I am the perennial guest of a friend at his duck club on Lake St. Clair, American side. It’s on an island, and is “old”.
Each year when we arrive, the same old fellow greets us at the ferry, takes our bags, and drives us out to the cottage. When we arrive, greetings are exchanged, bags magically dissappear, and we repair to our rooms. At dinner time, we go downstairs to find our guns wiped clean and placed in the racks. A fire crackles in the stone fireplace, and old decoys tastefully lay about the mantle. A panoply of hors d'oerves is arrayed, We have cocktails, and catch up on things before we sit down to eat. No venison sausage for these gents.
We draw at nine, the boats leave at 5. No second knocks.
Every year, I slip Joe Sam (our caretaker and guide) a bottle of whiskey, as a gift/gratuity, and sorta keep it quiet, as drinking by the workers is frowned on. He never lets on that he tipples between draws.
In the predawn hours, He motors us out to our spot, and drops us off in the darkness. I think he can navigate the bay in his sleep. I always ask him if the whiskey was OK, and he always smiles, and tells me “Yessirreee, that bottle was jusssst right!.” It makes for a nice day in the hide.
SO, everyone is happy, and we wait for the cans to start flying into the celery.
On Sunday, a little fatigued, and not looking forward to the drive home, I began to wonder something. As we waited for the ferry to dock, and we were saying our goodbyes, I decided to ask Joe Sam why he always tells me the whiskey is “Jussst Right!”. His answer? “Well, Mr, Z, if’n the bottle was any betta, you woont a give it to me, and if’n it was any worse, I coonta drunk it. So, it was Jussst Right!”
See y'all next year.
