BOB KORNEGAY: Dealing with ‘neat-freak syndrome’

I have a number of sporting buddies who, strangely enough, are the epitome of neatness.

Fortunately, these fastidious individuals make up a small minority of my outdoor companions. Most of my cohorts, thankfully, are disorganized slobs, thus proving I usually have the good sense to surround myself with normal associates.

So why do I include this smattering of neat-freaks in my circle of hunting and fishing partners? Who knows? Maybe it’s my liberal tolerance of alternative lifestyles. Or maybe it’s just that I need someone around to remind me of my mother and childhood. I am quite nostalgic, after all, and if these guys weren’t hairy-legged, deep-voiced and ugly, they could easily pass for that sainted woman who brought me into this world 60-plus years ago.

Like Mom did, these nicey-nicey sportsmen cringe at things like unwashed underwear and muddy Labrador retrievers in their beds, things normal outdoorsmen in a weekend hunting or fishing camp simply take for granted. I know a couple who actually take offense at my spitting into empty beer bottles, even though I’m always very careful to use the brown ones. One deer camp buddy even insists I squeeze out and fold the dish towel after every use. Gee whiz! One would think he’d be satisfied that the dishes get washed every couple of weeks.

It’s not easy to concentrate on important stuff with these masculine “mamas” around. They’re constantly underfoot and they interrupt important debates about shot patterns, lure colors, quota hunts and catfish baits with arguments over which powdered laundry detergent works best on six-week-old bacon grease. And for gosh sakes don’t ever get ‘em started on which pastel toilet tissue best matches the towels in the bathroom.

“Please don’t spit on my feet,” one says, knowing full well tobacco juice is easily washed away with plain creek water and a few days’ wear.

“Will you please make this hound stop nuzzling my crotch?” another requests, although he knows that particular dog never bites unless provoked.

“For gosh sakes, don’t do that in my boat in that little bottle!” screams a neat-freak.

Hey, can I help it if I can’t “go” standing up in the bow of a canoe? Heck, I’d use a bigger bottle if I had one.

“Wash your hands, wipe your feet, don’t clip your toenails at the table.” The list goes on and on.

Have mercy! My mother one minute, my hunting and fishing buddies the next. It’s only the comforting presence of those other acquaintances with habits akin to mine that shields me from eventual insanity.

My normal companions, however, aren’t nearly as patient as I am. Cletus Monroe, for instance, was once barely deterred from taking his pocketknife to a neat-freak over a can of spray deodorant. The man presented the antiperspirant to Clete with a sarcastic suggestion that he use it at least once before breaking camp three days later.

“Dadgummit, next thing you know he’ll want me to bathe and brush my teeth!” Clete complained.

Clete is also prone to lose his temper when neat-freaks outshoot or outfish him (Since they go to bed early and avoid late-night poker games, neat-freaks’ eyes and instincts are often much keener.) He regularly assails them with language dirtier than his good-luck sweat socks.

As mediator and peacemaker, I always try to calm him and do my best to explain that it is the duty of all true sportsmen to exercise patience and understanding while trying to steer these neatnik buddies toward the proper path. We must do this, I tell him, even at the risk (heaven forbid) of breaking down and becoming neat-freaks ourselves. It’s the least a Christian gentleman can do.

Besides, it’s not all bad, after all. If these “mama figures” weren’t around, who’d be there to wipe away our tears when we miss that big buck or break off that trophy largemouth just inches from the boat?

Contact outdoors columnist and writer Bob Kornegay at [email protected].