When I was a young man
Long, long ago
I had troubles up the wazoo
Money troubles and other troubles
I won’t bore you with
But I had two sure cures
If the season was in
I’d steal away
Before the sun rose
With a setter (or two)
Drive west or south
West to the mountains or
South to Stony Creek
In either case with shotgun on the seat
I’d arrive at a spot in the mountains
I will not identify
In three hours
Park out of sight
Turn loose a setter
And walk, walk, walk
Listening for the tinkle of its bell
To cease
I’d climb
To where the sound stopped
Looking for my setter standing still
Her tail would point up
Her chin would be raised
Her nostrils would quiver
Her jaw open and close
As she smoked her pipe
On the scent of Ole Ruff
I’d step past her
Left or right
Guessing which way
Would yield a shot
Ole Ruff would boil out
Heard before seen
Sometimes not seen at all
Sometimes a shot
Sometimes not
But either way
My blues would be gone
If I drove south
In an hour I’d arrive
At Joe Prince’s house
Beside the railroad track
The smell of frying bacon
Would greet me on the porch
Margaret Moore
Joe’s cook thirty years
Would be putting breakfast
On the table
Heavenly biscuits, eggs and bacon
Sometimes salt herring
In would walk
Jimmy Jennings
Joe’s lead farm hand
To get his orders
For the day and his pay
Hauling beans or peanuts
To market or
Winterizing machinery
Joe would write paychecks
Give Jimmy work orders
Jimmy would shuffle out
Deliver checks to waiting comrades
They’d be off to cash them
And maybe start work, maybe not
Breakfast downed and Margaret thanked
I’d load in Joe’s truck dogs from Joe’s kennel
At breakfast he’d picked
Maybe add one or two of mine
While Joe called his broker
To place the day’s bets
On the prices for what he grew
And some crops he did not
Joe would storm out
Crank the diesel
We’d be off to hunt quail
In one of four quadrants
Formed by I-95 (north-south)
And Route 40 (east-west)
Our first stop would be
A big empty bean field close by
For the dogs to circle
Limber up and empty
Our next stop
Another bean field
Rows of beans left on the edge
Surrounded by three-years-old cutover
Joe would release two or three
We’d hold our breath as the dogs circled
Betting on where they would freeze on the edge
“Flash has ‘em,” Joe’d whisper
We’d walk through mud or sand to the stand
Whether birds rose
Or had fed and flown or walked on
My blues would be gone