A Tense Tent

© 2006 by Gary L. Benton

Every summer, when the temperature goes way up, Bubba and I go camping for a couple of days just to relax.  We usually leave the kids at home and the two of us head for the nearest river, stream or lake.  Most of the time having Bubba along is like having a fourteen year old boy with me, because he’s not the most mature man I’ve ever known.  He still thinks like a kid, which is fine as long as you’re a kid, but he’s on the high side of his forties.  I remember just a couple of weeks ago . . .

            I banged on the door harder and finally saw a light come on through the cracked window of Bubba’s mobile home.  After a few minutes the door swung open and there stood Bubba in bikini briefs, which his beer belly almost completely covered.  He was wearing a sleeveless tank top that read, ‘If ya don’t like Umerika go home’ and unlaced combat boots. 

Giving him a big twisted grin I asked, “You ‘bout ready to go?”

            He scratched where it itched, gave me a dumb look and asked, “What are you talkin’ ‘bout and what time is it?”

“Me and you are goin’ campin’ for the next three days, or did you forget since last night?  And, it’s a quarter after five.”

“Five?  As in the mornin’?”

“Uh-huh, get your gear and let’s load my truck.  I’d like to be down on the Piney River by daylight and that’s not far off.  We can get in some trout fishin’.” As I spoke I felt my frustration growing, but it did every single time I went with Bubba.  He was not the most dependable person in the world and he hated mornings.  Once, as we sat around the campfire at night, he told me Army basic training had ruined mornings for him forever.  I had to agree to up to a point.  My drill instructor woke us each morning by banging on the inside of a trashcan with a nightstick and that’s one loud alarm clock!  Anyway, back to the trip.

Daylight found us at the river and it was empty, and I mean not a soul around.  I grinned and said, “Bubba, you get your tent up, while I gather the wood, unload the truck, and get some water to cook with.”

“I can do that!”  He replied as he smiled, burped, and picked up the duffle bag that held his brand new tent. “And, I found a level spot with no rocks or sticks.”

“Good Bubba, now you do what needs to be done while I get busy too.”  We had to park the truck a good mile from the campsite and then walk to the river.  There was nice clear trail and it was no chore at all to start back toward the truck.  I kind of enjoyed the fact the campsite was away from the traffic and noise of the road.

I walked back to the truck and unloaded it after a couple of trips.   Each time I returned, I placed the supplies and gear on a large tarp near where the fire would be.  I noticed Bubba was having some problems with the tent, so I asked, “Ya need some help?”

“Naw, this is simple.  You do what you gotta do and I’ll have this thing up in no time.”

Right then and there I knew we were in trouble.  See, any time Bubba thinks he’s in control of something, well, he ain’t.  But, out of respect and to get away from his cursing, I walked off into the woods looking for dry wood.  The temperature had been extremely hot the last month and finding the wood was no trouble at all.  However, I noticed each time I returned to the camp with wood, Bubba was muttering and cursing to himself as he held various aluminum poles in his hands.

As soon as the wood was gathered, I asked, “Sure you don’t need any help?”

Bubba’s face was as red as a beet when he turned to me and said brusquely, “I said I’m doin’ this!  You jess take yer buns and go some place for a while and let me do this.  How can I get this done if you keep botherin’ me every hour or so?  Heck, I got me one of them college degrees, so I ain’t ignert.”

I picked up my fishing pole, put on my vest, and donned my waders.  In less than fifteen minutes I was trout fishing, with little luck.  As I worked the far bank of the ice cold stream, I heard a loud scream and a number of yells, all of which would have made a sailor blush.  I knew Bubba was at ends with the tent, but I’d decided to stay out of it completely.  Once he grew tired of attempting it, I’d return and have the tent up in less than ten minutes.

I had just made a cast when I smelled smoke and looking back toward our campsite I noticed dark black smoke rising to meet the clouds overhead.  It was then I noticed a front was moving in and it looked like rain off to the west.  Now, in my part of Missouri, the bad weather usually comes from the west, so I became slightly concerned about the tent at that point.  Nonetheless, I’d decided to stay out of it, figuring Bubba was just cooking a meal.  He always eats when he’s frustrated, angry, sad, happy, or excited, which is most of the time.  His food comes in two colors when he cooks, dark brown or black.

Also, Bubba uses all kinds of dangerous stuff to start fires with.  I’ve seen him use oil, plastics, charcoal lighter fluid and of course, gasoline.  At the price of gas I’m surprised his tight butt would use it, but he has in the past.  Once, after gas flared up with a loud whamp sound, flame leaped to the tops of trees, and while his eyebrows were still smoking, I had a long talk with him about the dangers of using gas to start fires.  We had a real heart to heart talk about outdoors safety and he’s not used it since, as far as I knew, but something was making all of that black smoke.  As usual, with Bubba around, I ignored it and continued fishing.

Returning to camp less than an hour later for a sandwich, I found him sleeping on the tarp and the tent was nowhere to be seen.  At that point I heard a deep rumble of thunder off in the distance and when I looked overhead the dark, almost black, clouds were rolling violently.

“Bubba Lee!  Where’s the tent?  We’re goin’ to need it seriously in just a few minutes.”

He stirred slightly, moaned and opened one eye.  Raising his head somewhat he said, “I burnt it up!  Them di-rections was all in Chinese or somethin’ and the pictures was all up-side-down! Next time I’ll only buy American, or Japanese.”

“Son, we need to get  . . .” 

There came an extremely loud crack of thunder and a long finger of white reached out across the dry horizon in front of me.  Beyond any doubt, we had a serious summer storm coming and no shelter.  Now, I figured I could have a lean-to up in just a few minutes or we could run to the truck, but which?  See, us country boys don’t like to give up when we start something, so I let the truck idea disappear quickly.  I’d drown in the falling rain before I’d head to my truck first.  I just hoped we didn’t have a tornado, because there were no places for shelter near the river.

Working quickly, as Bubba sat on the tarp and complained, I soon had a lean-to made and all of our supplies under the taunt canvas material.  I knew then we’d stay dry even in the heaviest rains.  I threw in a few small and large pieces of wood so starting a fire after the rain would be easier for us.

As the first light and soft drops of rain fell, I turned and said, “Bubba, ya need to get under this shelter before the heavy rain comes.”

He sat there, angry and unmoving, but replied, “I’ll be there in a minute or three.”

Suddenly the sky grew almost black, a long jagged white line moved overhead, and three loud cracks and booms were heard.  The shelter rocked and swayed in the high winds and I knew it was just a matter of seconds before the storm struck.  The rain grew heavier, but my hard-headed cousin Bubba still sat there unmoving in the wetness, reminding me of a carved stone Buddha I’d once seen in Asia.  I knew the rain was warm, as was the temperature, so he was safe enough, but then the hail came.  Fist small scatter clumps of pea shaped ice then gradually they grew in size until they were almost as big as a pecan shell.   At that point I had a visitor under the lean-to.  Now, Bubba might have a hard-head, but he ain’t no fool.  Large hail hurts, or so he claimed later.

“Dog gone it!” he yelled, “I left my backpack over by the log and it’s soaked now!”

“Go get it.”  I said with a grin.

“Not in this hail I’m not.  I’ll just get me some sleep.”  He stated as he leaned back and used one of the logs I’d brought in as a pillow.  Within minutes he was sound asleep.

Well, Bubba thought he’d made our shelter on level ground (I’d used the same spot because of a lack of time), but he hadn’t.  About an hour after he’d fallen asleep I noticed small rivers of water running between my legs as I proof read one of my latest western novels.  Quickly glancing around, I saw the water from the hillside behind us was cutting into the loose sandy soil and the overflow was running right under our shelter.  The hail had stopped, but the rain was still coming down in buckets.  I could have got up and dug a shallow trench around the shelter to keep the water out, but I didn’t.  Instead I went back to my reading, after all the water was warm.

“Help me! I’m drownin’!”  I heard a scream and then a cough from beside me a few minutes later and when I looked over Bubba’s head had fallen from the log and his face was in the water. 

I reached down, grabbed the back of his dirty shirt and lifted his face from the water, “Bubba, you ain’t in no danger of drownin’.”

“I could have.  I read someplace it only takes a teaspoon of water to drown a feller.”  He stated as he sat up, and I wondered where he’d ever read anything.

“And, I read someplace you can tread water for days out in the ocean . . . so what?”  I put a bookmark in my book and closed it, placing it in my backpack.

“How come you didn’t dig no trench around the shelter?  That’s what I would have done?”

            “Then why didn’t you?”

            “Heck fire, I was a sleepin’.”

“I was readin’.”

Many long minutes passed in complete silence, which in itself is very unusual when Bubba is around.  The rain continued to beat a steady tattoo on the taunt canvas overhead.  I watched the water strike the mud puddles in front of our shelter and as the norm, I love to see the strength of a good summer storm. 

I was feeling very serene and relaxed when I heard Bubba say, “Look, this has turned out to be a bad time to camp.  What ya say we swing by the store, get a six pack of cola’s, some pork rinds and head over to my house to watch some wrestlin’ on the television?”

I gave it thought for a few minutes and then replied, “Ok, Bubba, if you want to do that.  But, when are we goin’ on our summer campin’ trip?” 

He removed his Lortz Feedlot and Bridle Gifts cap, scratched his bald head and said, “How ‘bout next weekend?  But, this time you bring the tent.”

I gave an inner chuckle, smiled and replied, “Sure Bubba, sure.  As soon as this rain lets up we’ll leave.”

Late the next afternoon we were home.

Visit Gary’s Southern Humor Site at http://members.shaw.ca/bubba05

I just got the art for my book "Alive and Alone" from aritst K.O. Haberstroh and as usual, I am impressed with her work.  Alive and Alone is the tale of fourteen year old David Wade.

On a remote fly-in hunting trip David Wade’s father crashes his small plane in remote mountains of Alaska, with only the two of them onboard. Within twenty-four hours his father is dead of his injuries and David is left to survive on his own.  While he was born in Alaska and had grown up camping, fishing, hiking, and hunting, did he have enough knowledge to stay alive in the harsh environment until rescued?   For years he’d gone on hunting trips to help around the campsite as the older boys and men hunted, so he knew a little about the wilderness camping—only could he survive! He was now alone, facing a survival situation in the brutal mountains, with it snowing and the temperature minus twenty.  Catching his shelter on fire and destroying most of his survival gear, the young boy almost gives up in frustration.  Then, hearing a rescue aircraft searching for him in the thick gray clouds overhead, his will to survive is reinforced.  Fourteen year old David Wade prays to stay alive long enough for the weather to break so rescuers can reach him.

I don't have a publisher for it yet and I've not even finished it, but I am very close.  I expect to have it done by the end of the month and then I'll submit it to my publisher for consideration.  It is a young adult book and I think it's pretty exciting.

Capri Publishing has announced that WR Benton's book, "War Paint" will be available for preorders on Friday, September 15, 2006.  A portion of all book sales will go to charity, both national and worldwide.  Click here to read an excerpt or here to see a larger image of the cover.

Not even released yet, the book is getting favorable comments from other authors.

Norm Rourke

Author, Prairie Wind, Poems & Stories

Steven M. Ulmen,

Author of "Toby Ryker."

© 2005 by Gary L. Benton

Bubba moved out to the rocking chair he had on the patio next to his mobile home.   As he placed his quart Mason jar of ice-cold water on the fifty-fire gallon drum (cut in half at his garage, so he had two on the patio) used as an end table, he looked around the barnyard.  His seat was next to Wally’s lawn chair.  Nothing was moving, but that did not surprise Bubba, because it was already hot and yet only eight in the morning.  Neither he nor Wally spoke.

It was so hot and dry that Bubba suspect even the fish were carrying canteens.  As Bubba surveyed the small dirt patch farm he owned, a big red pick-em-up truck suddenly pulled into this driveway and honked its horn.  Getting up, he slowly made his way to the truck.  He wasn’t in any hurry, because he figured the truck would still be there when he arrived.

Wally’s chair creaked loudly as he got up to follow Bubba out to the truck.  Both men, of course, brought their ice water with them.  Wally was suddenly extremely interested, because he had been there a week and this was the first visitor’s he’d seen.

Uhmmm, Bubba thought, they got outta state plates on that thing and no gun rack, Outsiders.  Not from around here for sure.  Plus, this thing looks brand new. Ain’t anybody I know that can afford one of these trucks.

As he neared the truck the driver’s window went down with a slight whirling sound and a head poked out.  No sooner had the head appeared than Bubba’s pack of dogs started barking loudly.  They ran out from the barn and circled the truck as a crazed group of individuals, not as a pack. 

 It was then he heard a loud Yankee voice yell, “Can you call those dogs off sir.  I need to ask you a question and I’m in a terrible hurry too.”

“Afternoon, to y’all too.  Sure, I can call em off for ya, but they won’t listen to nobody.  Nope, they are just like a big city lawyer.  Once they get your scent, they’ll stay on ya forever.   Remind me later to tell ya about the time I divorced my first wife and her egg sucking big city cutthroat lawyer.  Now, what can I do for y’all?”  Bubba spoke as he moved up beside the open truck window and took a big gulp of his water.  He could feel the cold air from the air conditioner of the truck on his face.  Bubba noticed the man was dressed in an expensive tan suit, his hair was long and styled, and his gold plated eyeglasses probably cost more than Bubba’s truck.

“Do you know how to get to highway 63 from here?”  The man asked as he looked down at a couple of the barking dogs.

“That is right down the road about four miles, eh, Bubba?”  Wally asked with his thick Canadian accent.  Bubba noticed streaks of sweat running down the thin man’s face.

“Why sure I can tell ya.  See, I done lived here all my life, but Wally is furr-in visitor.  So, don’t ask him about it.  I know every road around for miles.   Wally, now, he is a nice enough feller, he jess doesn’t know this place like I do though.”  Bubba said as he reached in his right rear pocket and pulled out his chewing tobacco. 

Being civilized, he opened the pouch of tobacco and extended it toward the man in the truck as he continued speaking, “Want a chaw?”  As soon as he had spoken he placed his jar of water on the hood of the new truck.

“Uh, why, no, no thank you. I asked if you knew where the highway is?  And, don’t you think it’s a bit early to be drinking moonshine?”  As the man asked his question once more, Bubba thought the guy must be hard of hearing.   So, as soon as he had filled his left cheek with tobacco he decided he needed to speak louder.

“YES, I SAID YES.  I KNOW WHERE THE ROAD IS!  AND AS FOR THE MOONSHINE, IT AIN’T NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS!”  Bubba yelled as he leaned forward and got right into the man’s face.  The juice from his chewing tobacco ran down his chin, but he made no effort to wipe it off.

 The fool thanks I am drinking moonshine this early in the day, Bubba thought and gave a chuckle to himself.  He decided, right then and there, to play it up a bit.

“Well, where is it then.  I guess you didn’t hear me when I said I was in a hurry.”  The man stated with thick northern accent.

“Aren’t you going to tell him Bubba?  You know where it is.”  Wally stated as he took a swig of his cold ice water.  

“Wally, you obviously didn’t heah this man.  He didn’t ask me to tell em how to get there.  He asked me if I knew where it was.”  Turning back to the truck window Bubba spoke once again, “Now, which is it, suh, that y’all want?”  I do not like rude people, especially rude Yankee’s, Bubba thought as he answered the man’s question, with a question, of course.

“Mister, are you drunk or something?”

“Not yet, but I suspect me and Wally will be in a couple hours.  It’s too hot here to do much of anythin’ else.  I figured we would take the dawgs and meander down to the pond. We might do us some cat fishin’ later on today.  Of course, fishin’ means me and Wally will need to take us some beer along.”

“Man, are you for real?”

“Well, I gots me one of them birth certificates that says I’m real.  Of course, don’t pay no attention to who it says is my daddy, because that part is one of them errors ya know.  One of them typo-thing-of-a-bobs.  And, Wally here, he has him one of them Can-a-dee-an passports or something like that anyway.”  Bubba said as he felt himself starting to enjoy the conversation a bit now.

“It is a Canadian passport, Bubba.  You’ve seen it, eh?”  Wally said as he looked at Bubba more than a little confused.   Bubba had spoken passable English not ten minutes ago.  What in the world had happened?  It was then Wally decided to lay back and just watch.

“Look, how do I get to the highway?  I just need to get back on the main road.  Will you help me or not?  I’m in a big hurry.”   The man spoke in a pleading voice, just before his head disappeared back into the cab of the truck a split second before Taterhead, the beagle, jumped up on the door.

“Ok, ok, just cool down a bit, son.  Dang, we don’t do things so fast down here in the South.  One of these days you’re gonna take one of them heart attack things and just fall over dead.  But, since ya ain’t from around heah, I’ll give y’all a break.  I will tell ya the way I would go to the highway. Ya got a pencil and some paper in that truck?”   Bubba asked, and then he turned and spit a stream of thick brown tobacco juice out onto the ground near his feet, barely missing Taterhead, but not missing the side of the man’s truck door.  Well, thought Bubba, least ways the driver didn’t see it hit the door.

“Ya, I got a pen and paper right here.  Ready to copy.”  The man said as he turned to face Bubba.

“Ok.  Now, you go down this here road for a fair piece, but not as far as old lady Cisco’s place, or ya done gone too far, and then ya turn left.  You can’t miss it, because it’s where Bobby Dale killed that monster buck back in ’68.   Ya know, there’s that big open field off to the right side there.  Go straight for another mile or three until you come to where the old Packizer place used to be, only it ain’t there no more.  So, don’t even count on seein’ the remains.  Right there you turn right, immediately when ya see where the lightnin’ struck that old post oak tree back in ‘83.  Then past old man Johnson’s place, past Millers Feed Store and Nightgowns, and at the intersection ya’ll see the post office, Andy’s café and one of them fast eatin’ burger places.   Feller, ya look kind corn-fused, you getting all of this down?”  As soon as he had finished speaking he gulp the remainder of his water and tossed the empty canning jar out into the barnyard, just missing Butch, the old coon hound.

Suddenly there was a whirling sound and the window to the truck closed.  Since it was tinted Bubba couldn’t see in.   He heard the engine race, saw the truck back up, and watched as it disappeared down the dirt driveway and turned onto the blacktopped road in front of his mobile home.  It turned the wrong way of course.

Bubba was still chuckling to himself when Maude walked up beside him with a cold glass of sweet tea in her left hand. 

She smiled at Bubba and asked, “what were y’all doin’out here talkin’ to them folks Bubba.  They ain’t from around here, are they?  They looked like outsiders to me.  Did ya know them folks Wally, since yer from up north and all?”

“Maude, do you know how many people live north of the Mason-Dixon Line?  Do you have any idea of how many folks live in the states and even in Canada north of you?”  Wally replied as he slowly shook his head.

“A couple bushel baskets full, I reckon.  I ain’t never really gave it much thought.  Yer the only real Yankee I ever met, even if ya do say ya ain’t a Yankee.  Ya talk funny, just like they do, so ya must be one.”

“They were lost Maude and I was doing the right thing by helpin’ em.”  Bubba said as he took the cold drink from Maude’s hand and took a long gulp.  He turned his head towards Wally and gave him a big twisted grin.

“That’s my baby doll, Wally.  He’s always helpin’ other folks, Bubba is, even Yankees.  That is one reason I love him so dang much.  What ya both say we take some fried chicken gizzards, tater salad, cornbread , cold beer, and go do us some catfishin’ for a spell.”  Maude said as he put her arm around Bubba’s large waist and leaned her head on his shoulder.

As Bubba and Maude headed back into the mobile home to pack up for the fishing trip, Wally wondered why Bubba had been so rude to the man in the truck.  And the man in the truck had been just as rude to leave without saying so much as thank you.  After all, hadn’t Bubba given him exact directions to the highway?  Hadn’t Bubba answered all of the man’s questions?  It suddenly became obvious to Wally that all Bubba had done the whole time was to try and teach the man some Southern manners.

“Life is sure is strange.”  Wally thought with a loud laugh.  He realized he had only been in the south for a few weeks and it was already rubbing off on him.  This could prove to well be one holiday to remember.

I hope y’all enjoyed the sample from my book, “Bubba’s Dawg Might be a Redneck.”  If you are interested in ordering it, visit the store now. 

Food

Ya know I grew up down South and I ain't got nothin' 'gainst Eyetalian food, but it don't do a thang fer me.  Ya can call noodles pasta if ya want, but they're still noodles, in my mind.  And, tomater sauce don't do a thang fer 'em, 'cept cover the good taste.  To tell y'all the truch, I'd rather have noodles with butter than a tomater sauce comouflage over 'em. At leas then I know what I've got.  

Now, chicken and noodles (or dumplin's I love) are ok and i can eat 'em by the gallons, but to throw a tomater sauce on something and call it a meal, well, I question that.  And, my wife does that a lot, so, what do I do?  Usually I eat whats on my plate and then eat some porkrinds later in the evening.

Y'all take care and stay safe,

Gary