BOB KORNEGAY: The one that got away

“Do you remember Jo Nell, Hoss?” Cletus Monroe asked.

“Of course I do,” I replied. “She’s that girl you were sweet on way back when, isn’t she?”

“Yep, that’s her. I went with her all the way through high school and a little bit past that. You know, Bob, I just about married that gal.”

Uh oh. He called me “Bob” instead of “Hoss.” This conversation was about to turn serious.

“If you remember, Jo Nell sure weren’t nobody’s pretty thing,” Clete continued. “I sure did think the world of her, though.”

“Whoa, now,” I admonished. “Hold on just a second. You’re nobody’s oil painting yourself. Don’t be running down Jo Nell just because of her looks.”

“Oh, I ain’t and never would. Heck, you just heard me say I almost married her. Never was one to hold her ugliness against her.”

“Okay, Mr. Magnanimous. So what was it that attracted you to her in the first place?”

“Aw, you can’t say you don’t remember that. She was just about the best fisherman either one of us ever met. And she had not one, but two Zebco 33s. Both of ‘em worked, too. Yep, me and ol’ Jo Nell were what you call real soul mates.”

“Well, I’ll give you one thing. Now that I think about it, she was quite the angler.”

“Dang right she was. Couldn’t nobody sniff out a shellcracker bed or skin and gut a catfish like Jo Nell could. Whatcha reckon she’s doin’ now?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “Probably sitting around counting her blessings and lauding the blessed fact that you only ‘almost’ married her.”

“There you go makin’ light of it,” Clete retorted. “I knew you would. Knew I’d get no sympathy from you, even though she did just plumb break my heart.”

“You poor thing. She turned down your proposal, did she?”

“Sure did. Turned me down flat.”

“How shocking. A catch like you?”

“That’s right. Just plain dumped me. Right there on the creek in her daddy’s johnboat.”

“And how, pray tell, did this devastating, life-shattering rejection come about?” I asked.

“Well, there we was, fishin’ up a storm. Catchin’ ‘em, too. The bluegills was tearin’ it up that day. Between us lookin’ moon-eyed and talkin’ love at one another, we was catchin’ them big old bream right and left.”

“How romantic,” I intoned.

“Dang right. All that romance is what got me thinkin’ maybe I oughta just ask her if she’d like to haul off and become Miz Monroe. I figured I’d just sweet talk her awhile longer and then lay that proposition on her. The way she was actin’, I didn’t see how she could refuse.”

“Okay, so how did you lead up to it?” I asked.

“Well, I told her I’d been thinkin’ about me and her for quite some time and that she was just about the sexiest thing I’d ever laid eyes on. That was near ‘bout true right then, too. I mean, she kinda had me goin’ with that teasin’ way she was turnin’ them catalpa worms inside out and all. I said it seemed like maybe me and her was maybe meant for each other, seein’ how she didn’t mind baitin’ her own hook and spittin’ tobacco juice on my wasp stings. Yessir, I had her all primed for popping the question.”

“And then…?”

“And then I said I didn’t think I’d have no problem at all stayin’ married to a fat, ugly gal who could scull a boat and smell a bream bed good as she could.”

“And her reaction…?”

“Well, she hit me upside the head with that short paddle of hers is what she done. Then she paddled us back to the boat ramp, drove me home, and never did speak to me again. I swear, I just don’t understand women. Never will, I reckon.”

I, of course, sympathized with my old buddy and feigned understanding. I really couldn’t relate, though. I caught my own wife with candy, flowers and frivolous Southern charm. I guess it’s a good thing she doesn’t own even one Zebco 33 and has never smelled a bream bed in her life.