Bear Grease - Ep. 399: This Country Life - Being on Time

Episode Date: December 12, 2025

Not being on time is a pet peeve for many, and not the first thing other folks chose to worry about. To them, close is good enough. Brent's gonna tell a story from a time years ago when he and a couple others set out to prove a point about timeliness. He's also sharing a recent instance where a similar event took place. If you're tuning in right now, then you're right on time for MeatEater's "This Country Life" podcast! Shop This Country Life Merch Connect with Brent and MeatEater MeatEater on Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, Youtube, and Youtube Clips Subscribe to the MeatEater Podcast Network on YouTube Shop This Country Life Merch Shop Bear Grease MerchSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

First Lights fieldwear collection is made for the work that happens long before opening day and continues when the season ends. Products built for early mornings, full days in real use. Hard wearing where they need to be versatile where it matters. No shortcuts. Just gear designed for the work that earns the season. Built to perform, built to last. Check out. First Light's new fieldwear gear at firstlight.

Welcome to this country life. I'm your host, Brent Reeves. From Coon Hunting to Trotlining and Just General Country Living, I want you to stay a while as I share my experiences and life lessons. This Country Life is presented by Case Knives from the Storemore Studio on Meat Eaters Podcast Network, bringing you the best outdoor podcasts that Airways have to offer. All right, friends, grab a chair or drop that tailgate. I've got some stories to share. Being on time.

It's a pet peeve of mine and has been for quite some time. Being on time is important to me for me. I don't look down or judge others who may not find it as critical as I do unless we're talking about the fuse on a stick of dynamite. Then I want the time calculated down to the very second. We're not blowing anything up today. Just talking about being on time. I'm going to tell you about a recent event.

involving someone not being somewhere when they said they would. But first, I'm going to tell you this story. Let's leave Carl's at 4.30 in the morning. It's a 45-minute drive from there to the Beaver Pond. We'll get there at 5.15. It's a 10-minute walk at most, and we can be chunking decoys by 5.30. Shooting hours ain't till 6.19.

That'll give us plenty of time. I was on the phone with my lifelong friend who's more of a brother than friend. We grew up together, played baseball, football. We're roommates for a spell back in our younger years and have never not been close. Even when we lived far away from each other, he's the friend that you don't have to talk to every day, every week, or even every year. You just pick up right where you left off the last time the moment you see him. He's that kind of friend, and I love him dearly. He used to be notoriously late for everything, and he had been since I'd known him.

We met in the third grade and became friends immediately. All through school and after, this cat ran on his own calendar. He was and is loyal to a fault, but his clock ran anywhere, from 15 to 30 minutes behind everyone else's. Dude could take a nap at the drop of a hat. I don't know how many times when we live together that on a weekend evening when we planned to go somewhere and do something together after work,

that I'd be ready and waiting in the living room for him to get ready. Wait and wait and wait. I mutually planned and agreed upon departure time would come and go, and the light would still be shining out from under the bathroom door. I'd call his name and get no answer. I'd check his room, and he wasn't there. Now, where'd he go?

I called across the street to a relative's house. No, he's not here. I look out the window and I can see his car parked in front of y'all's house. Now, the first time it scared me until I opened the bathroom door, and I found him asleep in the tub. I yelled at him thinking he was dead, only to have him confess that his lips turning blue was due to the water being so cold. For the love of humanity, how could anyone sleep in cold water? I don't know, but he did it. I believe he could have slept just as well on top of the stove or in the oven, for that matter.

Now, he's a good duck hunter and a pretty good shot as well, and was good to have along to help put ducks on the stringer. He's also a lot of fun to have around. Makes me laugh and has enough nervous energy to never slow down until he literally falls asleep. You'll never roller skate on empty holes in the duck blind when he's around because he never met a mess he didn't want to clean up. Now, who couldn't love a guy like that? Not to mention that he's an absolute wonderful human being, which is just another attribute of why he's.

so well thought of by everyone that knows it. It wasn't for that being late thing. I'd adopted myself, which reminds me of this little story. So bear with me. Once upon a time, many moons ago, when we were roommates, my friend and I stopped at a convenience store

to buy some potato chips and cold drinks on our way home to watch the Arkansas play basketball on TV. Now, my buddy has a baby. face in half since he was an actual baby. When we graduated high school, he could have turned around and gone undercover in elementary school as a six-foot fourth grader. Me, on the other hand, I started shaving in the seventh grade, and you could see gray hair on my noggin in my senior pictures.

We were born less than six months apart. Anyway, there we are standing together at the counter when the lady who's ringing up our purchases says, and what are you two gentlemen up to on a Friday night? I told her as I handed her some money, we're going home to watch the Razorbacks play. She looked up at both of us who were standing side by side looking back at her, and this is what she said, and I quote, I think that's so cool, a father and son spending a Friday night together watching a ball game. I looked at her and could tell she was serious.

I looked over at my podna who was now grinning like a baked possum who then looked over at me and said, Thanks, Dad. Anyway, back to the original story. Old babyface, me and another couple of folks were planting on thinning the duck population down by four limits the following morning. I'd already called the other two and said, we're pulling out of Carl's one stop in the morning at 4.30.

Be there or be square. Now my buddy with the slow-running internal clock and I were grown and living on our own by this time. We were knee-deep in separate careers making house and car payments and doing all the adult things that adults do. So when I said be at Carls, which was a bait shop and sporting goods retailer on the south end of Warren, Arkansas, where like-minded folks would use as a meeting spot for hunting and fishing trips, I assumed everyone would be at Carls by 415. Heck, I got there at 10 after 4, and I was the third one of our group to get there. It was the three of us hanging out and waiting on old baby face.

We cracked open one of our thermuses of coffee, combined our gear into one SUV for the 45-minute ride over to the Beaver Pond and discussed where we'd set up in the Beaver Pond once we got there where the recent rains had pushed water out into a hardwood flat where ducks were known to congregate. 415 turned into 425. Where is this dude? There were no cell phones.

Back then when you hung out with people, you actually had to look at them and talk to them. Unless there was a payphone close or you barred someone's house phone, there was no calling anybody away from the crib. At 5 a.m., here he came, sliding up in the parking lot like he was late for work, which, as far as I was concerned, he was. I overslept.

Sorry, man. We threw his stuff in the back and we lit a shuck for the duck hole. We took turns trying to make him cry for being late and had to paint the road red to get there with enough time to get exactly where we wanted. Set up just like we talked about before shooting time came and we barely made it.

It was cold, clear, a bluebird day with a north wind just stout enough to push the three dozen decoys around that we brought with. It was a morning that you hear about. One of those mornings you read about. High-flying ducks that broke down when you started calling to them from way up there. They'd circled just long enough to slow down,

then dropped through the trees and bunches of 30 to 50 landing all around you, while some hovered above the gaggle of ducks that had just lit, looking for a spot to light themselves. We had four limits in short order. order. The beginning of the morning, all but forgotten as we rode back home, still talking about the grand adventure we'd all just shared. We pulled back into Carl's parking lot, divided up the ducks, took possession of our guns and gear, and collectively agreed we'd do it all over again in the morning. I addressed the group but was looking at old baby face when I said,

be there or be square. At 405 the next morning I was once again the third man of our forcum to pull in having been beaten by the other two by a matter of moments. We started our routine of combining all our plunder into one ride. Other hunters were meeting there as well and with every new set of headlights that turned in off the highway, we looked for our straggler only to see a different group of folks gather all their shooters and take off. 415 420 425

Anybody talk to him last night No The last thing we said was Same time tomorrow Before we all left yesterday 430 435 440

And here he came Same deal as the day before Sorry, I overslemp. Again, we tried to make him cry. He did not. On Blood Trails, the stories don't end when the hunt is over. They just get darker. I've seen something in the road.

I instantly thought it was a sleeping bag. And there was a full of blood. Oh, my God, he doesn't have a hit. Blood Trails is a true crime podcast born in the outdoors. Where the terrain is unforgiving, the evidence is scarce, and the truth gets buried under brush and silence. Indications were he should be right there, but he wasn't. This season, we're going deeper.

From cold case files to whispered suspicions, from remote mountains to frozen backwards. Each story begins in the wilderness and ends in darkness. Because out here, there are no witnesses, no cameras, just fragments and the people left behind trying to piece them back together. He's not an honest person. and he's incapable of being honest. Somebody somewhere knows something. I'm Jordan Sillers.

Season 2 of Blood Trails premieres April 16th. Follow now on Apple, IHeart, YouTube, or wherever you get your podcasts. We headed to the same spot as the day before after getting a late start, had to settle for a different spot because we'd been beat to our first choice. They were walking away from the parking spot

as we were pulling in. We scrapped out a couple of, of ducks at our spot and were forced to watch and listen as clouds of ducks dropped in that hole only to get goozled chopped by a bunch of strangers before a cat could lick its behind. Duck hunting is like real estate. It's all about the location. And when they prefer a different spot, there's nothing you're going to do to change their minds. We were watching a duck hunt instead of participating in one all because of Mr. Sleepy. Someone suggested leaving earlier in the morning.

Several rude comments directed to Mr. Sleepy later, and we'd all agreed to leave at 4.15 from Carl's the next morning. We want to make sure we'll get there in time to beat those folks to the hole. Look, pal, at 4.15 in the morning, we're leaving Carl's. If you're there at 416, you'll be by yourself. He laughed and he said, I'll be there. The next morning I leaned up against the tree I was sideled up to two mornings before. The sky was waking up with the astronomical term of civil twilight.

As whistling wings and silhouettes of ducks began their daily ritual of leaving the flooded fields to rest in the confines of the timber. We waited past illegal shooting to get started, watching group after group falling through the hardwood canopy slapping limbs and each other as they splashed down in the decoys and beside us. Once the light got good enough to see clearly, we went to work, taking our time and even taking turns, trying to stretch the morning out to more than just a few minutes

on this last day before the season closed for a week during the mandatory split. Once the last of the limit was reached, the three of us sat back and sat back and said, someone said out loud, I wonder what Mr. Sleepy's doing right now. I responded with learning not to be late. And that's just how that happened. Being late to anything drives me crazy.

I have a condition about it. My wife, Alexis, has a phobia. I thought I did until I met her. She's stoned cold serious about being on time and will leave me just like I left my buddy on that duck hunt way back yonder. Not to mention that it's downright rude and socially unacceptable. I was reminded of the story I just told you all a couple weeks ago by some friends of mine. Now, these are college-age young men who have the drive to go day after day when they have the opportunity to do so and will lose sleep to be able to find a spot of their own to chase ducks.

I know these young men, and they are not the cogs in the wheels of calamity that is modern-day duck hunting on public land in Arkansas. Quite the contrary. They are an example to not only their peers, but to the adults who have helped perpetrate the chaos over the last decade that has driven a wedge between public land users and caused the divide we all find ourselves in. I have no desire to bandy words with anyone on this subject about who's at fault here,

but there's two things that I can bring to light. The young folks I'm talking about couldn't hunt by themselves when the public land duck hunting war started and a big portion of the folks working to try to change the dynamic of what's happened today to what it was years before it all started. Well, they couldn't either. Anyway, two of these young men had planned to meet up with two more folks of their same generation the following morning to go hunting. The father of one of these boys and I were going as well, but we decided a long time ago that worrying about getting somewhere first was a lot less problematic when you have a private spot to go to.

I realize not everyone has that luxury, but also don't care. I work and save to be able to afford it, and I've leased land to duck hunt on twice in my life. The first time was when Tim and I were guiding, and the state made it illegal to guide hunters on the public land. Even then, we had to take guests to be able to afford it, so we never went by ourselves. It was always like being at work. Now, I have friends that I like to hunt with, and we found a place close to the camp that we can sleep late, drive over to, climbing our spots in the blind and shoot a duck or two down again. It's quite a more relaxed way of enjoying this time of year. I still have the desire and the fire to sit in the wet and the cold,

hoping for just an opportunity at poking the business end of my scatter gun up a mount or ducks behind and turning it loose. I have sat from hours before shooting time to the last second of legal light in the evening to do it, having never busted a cap, eyeballs peeled, having to make myself blink thinking I might miss some. Now, I don't care. Ducks quit flying for 45 minutes. How would I know? I've been gone for 30 of them. I'm back at the cabin trying to drown a biscuit and sawmill gravy while eating a whole

setting of eggs. My priorities have shifted from the stringer to the couch, but we ain't talking about me. We're talking about these young men who I invited to come stay at the cabin with us so they could get a head start on the foot race, the first. following the morning. They were counting on their other two pals to beat feet to the spot while they came in later with one of them's younger brother. All three of them were staying with me. All evening I watched them trying to get a hold of their friends who were going to be the early birds, the ones who were going to save them a spot to bring the little brother to so he could

have the opportunity the big boys did. Looks like they dipped us, one of them said out loud. is that good or bad? I don't know what that means. Well, it turns out it's bad. They ghosted them. They left them in a lurch. They left them high and dry. They depended on those two to help them take the little brother to a good spot and had been abandoned at the second most critical time of the whole operation the night before. The only thing that would have been worse was waking up the next day

and walking into the spot to find other folks there that you didn't know. Your friends. nowhere to be seen, and it too late to find your own spot somewhere else. Your pals peed on your fire, didn't they? He looked at me and did the math in his head figuring out what I just said to him and answered, Oh, yes, sir, I think they did. We all just come go with us in the morning. We can sleep late.

We can drive the can't am to the blind, unload all our stuff and sit in comfort while we hunt. If someone beats us to there, they're trespassing, and they ain't going to be in there very long. Well, they like that idea, and I like that idea. My friend who was already going with me liked that idea even more because one of those young folks was his son. It would be an opportunity for them to hunt together that he didn't know was coming. None of us knew. It was just the way it all worked out. And we watched TV for a while, and then I have to be watched TV for a while, and then I have to be able to be.

headed to bed and I told the youngsters on my way that we were leaving the cabin the next morning at 5.30. If they were ready to go at 531, they wouldn't be hunting with me. If they didn't believe I'd leave them, they could ask Mr. Sleepy. I hope all of you are on time for visits and hunts with your family and friends for the holidays. Regardless of what or how you celebrate, I hope you find the time to share it with the folks that love you. Or as in my case, we'll tolerate you up to a point. Thanks so much for listening, and I hope to see you out on the road

at one of the live shows that are starting up here pretty soon. Until next week, this is Brent Reeve. Signing off. Y'all be careful. Last spring, Clay Newcomb and I collaborated with Jason Phelps at Phelps Game Calls and building each of our own favorite turkey

diaphragms called Prime Cuts. Now, I'm going to tell you, I love mine because it's easy to use. I'm not going to go, I'm not going to win a turkey calling contest. It's just not going to happen. But when I run this call, I get the sounds that gobblers are looking for. I have a great turkey hunting track record.

If you go listen to real turkeys out in the woods, they're not going to win calling contests, right? That's who I listen to. I can make those sounds on my cut. I also hunt with Phelps's cut and I hunt with Clay's cut because they're all three great cuts. Check out

prime cuts at Phelps gamecalls.com. I think you'll be glad you did, and you'll find out that the Steve Rinella cut is an easy-to-use cut for beginning callers who just want to start making good turkey noises and getting action.