Healing The Hermit

Considering that he had the mental mettle of a ballerina—with temperament to match—I’d seen the old hermit in the throes of neurosis before. But this?

“So, Jake, I’m telling you that I just bumped a covey of about two dozen down by Otha Sapp’s corn field, and you’re telling me that you have absolutely no interest? Quail, Jake. Bobwhites! You ain’t dead, is you?”

Even rolling his eyes upward to meet mine seemed a herculean task as he croaked, “I jes’ can’t hep it, Least’un. My trombone is dilapidated. Doc said he needed to check my nanners. I’m on the way out!”

You want a REAL emotional setback? Try figuring out THAT diagnosis!

I make my living using the English language, upon which Jake’s language is loosely constructed. We are the only two folks on the planet who speak Jake’s language, and I’m still taking classes. I’ve learned that the best way to break down a sentence or phrase to get anywhere near its true meaning is to go one word(?) at a time.

Let’s start with “Doc,” which was the left-hook that really floored me following the “trombone” gut punch.

You’ll see me in a beauty salon with pink-dyed hair in curlers before you’ll ever catch Jake the Hermit in a doctor’s office! Over the years, I’ve likely dropped a grand on surgical tools (Barlow knives), gauze (MY t-shirts) and joint wraps (Pearline Parker’s trampoline pad, but don’t never tell her).

Fortunately, he distills his own antiseptic.

I also got to be a fair surgeon from the likes of removing No. 9 shot  from Jake’s nether regions on several occasions, thanks to Ol’ Man Otha. Seems to me that they could work out a better system than Jake stealing Otha’s chickens and Otha dusting Jake’s racing backside three or four times a year. The old coots apparently have made a game of it. But I’m’a telling you, it ain’t no fun plucking lead from a bony butt using a Barlow and tweezers.

And that’s AFTER roping Jake face-down across the kitchen table! Them ropes is mainly to hold him in place when I apply antiseptic; one second he’s whining like a little girl from the sting and the next he’s bellerin’ about wasting “good drankin’ likker.”

He ain’t going nowhere, though. Not ‘til I loosen them ropes…

“You went to Dr. Holder’s office?”

“Naw, you idjit; he wanted a meal of squirrels so I picked him off a couple. But turned out he wanted a bigger mess and was kind of sporty about it. That’s when he looked me over and told me the bad news.”

“About your trombone?”

“Yep. Said it was why I couldn’t kill no more than two tree rats. Said I was slippin’ and it looked real bad; funny how doctors is so hard-hearted that they can smile at a man while giving him such bad news.”

Which brings us back to “trombone.”

If Jake ever possessed a musical instrument of any type, it was only because he pilfered a case not knowing what was inside. Besides, a cased trombone would be much too large for him to tote.

Quickly.

Old rascal can’t even play a radio. Or plug one in.

But he DOES have a hitch in his git-along. That’s only when walking, of course; once he gets up a little steam—say, five steps from Otha’s henhouse—he smoothes out like your bass boat getting on plane. If not for oaks, stumps and gallberries leaping out in front of him occasionally, he’d be a regular Olympian. So could trombone POSSIBLY be thigh bone?

Surely, that pair of cadaverous critters has become fairly dilapidated over the years. Mostly from Barlow surgery.

“You sure it wasn’t your thigh bones?”

“TROM-bone! Ain’t nothin’ wrong with my hearing. It’s my dilapidated trombone what’s killing me.”

So be it. But where do “nanners” fit? Jake don’t even eat bananas…

They tell me that working crossword puzzles is good for the brain, that it keeps one sharp in his old age. Well, if I ever get old I should be packing ear-to-ear razor blades. Let’s see: nanners, scanners, tanners, manners… I give up. Different tack…

Old Doc Holder is a jokester. No way he would just lay a heavy sentence on the Hermit with no more than a passing smile. However, he’s dealing from a schoolhouse deck to a Hermit with a Ph.D gained inside the treeline. Those educations rarely overlap.

And it took me a while to pull them closer together.

“OK, you lazy old buzzard, what exactly did Doctor Holder say about your testosterone?”

“I done tolt ye; it’s dilapidated.”

“Right. Depleted testosterone levels. And just exactly what was it he said about checking nanograms?”

“We didn’t get past him wanting to do a blood test, grinning all the time. I tolt him that both of us was likely to do a mite of bleeding if he come after mine.

“Sides, you the only one what ever makes me bleed and that’s just ‘cause you still ain’t learnt to proper sharpen a Barlow.”

Finally, a hint of a smirk with that jab…

“You’ll live, Jake. Doc was only poking fun. There’s nothing wrong with you that a can of oysters couldn’t cure.”

His three-tooth smile as he scampered up was a joyous sight.

“Well, run to town, get me some and hurry right back. We got quails to find…

Order your copy of Daryl Gay’s books, “Rabbit Stompin’ And Other Homegrown Safari Tactics,” $19.95 plus $3 S&H and “Life On the Back Page,” $14.95 plus $3 S&H from www.darylgay.com or 16 Press, 219 Brookwood Drive, Dublin, GA, 31021.