Crabyy little SOB

In our rural county, as much or more time could be spent pack muling equipment around a tract as actually measuring anything. There never seemed to be a road where you needed one. This through the eyes of a 20 year old I-man, bear in mind... Dad and I were on Indian hill road, the back side of the boonies, surveying some acreage. Dad wanted to keep cutting, said we were headed towards the truck. He liked to let me learn some lessons on my own. Like old men KNOW the way to the truck. I was sure he was wrong. So I packed all I could carry. Tripod, instrument, bush hook, probably more... I encountered old man Smith on the way out across the corner of the adjoining tract. Yes, I was technically tresspassing. Mr Smith proceeded to inform me just how bad I was in trouble. Then I remembered that the adjoiner wasn't a Mr Smith, it was a Ms. Brown. I was hot, tired, weighted down... And a bit young and dumb. I piped up and asked if his name was Janet Brown. My bluff worked and I was allowed to pass. Dad beat me to the truck, as usual. Fast forward 20 years. Mr Smith stopped by my office to see about getting his daughter, Janet Brown's property surveyed. He never recognized me or mentioned that encounter so many summers ago, yet. So I met with him and walked that line peaceably this time. Then he proceeded to relay the tale of a Crabby Little Son of a Bitch that nearly got shot running the line 20 years ago. It never seemed quite the right moment to interrupt the telling and interject the fact that I wasn't little anymore, but probably crabby and still a SOB. Later on during other work for him, I confessed. I thought I saw a flash of anger right before he smiled and asked if I ever grew outa that shit. Bud Smith, you were a good man. I'm glad you didn't shoot me, me thinks it was deserved.