TumbleDweeeb

Episode 5.5: Sunday Fishing Blues
Written by: Emmitt Owens
*As narrated by Waylon*

Waylon Intro: “Well now, folks, gather ’round and let me spin you a tale about friendship, fishing, and the kind of Sunday that reminds you why Alabama’s the finest state in the union. This here story takes place down in Buzzard Roost, where the boys at Mad Mechanics decided to trade their wrenches for fishing poles and their shop talk for creek-side conversation. Now, I’ve told you plenty of stories about these fellas and their automotive adventures, but today’s tale is a little different. Sometimes the best stories happen when good people decide to slow down, enjoy each other’s company, and remember that life’s got more to offer than carburetors and big blocks. So pour yourself something cool, settle back, and let me tell you about the day the Mad Mechanics went fishing for more than just fish.”

   It was a Sunday morning in late June, and the Alabama sun was already promisin’ to be hotter than a blacksmith’s forge by noon. From somewhere in the distance, an old radio was playing Kenny Chesney’s “Gone,” and the lazy melody seemed to match the pace of the morning perfectly – slow, peaceful, and in no particular hurry to get anywhere.
   Chester had declared it an official “no shop day,” which meant the garage was closed tighter than a tick on a hound dog, and the boys were free to pursue other forms of mischief. They’d all agreed to meet down at Quarter Creek in Marion County, about two counties away from Buzzard Roost, where the fishing was supposed to be as good as Gutglor’s moonshine and twice as plentiful.
   Chester showed up first, carryin’ a tackle box that looked like it had survived both Vietnam and a few family feuds. He was chewin’ on a piece of grass and had already fired up a Camel non-filter, the smoke curlin’ up into the morning air like incense at a redneck church service. Knowin’ Chester, he’d probably already gone through half a pack during his morning coffee.
   Gary came out the brush with a taped-up pole and a grin. “Beautiful day for drownin’ some worms.” Right behind him, Reedus crashed through like a one-man stampede, carryin’ what could generously be called fishing equipment but looked more like a collection of random hardware store purchases.
       “Boys, boys, boys!” Reedus cackled, his wild hair decorated with pine needles and what appeared to be spider webs. “This is gonna be fintastic! I’m gonna catch so many fish, they’ll be schooling around me like I’m some kind of aquatic magnet!”
   Chester and Gary exchanged the kind of look that said they were already regretting this expedition, but before they could voice their concerns, Professor Thibodaux emerged from his pickup truck looking like he’d stepped out of a fishing magazine advertisement.
       “Good morning, gentlemen,” the Professor said, adjusting his pristine fishing vest and examining a bamboo cane pole that looked like it belonged in a museum. “I’ve brought my grandfather’s hand-crafted cane pole. According to family legend, it’s never failed to produce a respectable catch.”
     “Well,” Gary said diplomatically, “there’s a first time for everything.”
   The grand finale of arrivals came when Gutglor’s old pickup truck rumbled into the clearing, the engine coughin’ and wheezin’ like an old bloodhound with respiratory problems. Gutglor himself climbed out grinnin’ wider than quarter creek, carryin’ a cooler that appeared to weigh more than a small automobile. Right behind him jumped down Axl, his blue-nose pitbull, tail already waggin’ in anticipation of whatever mischief the day might bring.
       “Boys!” Gutglor announced proudly, “I brought refreshments for our fishin’ expedition. Got me some of that strawberry muscadine wine I been brewin’ since Easter, plus a whole mess of fresh maters from my garden that I been nurturin’ since spring.”
   Axl immediately trotted over to each of the men, his tail waggin’ like a furry metronome, acceptin’ pets and sniffin’ everyone to make sure they passed his usual approval test.
   He opened the cooler to reveal mason jars full of deep purple wine that caught the morning sunlight like liquid jewels, plus the biggest, reddest maters anyone had ever seen outside of a county fair competition.
       “Them maters look good enough to eat like an apple,” Chester observed, eyein’ the produce with appreciation.
     “That’s the plan,” Gutglor replied, pullin’ out a salt shaker from his overalls pocket. “Nothing goes better with fishing than fresh maters, homemade wine, and the peace and quiet of nature.”

Intermission: “Now folks, I gotta pause here to tell you that Gutglor’s strawberry muscadine wine was legendary in North Alabama. It was smoother than a politician’s promises and had just enough kick to make even the most serious fisherman forget why he came to the creek in the first place. But more than that, what you’re witnessing here is something special – the kind of Southern hospitality that turns a simple fishing trip into a celebration of friendship. See, Gutglor didn’t just bring refreshments; he brought the kind of thoughtfulness that makes ordinary moments feel like small miracles. That cooler full of homemade wine and garden-fresh tomatoes wasn’t just food and drink – it was love made tangible, the kind of gesture that says “I’m glad y’all are my friends” without ever having to speak the words.”

   They all settled into their fishing spots along the creek bank, which meandered through the Marion County countryside like a lazy snake with no particular place to be. The water was green enough to not see bottom in most places, and fish were occasionally jumping, creating ripples that caught the morning light.
   Professor Thibodaux positioned himself with scientific precision, consultin’ what appeared to be a fishing almanac and calculating optimal cast angles. “According to my research,” he announced, “the fish should be most active in approximately thirty-seven minutes when the barometric pressure reaches optimal levels.”
       “Professor,” Chester said, castin’ his line with the casual expertise of someone who’d been fishing since before he could walk, while simultaneously lighting up another cigarette from the one he’d just finished, “sometimes fish don’t read the same books you do.”
   Reedus had positioned himself downstream and was already making casts with the enthusiasm of someone launching rockets. He’d tried to rig a lure out of duct tape, a beer tab, and what might’ve been half a Slim Jim. His first cast landed with a splash that probably scared every fish within a quarter mile.
       “Come on, fish!” Reedus hollered at the water. “Don’t be koi with me! I know you’re down there having a whale of a time!”
   Gary groaned audibly. “Reedus, you’re gonna scare away every fish between here and Twin Forks with that yellin’.”
       “Can’t help it,” Reedus replied, reeling in his line. “I’m just so ex-fish-ted to be here!”
   Meanwhile, Gutglor had settled into a folding chair that looked like it had been designed for maximum comfort and minimum effort, with Axl curled up at his feet like a furry footrest. He’d already opened a jar of his strawberry muscadine wine and was slicin’ maters with a pocket knife that had seen more action than Mike Price, occasionally tossing small pieces to Axl, who caught them like he’d thunk he was Julio Jones. One time, Axl caught a tomato mid-air, then trotted to the creek, dunked it like a baptizin’, and brought it back.”
       “Boys,” Gutglor announced, holdin’ up a slice of mater that was practically glowin’ in the sunlight, “y’all gotta try these beauties. Been babyin’ them plants all season, talkin’ to ’em every morning, playin’ them some country music to help ’em grow.”
     “You played music to your maters?” the Professor asked, his scientific curiosity overriding his fishing concentration.
       “Course I did,” Gutglor replied matter-of-factly. “Plants respond to sound vibrations. Everybody knows that. Plus, I figured if they’re gonna grow in Alabama, they might as well appreciate good country music.”
   Chester sampled one of the maters and his eyes went wide with appreciation. “Gutglor, these are about the best maters I ever tasted. What’s your secret?”
       “Well,” Gutglor said, taking a sip of wine and looking pleased with himself, “besides the music, I water ’em with a mixture of rainwater and just a tiny bit of my moonshine. Gives ’em character.”
   The Professor nearly dropped his cane pole. “You’ve been using distilled spirits as plant fertilizer?”
       “Just a little bit,” Gutglor assured him. “Maters appreciate quality ingredients same as people do.”
   About that time, a fish jumped right in front of Reedus’s line, and he got so excited he nearly fell into the creek. Axl’s head snapped up at the splash, his ears perked forward like radar dishes scanning for interesting developments.
       “Did you see that? That fish just gave me a personal invitation! This is gonna be roe-mantic!” Reedus declared.
   Axl barked once, as if agreeing with Reedus’s assessment of the situation, then settled back down beside Gutglor’s chair.
       “Reedus,” Gary said patiently, “if you don’t stop with them fish puns, I’m gonna throw you in that creek myself.”
     “Don’t get crabby with me,” Reedus replied, smilin’ like a coon dog in a fried chicken shack. “I’m just having fun with the situation.”
   The morning progressed with varying degrees of fishing success. Chester caught a respectable bass that would’ve made good eating if they’d been planning to keep their catch. Gary hooked into something that bent his rod double but managed to break free before anyone could identify it. Reedus caught enthusiasm and approximately seventeen different tree branches, but no actual fish.
   The Professor, despite his scientific approach and quality equipment, hadn’t so much as gotten a nibble. His grandfather’s legendary cane pole was proving to be about as effective as a chocolate teapot.
       “According to my calculations,” the Professor muttered, consulting his fishing almanac for the dozenth time, “the fish should be biting by now.”
     “Maybe your calculations need recalculatin’,” Gutglor suggested helpfully, passin’ around another jar of his strawberry muscadine wine. “Sometimes fish got their own ideas about when they want to cooperate.”
   The wine was going down smooth as silk and twice as pleasant. It had just enough sweetness from the muscadines to balance the tartness of the strawberries, and everyone agreed it was considerably more enjoyable than Gutglor’s usual moonshine concoctions.
       “This wine’s smoother than a baby’s bottom,” Chester declared, taking another sip. “What’s your secret recipe?”
     “Family tradition passed down from my great-granddaddy,” Gutglor replied proudly. “You take your muscadines when they’re just perfect, add some fresh strawberries, a little sugar, and then you let time and Alabama humidity do the rest of the work.”
   By mid-morning, the combination of warm sunshine, good wine, and fresh maters had everyone feeling philosophical about their fishing expedition. Even the lack of fish didn’t seem to matter much when the company was good and the refreshments were better. Someone’s truck radio in the distance had switched to playing Brad Paisley’s “Mud on the Tires,” and the upbeat tune seemed to celebrate exactly the kind of lazy country day they were all enjoying.
       “You know,” Gary said, reeling in his line to check his bait, “sometimes the best part of fishing ain’t the fish.”
     “Speak for yourself,” Reedus replied, still casting with determined optimism. “I’m not giving up until I hook something with fins. This is supposed to be a reel good time!”
       “There he goes again,” Chester muttered, but he was grinning when he said it.
   About that time, they heard the distinctive sound of a truck backfiring, and everyone turned to see a familiar vehicle pulling into the clearing. It was Old Pete from the Chill n’ Fill, driving his delivery truck and looking like he had important business to conduct.
       “Morning, boys!” Pete called out, climbing down from his truck. “Heard y’all might be needin’ some supplies for your fishing expedition.”
     “What kind of supplies?” Chester asked suspiciously.
   Pete opened the back of his truck to reveal cases of RC Cola, bags of ice, and what appeared to be half the snack food inventory of the Chill n’ Fill. “Figured y’all might get thirsty sitting out here in this heat. Plus, I got some of them pickled eggs that go real good with wine.”
       “Pete,” Gutglor said appreciatively, “you’re a man of vision and good timing.”

Intermission: “Now let me tell you something about Old Pete from the Chill n’ Fill that you might not know. Pete had a sixth sense about when folks needed him most, and he had a heart bigger than the state of Texas. He’d been holding down that bench outside the Chill n’ Fill for more years than anyone could remember, watching the comings and goings of Buzzard Roost like a friendly sentinel. But Pete wasn’t just a bench-warmer – he was the unofficial mayor of that little corner of Alabama, and he’d never missed an opportunity to show up exactly when people needed something they didn’t even know they were missing. Some folks might wonder how a man who spent his days on a bench could always have exactly what you needed, but I call it the kind of neighborly intuition that makes small-town life something special. Pete understood that sometimes the best way to help folks isn’t about having all the answers – it’s about being part of the community, showing up for your neighbors, and knowing that a cold RC Cola and some pickled eggs might be exactly what turns a good day into a great memory.”

   The arrival of reinforcements seemed to improve everyone’s mood even more, though it didn’t do much for their fishing success. The Professor was still getting skunked despite trying every technique known to angling science, while Reedus continued his assault on the local fish population with puns and enthusiasm.
       “This is un-fish-givable!” Reedus declared after missing another strike. “I’m gonna have to scale back my expectations!”
     “Reedus,” Gary warned, “if you make one more fish pun, I’m gonna use you for bait.”
       “Now that would be gill-tee of fish abuse,” Reedus replied, completely undeterred.
   By afternoon, the wine and maters had done their work, and everyone was feeling mellower than a Sunday morning church service. Even the Professor had given up consulting his almanac and was just enjoying the peace and quiet of the creek.
       “You know what?” the Professor announced, finally setting down his grandfather’s legendary cane pole, “I think I’ve been approaching this all wrong. Maybe fishing isn’t about catching fish.”
     “Now you’re gettin’ it,” Gutglor replied, raising his mason jar in a toast. “Sometimes the best fishing trips are the ones where you don’t catch anything but a good time.”
   Chester lit up another cigarette and blew smoke rings that drifted across the water like lazy ghosts. “Boys, I think this might be the most successful fishing trip we ever had.” He took a long drag and flicked the ash into the creek.
       “How you figure?” Gary asked.
     “Well,” Chester replied, taking another drag, “we got good company, good wine, good maters, and nobody’s tried to modify anything with a chainsaw or duct tape. That’s what I call a perfect day.”
   As the sun started its descent toward the pine trees, they packed up their gear and prepared to head back to civilization. The distant radio had switched to playing Tim McGraw’s “Something Like That,” and the nostalgic melody seemed perfect for ending a day that would definitely become one of those stories they’d tell for years to come. The cooler was considerably lighter, everyone was feeling pleasantly relaxed, and even the Professor seemed to have made peace with his fishing failure.
       “Same time next Sunday?” Gutglor asked, loading his gear into his truck while Axl jumped into the passenger seat and stuck his head out the window.
     “Wouldn’t miss it,” Chester replied. “But next time, maybe we should bring cards instead of fishing poles.”
       “Or we could try fishin’ for compliments instead of fish,” Reedus suggested. “I bet I’d have better luck with that!”
   Axl barked his approval from the truck window, apparently endorsing Reedus’s plan for future fishing expeditions.
   And with that final pun echoing across the peaceful waters of Quarter Creek, the boys headed back to Buzzard Roost, Alabama, leaving behind nothing but ripples on the water and the kind of memories that make ordinary Sundays feel like small miracles.

Outro: “Well now, folks, that there is what I call a successful fishing expedition, and I hope it reminds you of something important. In this fast-paced world of ours, where everybody’s rushing around trying to catch the next big thing, sometimes the most valuable catch of the day isn’t something you pull out of the water – it’s the friendship, laughter, and peace of mind you find along the way. The boys at Mad Mechanics learned something that Sunday that’s worth more than all the fish in Alabama: that the best adventures happen when you slow down enough to appreciate good friends, homemade wine, garden-fresh tomatoes, and the simple pleasure of spending time together without any particular agenda except enjoying each other’s company.
   Kenny Chesney was still singin’ in the back of my mind… and for once, it felt good to be gone—from everything but the moment.
   And if you ever find yourself needing to get away from the noise and complications of modern life, well, there’s nothing better than a creek bank, some good friends, and the kind of conversation that flows as naturally as the water itself. Remember, life’s too short to worry about whether the fish are biting – sometimes it’s enough just to throw your line in the water and see what kind of memories you can reel in instead.
   Until next time, this is Waylon reminding you that the best stories aren’t always about what you catch – they’re about who you’re with when you’re trying to catch it. Y’all take care now.”