BACKROADS AND BOBTAILS
SOMETIMES THE MORE SAID THE BETTER
by Bob Kornegay

The handful of folks who regularly read what I write are probably aware by now that I sometimes exhibit a seemingly inherent and often obnoxious tendency to go prosaically overboard, many times utilizing far too much descriptive terminology as well as a veritable wealth of superfluous information in order to convey a particular point I am trying to put across. Those who have not yet noticed the run-on quality of my writing have only to pause and count the words in the preceding sentence. My editor, by the way, counted 60, approximately the same number of hairs he pulled from his longsuffering head while doing so.

I don't know why I do that. Maybe it's a William Faulkner complex. Or perhaps it's just overcompensation for the lack of detail present in my speech.

You see, when it comes to talking, I am generally a man of few words. Cut-and-dried. Get-to-thepoint. Say it and shut up.

Of course, that's not always a good thing, either. There were times when a little additional oral verbiage might have saved me some trouble. Consider, for instance, my one and only brush with the timehonored sport of falconry.

I was on assignment, spending a day with an accomplished Georgia falconer, attempting to learn the ins and outs of hunting with trained birds of prey. I was looking forward to a little adventure and a good story to tell.

It was explained to me at the outset that a hunting hawk does not serve its master in exchange for affection and praise as does, say, a good bird dog. In falconry, I was told, the bird must always be rewarded with a bit of fresh meat after making a kill. Else, the raptor might not be persuaded to part with his newly dispatched quail or rabbit. Hence, the day's first order of business was collecting "treats" for our keen-eyed, sharp-taloned hunting buddy.

Thus, I found myself driving the streets of Valdosta, Georgia at daybreak armed with a hatchet. Beside me sat a man armed with a large, hook-beaked bird.

20

Spying a road kill squirrel, my interview subject commanded me to stop, get out, and chop the dead rodent into bite-size pieces. Thinking it unwise to argue with someone balancing a live hawk on one knee, I complied.

As I knelt beside the road, wielding the sharp little axe with fiendish dexterity, I naturally attracted the attention of passing motorists. Most accelerated rapidly and passed me by. One elderly lady, however, bravely stopped to ask what I was doing.

Now, had I been in writing mode, I could have carefully and in much detail explained to her that I was a famous and muchrespected outdoor writer gaining hands-on experience in the noble art of falconry. But, alas, it was the oral Bob who held forth instead.

Unshaven, bleary-eyed, and sinister of countenance, I turned to her and brusquely replied, "Choppin' up dead squirrels." Then, whack! I cut off another hind leg, dropped it into a leather pouch, and spat upon the pavement.

I was, I'll admit, somewhat more elaborate with my explanation to the police officer who happened by a few minutes later.

Then there was the time Old Man Luther Ferguson granted me permission to hunt deer on his property, a privilege I received after years of begging and pleading. Luther owned the most beautiful hardwood swamp on the face of the earth; majestic oaks and hickories, lush undergrowth, countless big-buck hideaways. I felt truly blessed.

When Cletus Monroe learned of my good fortune, he brought it up one morning over coffee.

"Well, old buddy," Clete said, "you finally got to old Luther, did you? They tell me the two of you are on really good terms now."

"Yep," I understated. "Luther has a really lovely bottom. It was worth the wait."

Woe is me. I'll never live it down. One lousy left-out adjective. Or maybe just a few more words.

I mean, would it have killed me to call it a "pretty patch of woods?"

(Email Bob Kornegay at cletus@windstream.net)