Similar to pretty much any teenage boy in the time around the onset of puberty, Mollygrubs Messer talked with his buddies about the birds and bees, bragged of planned sexual conquests, boasted around backcountry campfires of upcoming plans to date some “hot chick” among his female classmates, and on one occasion even went so far as to state with completely unwarranted certainty that a lissome lass had expressed an interest in going hunting with him. Realities were, of course, quite different, and the extent of the girl’s purported desire to be his “hunting partner” went no further than having offered an offhand comment tendered when she overheard Mollygrubs telling a group of boys who were collectively as socially inept as Mr. Magoo: “Don’t you have anything better to do?” Of course, in the marvelous mysterious ways of teendom, our woebegone lad had grand powers when it came to translating pretty much anything uttered by the opposite sex into the stuff of dreams.
Little did he know though that only a fortnight after that remark by a female classmate a balmy spring day would provide him a front-row seat in what amounted to an outdoor equivalent of a carnival peep show. It all came about when he and a buddy were out on a Saturday that provided one of those rare March days that almost convince you that May has arrived. They were out before dawn for a session of pre-season scouting for turkeys, and they were amply rewarded by hearing half a dozen vocal birds in places they had permission to hunt come opening day. Invigorated by that experience, they decided to top it off with a stop at the nearby home of his friend’s aunt. She was invariably could be relied on to provide a cold soft drink or glass of lemonade, and on most occasions the refreshing beverage would be accompanied by some cookies or a slice of cake. Moreover, she was, as Mollygrubs would subsequently put it, “easy to look at.” To be sure, that may have been because he got far more of a “look” than had been anticipated.
The lady in question just happened to be a beekeeper, and the day was one tailor-made for her honey-producing minions to swarm. Accordingly, anxious to deal with matters should a portion of the worker bees in a hive decide to leave for new premises and work with a queen seeking new territory, she was out observing the hives when the boys arrived. Since she had no intention of doing anything but observation, the beekeeper had not bothered to put on protective gear, have a smoker in hand, or indeed take any measures whatsoever to avoid stings. She knew she could acquire such equipment easily and readily should a swarm occur. Furthermore, since it was a warm day, not to mention a remote rural setting with no company expected, much less a pair of rambunctious teenagers, the woman had understandably sacrificed propriety in matters of attire for comfort. That is to say, she had left her bra behind and was dressed in a loose-fitting T-shirt and jeans.
As fate would have it, no sooner had the boys arrived and hailed her in the all too robust fashion typical of adolescence, some of the heretofore placid bees became agitated. She began backing away, telling her visitors to do the same. They got “out of range,” so to speak, but not before several bees somehow managed to get underneath her T-shirt. They immediately became agitated and a couple of stings sufficed to tell her, in painful fashion, that she needed to shed the garment forthwith. Doing so would allow the bees to fly away. Yet this obvious solution presented a significant dilemma. She knew that pulling half a Lady Godiva act and becoming topless would not only be unseemly; it would put her young male admirers in a tizzy. Nonetheless, she was also all too aware that urgent action was needed if further stings were to be avoided.
Her solution was to tell the boys “Turn your heads so I can remove my T-shirt.” Mollygrubs, in his inimitable fashion, had an almost immediate if not entirely satisfactory response. “Which way?” he inquired, even as he got a double eyeful of ample bosom while gazing, fixated, in precisely the opposite direction from the one the beleaguered lady had intended.
Thus did a simple outing to scout for turkeys turn into an instructional session in female anatomy that would, for the next fortnight, put Mollygrubs front and center among the group of companions who normally teased him mercilessly thanks to his ongoing misadventures. In this instance though, one of his misadventures turned into a moment of magic for in the eyes of him and his adolescent male companions.
Jim Casada is the Editor at Large for Sporting Classics. To learn more about him or sign up for his free monthly e-newsletter, visit his website at www.jimcasadaoutdoors.com.