Leaf Us Alone

My GranDaddy was a taciturn man. When he spoke, he meant to be heard. He thought a lot, he read a lot, and only uttered words when they would have an impact. Subtle impact was acceptable in his book. As a matter of fact, his humor was subtle and dry. And very effective.

My Mother recently re-told me the tale of GranDaddy running the lady off from their camp. The story goes that they were camping at some lake quite a number of years ago. There was a gregarious woman at a nearby encampment who felt welcome at their site.

She apparently spent quite a bit of time there, and since too much empty talk (especially by an interloping stranger) tended to get on GranDaddy’s nerves, he went down to the lake to swim. After a time, he was ready to come back to camp, and saw that the friendly neighbor was there still.

His remedy for that was to go back down to the lake and pick one of the giant-sized water lily leaves. This he brought back up to the edge of the bivouac area, holding it in front of himself at waist level.
He raised his voice (a rare occurrence) and asked if someone could go bring him some pants, since he lost his swimsuit in the lake.

Their new “friend” looked and saw him standing there dripping, holding a giant leaf as a garment, as far as she knew. Her immediate reaction was to vacate the vicinity.

The family rolled with laughter following her departure when he finally dropped the leaf to reveal that he had not indeed lost his suit.

But he had succeeded in losing the uninvited guest.