On any given day, except Saturday, there are two great myths in life. One is Roman Myths; the second of course, is Greek Myths and there the tried and true myths that come with ology’s.
Myths of any civilization are the sacred stories and yet on some Saturdays with a roaring fireplace next to small dogs that hunted hard for their size, and the men who owned them, there comes the third set of myths.
Ones we’ve lived, and after a few stout tumblers, maybe some of the ones we’ve only dreamt of, but having told the Saturday fable for so long, he’s made it somehow become real.
What’s not real, is watching myself sit there and hear the story knowing it’s a bunch of very, very, fresh, yet old crap-ology and in less than an instant, I could have corrected modern history.
Oh I heard a good one after the great white rabbit hunt of today. Now we did hunt the snowshoe hare, we did have a rather successful go of it, and if the stories would have been uttered only of boreal bunnies and nothing more, the guilt of my conscience would be much lessoned. Alas poor Yorick.
One guy I’ve known most of my adult life has never been to New Zealand or anywhere else to hunt the red deer but the massive bull with antlers, on a stag of no equal renown, hunted through Moorish fog over steep glens, brush that tore sodden wool from his body and an animal that racked his hunting prowess hour by hour, day by days, until finally with a shot cross a mountain in fading light he harvested his trophy.
Then, caped, tanned, mounted, sent back in a special wood crate and displayed above a stone fireplace beset for a king, but only owned by his father law, somehow tragically lost in a move as he recalled, was brought out in oral form to bulge a young man’s beguiled eyes.
I didn’t have the heart to correct the faux verities that oozed and slipped from the story tellers mouth. I didn’t then, I won’t now. I figure in a few more years it’s gonna be a real good, myth……….. The trout whisperer