Out of the Blues
By Tom Word
When I was a young man
Long, long ago
I had troubles up the wazoo
Money troubles and other troubles
I won't bore you with
But I had a sure cure if
The season was in
I'd steal away
Before the sun rose
With a setter (or two)
Drive west or south
West to the mountains or
South to Stony Creek
In either case with shotgun on seat
I'd arrive at a spot in the mountains
I will not identify
In three hours
Park out of sight
Turn loose a dog or maybe two
And walk, walk, walk
Listening for the tinkle of a bell
To cease
I'd climb
To where the sound stopped
Looking for my setter standing still
Her tail would point up
Her chin would be raised
Her nostrils would quiver
Her jaw open and close
As she smoked her pipe
On the scent of Ole Ruff
I'd step past her
On left or right
Guessing which way
Would likely myield a shot
Ole Ruff would boil out
Heard before seen
Sometimes a shot
Sometimes not
But either way
My blues would be gone
If I drove south
In an hour I'd arrive
At Joe Prince's house
Beside the railroad track
The smell of bacon frying
Would greet me on the porch
Margaret Moore
Joe's cook
Would be putting breakfast
On the table
Heavenly biscuits, eggs and the bacon
Sometimes salt herring
Fried crisp
In would walk
Jimmy Jennings
Joe's main hand
To get orders
For the day's work
Hauling beans or peanuts
To market or
Winterizing machinery
Joe would write paychecks
Give the work orders
Jimmy would shuffle out
To deliver the checks to comrades
Waiting outside
They'd be off to cash them
And maybe start work, maybe not
Breakfast downed and Margaret thanked
I'd load in Joe's truck the dogs from Joe's kennel
At breakfast he'd ordered
While Joe called his broker
To place his bets
On the day's prices for what he grew
And maybe some others
Joe would storm out
Crank the diesel
We would be off to hunt quail in one of four quadrants
Our first stop
Would be close by
A big empty bean field
For the dogs to circle
Limber up and empty
Our next stop would be
Another bean field
A few rows of beans left standing on the edge
Surrounded by three-years-old cutover
We'd hold our breath as the dogs circled
Betting on where they would freeze on an edge point or back
"Flash has 'em," Joe would whisper
And we'd walk through mud or sand to the stand
Whether birds rose
Or had fed and gone
My blues would be forgotten
About the Author : Tom Word
Visit authors website | View more articlesTom Word is a lawyer who represents individuals about managing their assets and for amusement writes fiction and non-fiction about bird dogs and humans obsessed with them.
About the Artist : Kate Hall
Visit artist websiteKate Hall is an outdoor artist who resides on an Angus cattle farm in Tennessee, where she began hunting at an early age. During her 13 years as a flight attendant, Kate visited 27 countries and all 50 states. She now spends her time traveling across the country in search of rising trout and upland birds with her husband and their English Setter. In his first two seasons they hunted on public lands in MT, KS, SC, AL, NC, KY and TN for quail, ruffed grouse, sharptail grouse, woodcock, pheasant, prairie chickens, and hungarian partridge. Upland hunting has enriched Kate's life and influences much of her colored pencil work.
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