On Hunting Wild Hogs

Whenever I can I like to drop in at the Calf B for an overpriced cup of coffee. It’s not the coffee, which is passable, it’s the company. They got this big old round table in the side room where the locals will be gathered in the event that it’s “too wet to plow”, or “too dry to plow”, or “too cold to plow”, or “too…”, well you get the idea. Sometimes it’s funny, sometimes it’s very serious war planning. But it’s never dull.

From time to time a stranger manages to find a seat among us, usually as a guest of one of the locals. Some years back one of them commented on the broad array of experience and “country wisdom” he heard at that table, and he said we were sort of a modern version of the Knights of the Round Table. After a lot of scoffing, the debate came down to whether we were “Serfs of the Round Table,” or just the “Yokel Round Table.” Point is that none of us takes ourselves too seriously, because we all know who we are, and posturing is difficult among guys who will deflate your ego quicker than you can spit.

When I see Robert E.’s truck parked on the back side of the café, I make the time to stop and have a cuppa. You only have to meet Robert E. to appreciate him. Or hate him. He’s what we call “hard core”, and I ain’t talking about porn here. Robert E. jes’ calls it like he sees it, has no regard for political correctness, and acts like he don’t know what that is, but I have my suspicions. He’s twice as fun when we have a newbie at the table, and no one misses that if don’t have to. You can chuckle all day long over the shock effect that Robert E. can have on some city dude who has had the misfortune to be educated in a university, and then asked the wrong question.
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