Steaming Alligator Urine

A tremendous release of gas most commonly accompanied my father’s daily evacuations. That he was able to hold so much inside him without visible discomfort always surprised me. He sometimes would make comments like “hoo boy!” “Oh, yeah”, or “that’s it.”

Once at a gas station type operation in the Delta, you could clearly make out him saying, “Hear that?” to which Robert Wingate replied, “Jim! They’re gonna have to sell the place!”

I say ‘gas station type operation’ because in Mississippi, it’s not that simple. Gas stations are where you went for beer, and ice for the beer, ice for things stronger than beer, Mexican fireworks—sometimes illegal, Mexican tamales—made the Mississippi way, barbeque, chitlins, fried meats, fried fruit pies, fried quarters of mashing potatos dipped in batter called “potato logs” that look like something that came out of a dog, pork chops, chickens, biscuits better than your momma makes, boxes of bird shot and rounds of .22 to keep the varmits away, boil’ peanuts, satsumas, home grown tomatos, and sausage, either made at Mississippi State University or Hinds Junior College, and hoop cheese, if you’re lucky. Gas stations might also have gas.

One time, while duck hunting, also with Daddy and Robert Wingate, our johnboat drove past a duck blind where the newly elected Speaker of the House of Representatives in Mississippi stood, urinating into the water. Fingers of smoke from his cigar blended with pillows of steam emanating from where his excretions met the swamp water. He was a man afire, or so it’d seem.

I mention these things because there’s a great deal of myth-building regarding the political figures of Mississippi. I’ve certainly contributed to it. But when the sun goes down, they’re still just people. People fart. People pee. It’s true. They also hunt.

As sacred as duck and deer hunting is in Mississippi, these things happen during the very worst of Mississippi weather. This may have something to do with the revenge of wives, although these days, wives are often as good at it as the men, often better.

I’ve known two men who froze to death hunting little duckies, and one hunting deer, as well as a gentleman who shot himself in the thigh trying to cross a barbed wire fence so he could hunt. Just sixteen, two of my fellow Travelers had to take turns holding a tourniquet on his leg to keep him from dying. Normally, calling someone a Fellow Traveler has something to do with freemasonry (you’re not supposed to know that), but for people who attended St. Andrews Episcopal Day school in a certain season, “Traveler” meant something else entirely.

I think the issue may be that life is short and there are only so many ducks. Risking your mortality so you can make duck gumbo might not seem like a logical trade, but you gotta live here to understand. It helps if you’re a man.

Overall, hunting is down in Mississippi. It’s somewhat of a shame, as a significant part of the budget for the Mississippi Department of Wildlife comes from the sale of hunting and fishing licenses, or used to. The great Charlie Deaton spent part of his life making sure that waterways in Mississippi and Tennessee were forever dedicated to supporting the life of ducks under the guidance of Ducks Unlimited, an organization many hunters gave to as regularly as their church.

The one type of hunting that’s on the rise in Mississippi is Alligator hunting. Of the Alligator hunters I know, two of the best are women. One was voted most beautiful at Murrah High School before she took up growing lettuce and hunting dinosaurs.

Women, it seems, have an affinity for dinosaurs and other reptiles. (Yes, I know dinosaurs are birds. Go with the flow, baby.)

Frank Frazetta and Richard Corben knew this, so did Edgar Rice Burroughs and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Recently, the child of the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known spent her third thirtieth birthday in Evangeline, taking an alligator cruise with a passel of other millennial children. She sent a video to her mother and me of a particularly large Louisiana dinosaur swimming towards their boat, wagging its tail, while you can distinctly hear a feminine voice saying, “Hey, buddy!” to ease and woo the hungry beast.

“May I invite you to dinner, my child?” He growled. She just laughed. If you ever doubt the connection between women and reptiles, consider the dance Selma Hayek performs in “From Dusk till Dawn.”

Once upon a time, I took the alligator whisperer’s mother and baby cousin to the zoo to meet an elephant. I thought it would impress them. I don’t think it surprised her. “Doesn’t everyone speak to elephants?” She’s always been considerably smarter than me.