Question of the Day - Thursday, August 8th, 2024

Do you Spin Yarn?

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The Moonshiner said:
I'm skeptical.
Let's hear one.
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Back in the day my grandfolk's lived on what was known as rattlesnake hill, a beautiful place that was haven to all things dry, prickly and ornery. A geographical oddity - when the forecast called for rain, bet your bottom the neighbors would be callin' up, crowing about the two inches in their rain gauges, but God loved rattlesnake hill so much he wouldn't let a cloud sully it's sunny skies, so our gauges situated just a hop, skip, and a step away from the neighbor folks' gauges would be bone dry and sparkly clean. Lack of rain may have caused concern anywhere else, but my grandpa had the touch with pastures, so anytime he was a wantin' hay he'd walk out on the deck with his morning joe and glare all those grasses into growing. And that grass was so fearful of that glare that my grandpa's hay bales won ribbons at all the fairs, and people would line up for miles outside his gates, beggin' for the chance to graze their horses on his land for just a few moments. Five minutes was all it took to turn a dull nag into a glistening showstopper. Wildlife would come from all over to graze, and come huntin' season my grandpa didn't even need a blind: the deer were so fat, lazy, and happy from all that grew that he'd just march down to the nearest deer and roll it on up to the kitchen steps, where my grandmother would slice off a bit o' venison for supper and send the rest of the deer on its way, cause they were so fat they never missed a steak or a loin taken from them.

But all good things come with their price, and rattlesnake hill was aptly named. For every fork full of hay my grandpa threw in the wagon, the boys would be chasing out 6 or 7 of the biggest, glossiest, rattliest rattlesnakes you ever did see, and even then they'd miss a bunch, so that with every bite of their hay the horses would be munching down on a rattlesnake or two. They say that ingesting the snake venom is what gave my grandpa's horses their glossy coats and bright eyes. One horse in particular got a bite of the meanest snake in the west in his hay flake, and from then on he's been known as Widermaker, rearing up and lashing out for all the world like a cornered rattler. The only thing that ever quelled that horse was a glare from my grandpa, and then the horse would behave as the grass sprang up several inches beneath its hooves.

I often miss Texas and tap dancing my way between the rattling snakes hidden in the grasses on a sunny day. And I miss my grandfather, with his scarred ear and no two tales told alike as to how he got that scar.
 
fowltemptress said:
Back in the day my grandfolk's lived on what was known as rattlesnake hill, a beautiful place that was haven to all things dry, prickly and ornery. A geographical oddity - when the forecast called for rain, bet your bottom the neighbors would be callin' up, crowing about the two inches in their rain gauges, but God loved rattlesnake hill so much he wouldn't let a cloud sully it's sunny skies, so our gauges situated just a hop, skip, and a step away from the neighbor folks' gauges would be bone dry and sparkly clean. Lack of rain may have caused concern anywhere else, but my grandpa had the touch with pastures, so anytime he was a wantin' hay he'd walk out on the deck with his morning joe and glare all those grasses into growing. And that grass was so fearful of that glare that my grandpa's hay bales won ribbons at all the fairs, and people would line up for miles outside his gates, beggin' for the chance to graze their horses on his land for just a few moments. Five minutes was all it took to turn a dull nag into a glistening showstopper. Wildlife would come from all over to graze, and come huntin' season my grandpa didn't even need a blind: the deer were so fat, lazy, and happy from all that grew that he'd just march down to the nearest deer and roll it on up to the kitchen steps, where my grandmother would slice off a bit o' venison for supper and send the rest of the deer on its way, cause they were so fat they never missed a steak or a loin taken from them.

But all good things come with their price, and rattlesnake hill was aptly named. For every fork full of hay my grandpa threw in the wagon, the boys would be chasing out 6 or 7 of the biggest, glossiest, rattliest rattlesnakes you ever did see, and even then they'd miss a bunch, so that with every bite of their hay the horses would be munching down on a rattlesnake or two. They say that ingesting the snake venom is what gave my grandpa's horses their glossy coats and bright eyes. One horse in particular got a bite of the meanest snake in the west in his hay flake, and from then on he's been known as Widermaker, rearing up and lashing out for all the world like a cornered rattler. The only thing that ever quelled that horse was a glare from my grandpa, and then the horse would behave as the grass sprang up several inches beneath its hooves.

I often miss Texas and tap dancing my way between the rattling snakes hidden in the grasses on a sunny day. And I miss my grandfather, with his scarred ear and no two tales told alike as to how he got that scar.
Click to expand...
You weren't kidding.
Loved it
 
fowltemptress said:
Back in the day my grandfolk's lived on what was known as rattlesnake hill, a beautiful place that was haven to all things dry, prickly and ornery. A geographical oddity - when the forecast called for rain, bet your bottom the neighbors would be callin' up, crowing about the two inches in their rain gauges, but God loved rattlesnake hill so much he wouldn't let a cloud sully it's sunny skies, so our gauges situated just a hop, skip, and a step away from the neighbor folks' gauges would be bone dry and sparkly clean. Lack of rain may have caused concern anywhere else, but my grandpa had the touch with pastures, so anytime he was a wantin' hay he'd walk out on the deck with his morning joe and glare all those grasses into growing. And that grass was so fearful of that glare that my grandpa's hay bales won ribbons at all the fairs, and people would line up for miles outside his gates, beggin' for the chance to graze their horses on his land for just a few moments. Five minutes was all it took to turn a dull nag into a glistening showstopper. Wildlife would come from all over to graze, and come huntin' season my grandpa didn't even need a blind: the deer were so fat, lazy, and happy from all that grew that he'd just march down to the nearest deer and roll it on up to the kitchen steps, where my grandmother would slice off a bit o' venison for supper and send the rest of the deer on its way, cause they were so fat they never missed a steak or a loin taken from them.

But all good things come with their price, and rattlesnake hill was aptly named. For every fork full of hay my grandpa threw in the wagon, the boys would be chasing out 6 or 7 of the biggest, glossiest, rattliest rattlesnakes you ever did see, and even then they'd miss a bunch, so that with every bite of their hay the horses would be munching down on a rattlesnake or two. They say that ingesting the snake venom is what gave my grandpa's horses their glossy coats and bright eyes. One horse in particular got a bite of the meanest snake in the west in his hay flake, and from then on he's been known as Widermaker, rearing up and lashing out for all the world like a cornered rattler. The only thing that ever quelled that horse was a glare from my grandpa, and then the horse would behave as the grass sprang up several inches beneath its hooves.

I often miss Texas and tap dancing my way between the rattling snakes hidden in the grasses on a sunny day. And I miss my grandfather, with his scarred ear and no two tales told alike as to how he got that scar.
Click to expand...
That's a really good story.
 

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