to avoid eventually joining us in the boat.

  On the other hand, when I get lucky enough to hook one, I retrieve it with all the calmness of Barney Fife making an arrest. There is no savoring the moment. I reel so fast and pull so hard that I have been known to make a fish go airborne. You should see the look on a fish’s face when he breaks the water, sails over the boat, and resubmerges on the other side. “He looks like a pretty good one” I hear my granddaddy chuckle. I ignore him, because this is no time for jokes. If I don’t get this thing into the boat then I have no proof that I actually caught one. After all, who’s going to believe a fisherman? It is understood, too, that if I actually do get him in the boat he is going home with us. Catch and release has no place in my ten-year-old vocabulary.

  If I am fortunate enough to add one to the stringer, I must then continually check him out.

  “Put those fish back in the water,” I hear him say.

  “I’m just looking at them” I reply. Even on a stringer with twenty or more fish I am always able to pick out mine. I know exactly what he looks like. He’s usually the cutest one.

  It is then as I’m staring at him that I am always filled with a little pity for the fish. Not because he started the day in a cool lake playing fish games with his friends and will end it wearing a cornmeal jacket in the bottom of a frying pan. I feel pity because he fell to me instead of the old man. What a stupid fish he must be. Imagine the shame his family must feel as they tell the story to their friends and loved ones. “It wasn’t even the old man! It was the goofy kid in the football jersey!” Their friends gasp that fish gasp and say, “Oh…We’re so sorry.”

  The fishing day always ends following a long period of no action. It has to be that way. Never has a fisherman left the water while the fish are biting. It’s physically impossible because that is what fishing is really all about. This hope goes out with each cast: Maybe this will be the one that hooks the fish of a lifetime.

  We conclude much the way we started, only in reverse order. We are careful to leave the place as we found it. Granddaddy says “That’s how you get to come back.” We pick up trash and lock gates. The cows aren’t anywhere to be seen. God is looking out for me. We always stop back by the house and thank the folks
for letting us fish on their place. Granddaddy always offers them our fish, while I silently pray that if they do take some, mine won’t be in that number. Thankfully, that has never happened.

  We return home to the ceremonial showing-off of the catch. Granddaddy is much more low key and humble in his approach than I am in mine. By that I mean that he doesn’t leap from the truck, grab the stringer, and go running through the house screaming, “Look what I caught! Look what I caught!” Of course he is also spared the lecture from my mom about how hard it is to get the smell of dripping fish out of the living room rug.

  Finally, I am required to help Granddaddy clean the fish, though it is a job I don’t mind. The combination of scales and entrails are enough to make the football jersey truly disgusting. I wear the mess like a medal. It is a proud moment.

  Job complete, we head back into the house. Already I am growing excited and planning our next trip, the trip that may net one of us that fish of a lifetime. Granddaddy knows what I’m thinking. He musses my hair and smiles. I hope I can go fishing with him forever.

  Years later, standing in the river, watching my line bob up and down in the current, I often thought about those trips with Granddaddy. Compared to my fishing expeditions with Burns and Chastain, they were an island of tranquillity.

  Fishing with the guys was about as tranquil as the day Atlantis sank under the ocean.

  Once, the three of us spent the day catching nothing. Finally, Chastain got a live one and reeled him in. But instead of letting him go or putting him on the stringer, we just left the fish hooked to the line and put him back in the water. Then we fished for another fifteen or twenty minutes. Still, no one got a bite. But we had planned ahead. We took the rod with the fish out of the water and passed it to the next guy. Then he slung the fish—still on the line but rested now—back into the river about fifty yards so he could have the thrill of catching something. After an hour of this, the fish wised up and as soon as he hit the water he started swimming for the boat as hard as he could. Eventually he just skied in on his side, not even fighting anymore.