The Dogwood Diagnosis

We don’t use no stethoscopes around here. Ain’t no pokin’ and proddin’ and coughin’ whilst someone checks to see if the tone is just right or maybe if I’m suffering from degenerative dislocated toenail-itis. And there’s not a whole lot of blood-letting — except in fairly rare cases of arguin’ and fists flyin’.

Naw… whatever ails us, we does our own diagnosin’. And in the end, it’s all up to the dogwood anyhow.

That tree is the closest one to my front door. I see it first thing every time I walk outside or look out a window. And it has been delaying the healing process for these aggravating ailments way too long.

I realize that, reading this, you’re probably about as lost as that doctor was years ago, the first time I ever had this thing jump on me. I was jumpy, jittery, jangling… and when I left his office Ol’ Doc was in worse shape than I was.

It got worse: couldn’t sit still, couldn’t sleep and, to top it all off, couldn’t eat more than a pound or two of venison at a sitting. (Looking back on it now, guess that semi-loss of appetite wasn’t as big a problem as it seemed at the time.)

And, although the symptoms seem to have lessened a little over the years, they still kick in about the second week of January, worsen through February, and I’m ’bout ready to order a casket by the end of the abominable month of March, which lasted about 93 days this year. According to the dogwood, that is.

That particular tree has these buds, see. Buds. Not blooms. When the buds bloom… well, then everything will heal up jes’ fine, thanks, and I’ll be back to my normal self.

Whatever that is.

But as far as the dogwood goes, it cannot tell a lie — unlike the pair of pear trees nearby. Those pears lie worse’n carpet grass, because they’ve already bloomed and are shouting to the clouds that it’s that time of year again.

Only it ain’t. And that’s the jist of the problem.

In my personal and private diagnosis, time of year is a major factor. Beginning with August, should any of the jittery signs happen to show themselves, my lovely bride will chirp up and gently say, “You need to go kill something!”

Brilliant little woman; would make a great psychiatrist. So I’ll take her advice, grab the Model 12 and go chase down a squirrel or 10. The healing is nothing short of miraculous. September? Look out doves, here we come! October, November, et al? Nary a sniffle! As long as I can chase whitetails, the CDC couldn’t make me sick! And ducks and quail and rabbits… the bloom of health is upon us!

Then comes January, and there goes my deer season. Some days it’s so bad I can hardly get out of bed; if not for small-game seasons through February, guess the coroner would have to step in.

But March… MARCH! Breath comes shallow, I’m wheezing and gasping, tossing and turning, eyeing the second hand sweeping much too slowly across the big wall clock.

I sit and ponder the dogwood. When, oh when, will you bloom? (Pardon me a moment; I must put down my 11th cup of coffee and trudge once more to the window.)

However, along about the 90th day of March, just before the funeral home stepped in, I took a turn for the better. It was then I realized only a few days could possibly remain before the dogwood bloomed. Also, a large frying pan clanged off my brain box and it was, uh, suggested I get out of the house and get a second opinion from another dogwood miles away. Brilliant little woman; would make a great executioner.

This second tree happens to be on the bank of one of our camphouse ponds — which the little woman was well aware of — and so began the healing process. Just being there put me in mind that when things did finally start blooming — though hunting season would be behind me — fishing season would begin.

You see, somehow or other all the bream — maybe even the largemouths — are in perfect tune with my dogwood tree. When it blooms, they gather to bed up and make many, many little breams and basses. They also tend to do very unfriendly things to any cricket, worm or artificial bait tossed into those beds — with yours truly on the other end of said tossee. Why, it’s ’most fun as hunting!

And while I was there gazing out over the still-frigid water, I happened to begin scrutinizing the old boats at bankside.

“Yep, this one needs a patching and a new seat. That second one could use fresh tie rope, and I believe there’s an anchor missing. Better check the trolling motors and batteries, and while I’m at it, guess it’s about time for new line on the reels. Wonder what kind of new lures are on the market this year? Oh, I know I’ve got more than Wal-Mart now, but you just never can tell when you’ll need an extra 100-pack of punkinseed/watermelon/cane-syrup-flavored plastic worms.”

You know, I’ll bet my tackle box hasn’t been cleaned out and sorted since… well, last March. Better hurry back and get that done pretty quick, because I could possibly be missing my favorite silver-and-black Tiny Torpedo; or maybe the cucumber juice has dried up in the pork-rind trailer jar. Probably only 2- or 3-dozen packs of extra-light wire hooks in there, and that will never be enough to get through the summer.

’Scuse me, boys, but I’ve got to hightail it. Seems somehow or other my joints and cartimalages and liver and gizzard have amalgamated back into their proper positions, and I’m feeling a heap better. Got a lot to do and not a heap of time to get it done. Them shellcrackers will be gathering up before you know it, and not a pink worm in sight.

Gotta get hopping. Shore hope that dogwood holds off a couple more days…

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.daryl gay.com or 16 Press, 219 Brookwood Drive, Dublin, GA, 31021.