Hook Booger/Phantasy Friday

Still tweaking an interview with a paranormal investigator in the UK who creates investigative equipment. So you’re stuck with another  Adventure at Camp Chaos. That’s the pseudonym for my house. And unfortunately apropos. Sigh.

To borrow a biblical term, when I leave “the guys” at home by themselves I am sorely afraid.  Never know what’s going to happen and I like to be on standby. If I do have to leave, on returning I creep back in–observing for booby traps, checking for critical furniture damage, blood on the floor in front of the sink (first place they all head with a boo-boo), halves of peanut butter sandwiches stuck to the ceiling fan (don’t ask), or dogs with patches of hair missing where they’ve tried out a new set of clippers. The cats are smart enough to hide.

I’d gone for supplies (read extra groceries, boys can EAT!) and left the three guys safely fishing together at the pond. Came home to that guilty quiet and everyone indoors. “Well?” I asked hubby. “Anything interesting happen while I was gone?”

He shrugged and rattled the paper like I was interrupting. Aha! Avoidance! “Tell me.” Yes, a demand. Nothing subtle about me, sorry.

He sank further into his chair, buried his head deeper in his paper and mumbled, “Hunter had a hook booger.” 

Huh? He rattled the paper a couple more times, but finally couldn’t ignore the feeling of my eyes lasering holes through the reading material shielding his face. He folded it with a snap and ‘fessed up.

We try to teach the kids safety in all things. Laws of physics that can’t be ignored. Like when your hook gets snagged on grass or a twig in the pond. Hubby painstakingly demonstrated the proper way to attempt to pull it loose, rod tip level with the ground and to the side, using the strength in your arms to pull. That way if it pops loose it skips along the ground and you don’t get hit by the backlash. You usually have to untangle it from any bush or tree behind you, but dig no hooks from your flesh.

Now you can get so much greater leverage if you lift the tip of the rod straight above your head and lean back against the resistance with your full body weight. It’s just not safe or smart. Hunter’s hook got snagged and he followed Poppa’s instructions, pulling to the side. Still stuck. He reeled up the excess line and tried again. Nothing budged. He slid a look at Poppa. Up went the rod tip. Pop noticed about the time Hunter assumed a water-skiing slalom position on the back of both heels. Before he could shout a warning things turned loose.

The hook whipped back and hit Hunter full in the face. And didn’t drop to the ground.

Bad. Very bad. His brother–the one with the large, clumsy feet–charged in to see what all the comotion was about, headed directly for the bird’s nest of line on the ground. Hubby had a double catastrophe looming. If Tyler hit that bundle of line, Hunter would have a deeply pierced whatever the hook was in. He shouted “Don’t move!” And miracle of miracles, they listened.

The hook had gone straight up Hunter’s right nostril. Green Catawba worm and all. Standing there with pond water dripping from his chin, face speckled with bits of water grass, Hunter’s first words as Poppa clipped the line were, “I think we need to get Mawmaw.” Smart boy! Green worm juice leaking out his nose and onto his upper lip, the ends of the worm were clearly visible. But not knowing where the hook was up inside there was the problem. Pop loaded them in the truck and headed for the house, Hunter in the front seat with him. Tyler occupied himself for the bouncing duration of the short trip by shooting the back window up and down to lean out and yell “Hook booger!” or “Worm snot!” to the dogs running alongside. Boy always could entertain himself.

Pop put Hunter on a bar stool inside, tipped his head straight back so the overhead light would shine up his nose. Catawba worm filled the entire cavity. But there was no blood! Always a good sign. With firm instructions to say something if he felt even a prick of hook point, Pop reached for the attempted extraction. Hunter stopped him and said “I really think we need to get Mawmaw.” A pathetic sight with his nose leaking worm juice, he sounded just as bad.

“You really want Mawmaw fussing at you for not listening?”

Took all of seven seconds consideration for him to grab the sides of the stool and mutter a grim, “Get it out.”

Turns out the Catawba worm acted like an insulator, thank heavens, and they managed to jimmy the thing out of Hunter’s nose without injury. But we coined a new family saying that day. Whenever someone engages in questionable activity or talks excitedly about attempting rash action with dangerous results one of us will cock a brow and speak cautionary words of deep, undeniable wisdom.

“Sounds like a hook booger to me.”

  Fishermen extrordinare!


4 Responses

  1. It sure is never dull over there in M’sissip! Glad the guy is all right AND glad hubby was able to get it out safely. AND wilth much less chance of a Mamaw lecture!

  2. Love “Camp Chaos” – being the kind of girl who wants to live in a house with a name, I started calling ours “Malfunction Junction.” Doesn’t have the same ring as “Pemberley” or “Mansfield Park,” but it is entirely descriptive!

  3. Ohhh Poor Hunter. How funny. If only you would of been there. “CAN’T TRUST EM.. just can’t. winks..

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