I’m home. I’m tired. I’m roadkill.
No. Not just roadkill. I’m south Texas salt flats roadkill. Sun-baked, mud-caked, wind-blown, sand-in-every-orifice, plastered-to-the-pavement, buzzard bait roadkill. My duffle (and probably my hide) smells like the back of the truck where the flats boots have been left to ferment each night. It ain’t pretty.
And I’m good with that.
So let me grab a nap and then I’ll catch you up. I’m no storyteller so I’ll simply give you some snippets, some images, some vignettes of our redfish excursion - the essence rather than the substance. The details are unimportant. It’s the impressions that come home with me, not the timeline.
It’s the moment that sticks.
Sticks like boots in the tidal mud. Sticks like red brisket to the pit of my stomach.
Sticks like roadkill to the steaming Texas pavement.
10 comments:
There is a sweet spot where you've mentally written a rough draft and the ego has embellished the fish size a proper amount...but make sure to write it all down before memory dulls the details.
You are absolutely correct, Clif. A great observation on the nature of writing and recollection. But my memory is dull from the git-go and I never embellish... too much. Thanks!
Plus he was jotting stuff down the entire trip.
Shhhhh... That's our little secret, Anon. Now, where did I pack that notebook? Probably with my wallet.
One more accurate description of what roadkill looks and smells like and you'll need deodorizer and blinds before you have guests over.
Howard, you're assumption is that such things aren't already necessary. I'm not so sure...
Good thing Howard and I live out west in that Rocky Mountain air. Haven't notice the smell yet!
You've got that easterly flowing jet-stream to thank, Mel. Count your blessings.
I'm looking forward to your vignettes.
Touche on the wallet dig. Well played sir.
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