He retrieved the two rods-and-reels from the ground near the car, pulled the worm bucket from the cooler, and picked up his tackle box. "OK, down the bank once more. Careful."
The bank was getting easier to negotiate each time we used it. I made it to the bottom, took my rod from him and we walked up the bar to where the minnow buckets were. "Let's cross over.", he said. "Don't want to disturb the poles we set." and started across the river to the sand bar on the other side -- upstream this time.
I splashed through the shallow water behind him. The sand bar was in the sun, the river curving away on our left. The far side was in the shade. The water ran deep and cool there. The bank dropped steeply into the water.
We hooked nightcrawlers from the bucket to our lines - just once right through their 'nose'. Heavy lead shot was crimped around the monofilament line a couple feet above the hook. We waded out into the stream. "Cast as close to the bank as you can." I immediately threw mine into a tree over hanging the water. I pulled and it popped loose. I cast again and this time got the worm in the water. Not too near the bank, but good enough for me. And so we stood with the sun in our faces and the water swirling around our legs. It was quiet. Clouds of insects swirled above the water. Water skimmers danced across the surface. Once in a while a breeze above us would make the tops of the oaks and maples whisper like they were telling secrets to each other. Was the secret "There's no fish where they're fishing."?
We reeled in and recast three or four times with nothing. Dad walked upstream 50 yards or so and cast again. I walked a few yards farther upstream from him and made my cast.
Just as my worm hit the water I heard from my left "Ho! Got one." He had the tip of the rod high in the air, the butt braced against his stomach. The rod bent slightly and then seemed suddenly to bend nearly double. "Good one. He wants to get into that brush pile and break my line. Look at him go." With that the line shot off up the river. The reel sang as the fish pulled line from the spool. Then it turned and swam straight at my father. He reeled fast to keep the line tight and the rod bent. As the fish reached shallow water it again turned and swam toward the shadows of the far bank. Again the reel whined as line disappeared off of it. The rod stayed bent the whole time. "Can't do a damn thing with him. It's a good one, I think." And for five minutes that seemed like an hour, he battled the fish.
Eventually, constant pressure of fighting the bend in the rod wore the fish down. Dad reeled him close and then began backing toward the sand bar. Once he stood on the shore he dragged the fish up onto the sand. It was a catfish. Its mouth gaped open and closed. It flexed its scaleless body and flopped in the sand. "You've got to watch out for the barbs.", he said reaching to pick up the fish. Despite the warning to me, he almost always came home cut by the sharp spines on catfish fins. He lifted the fish and worked the hook from its mouth. He dunked it in the river, washing off the sand. "Well, we got one anyway." and in answer the fish let out a croak. "And he's not happy to be the one." The fish struggled and its black 'whiskers' waved.
"We'll put him on the stringer. Get it for me, will yah?" I lay my rod in the sand and ran to the tackle box. I brought the line stringer to him. He ran the pointed metal end into the fish's mouth and out the gill opening then threaded the point through the ring at the other end of the stringer. "Well, we didn't get skunked. Find me a good stout stick." I ran across the sand bar to the bank looking for a stick and finding one I hoped would work and ran back to him. "Perfect. Push it deep as you can into the sand by the water." He tested my work with a wiggle from his free hand, then tied the stringer to the stick.
He tossed the fish out into the shallow water near the shore where it began slowly swimming back and forth at the end of its tether.
"Let's get another."
Monday, June 30, 2008
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Reunion
It's been forty years since I graduated from high school ... was graduated? ... what ever. About 60 of us from our class of 200 got back together this weekend. I'd not communicated with most of these people in the five years since our 35th reunion back in 2003. It was good to see everyone again. The image at the right is me (in white) with three guys from the old neighborhood.Lots of water under my bridge since the last get together: engaged, married, and most recently learning that we'll be transferred from near London to Houston, TX in August. No one else I talked with had been through that sort of turmoil.
I'm pretty sure that I've travelled more and lived in more places than everyone else that was there. I didn't keep strict track, but most folks had not left the area. Several still lived in town, most at least lived in the state, a few were living else where in US. Of course, the reunion attracted those closest to town, so the survey is hardly scientific for the whole class.
Still, when I compared my last 40 years to most of theirs, I found I was out on the far tail end of the normal curve. On average since leaving home in 1968, I've moved house 11 times -- every 3-4 years: (1-2) Galesburg, IL for college (dorm/frat house and apartment when I got married); (3) DeKalb, IL (Rochelle, actually) for grad school; (4-5) New Orleans for my first job (two different apartments); followed by transfers to (6) California; (7) Tulsa (bought first house); (8-9) California again (two more places); (10) UK; and now (11) Houston. UK may have been longest stint in any one place - 6 years almost exactly.
Things get really complicated if you figure that for five years when I say I was in California (2nd time), I actually rotated to Kazakhstan every other month. I'm not sure whether to count that as living in California or living in Kazakhstan. I spent more days in KZ than in US those five years, that's for sure. Do you count each rotation as moving house? I guess not, but maybe I should at least count KZ as a place I've lived.
But back to the reunion ...
I was pleasantly surprised to see how many people had married pretty much after high school and stayed married. Another place where I was outside the norm -- got the "married right out of high school" part but divorced and now remarried. Other common denominators were: grown kids (though quite a few people had kids still in college), grandkids (I missed the boat there too, so far), talking of retirement or already retired (lucky them), aging parents or parents who have already passed away. In fact a couple people had parents who had died within the few weeks preceeding the reunion.
Not too many of us talked about our own health problems -- except me who had just taken a header down a flight of steps two days before and damaged hand and foot. Husband of one of our classmates had intended to come, but had by-pass surgery within the last month and couldn't make it from Colorado. (Get better quick, Kenny.) The list of "those no longer with us" grew by a few names. I wish they'd stop talking about that. Print the names in the program if they want, but please don't make a deal about it. We're all going to be on the list eventually.
Toughest part for me was remembering names. WHY do people expect that you'll remember their names at these things? I can't remember what I had for dinner last night. (Same thing happened at my college reunion.) I guess everyone's got a better memory than I do. I was just so shocked and pleased at the number of people that went out of their way to come up and say 'hi' to me. Mike, Junior, Steve -- all guys I ran track with and all asked if I still high jumped. Right. Most all of us have gained weight, some of us a lot, but others look like they could go right out on the basketball court today. (Darn you, Lon. Get old. Will yah?)It was also fun to see how personalities had changed -- or at least our perceptions of personalities. One of us had this rep in school of a tough tough kid who ran with a tough tough crowd. Now: mister personality, happy to see everyone, smiling, helping out where ever he could. Other guys that were pretty rough with me and were, frankly, real jerks (I thought) in school were just great to me at this gathering -- pleasant, smiling, interested in what I had to say (or pretended to be), and happy to tell me about their lives. It was pretty cool.
And now a word about my wife: nice job, sweetie. Took some great pictures. Didn't get freaked by not knowing one person there. Fit right in. And, oh, by the way, looked 15 years younger than all of us ... and she's not. You go, girl. (Here wearing pompoms as hair ornaments. OK, so we had a few cocktails.)
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Air travel - I'm in big trouble
My wife and I flew this week from London to Peoria, IL. The trip was pretty much perfect:
I am in big trouble. The god or gods that watch over travel have a certain balance sheet that must be maintained. Travel cannot be overly pleasant or people will want to do it all the time and that will over-crowd the system, cause oil prices to rise, and generally just not be good for the general zen of the universe.
The pay back in bad trips that must be coming to balance out this trip doesn't bear thinking about.
The optimist sees the glass half-full.
The pessimist sees the glass half-empty.
The rationalist sees a glass that's twice as big as it needs to be.
- Wife was ready perfectly on time in the morning.
- Taxi arrived just five minutes later than planned.
- Traffic was light. The normally 30 minute trip to London Heathrow Terminal 3 took 25 minutes -- at 7:30AM on a weekday. Unbelievable.
- Space for taxi was open at drop-off right across from our check-in desk. Taxi driver hadn't raised rates despite petrol going for 1.25GBP per liter (roughly $10USD per gallon).
- Only a 20 minute wait in check-in line. No charge for checking 3 bags. We'd been ticketed online with seats apart from each other, but agent found us two together.
- Crispy Creme donut place just before security. (You have to do it.)
- Basically no wait at security and except for having to take shoes off, which I hate, a hassle free passage. (Do they EVER catch anything dangerous in in shoes?)
- Flight left LHR early ... early!
- [Micro-downside: seats were in middle of 777, and I got the middle of the middle ... next to a fidgety young Spanish girl. The handset for my seat didn't work, but work-around was to use the touchscreen in the seat back in front of me. Mildly irritating, but manageable.]
- I slept like a dead person for four hours on the 8+ hour flight. [Downside: wife didn't sleep -- allergies. What do they periodically pipe through airline ventilation? It's got to be something.]
- Landed in Chicago O'hare early ... early ... despite thunderstorms in the area.
- Waltzed through immigration in spite of wife carrying two Russian passports.
- Three bags arrived.
- Through second set of security without problem.
- Chilli's restaurant right next to our gate. Margaritas good, but seemed pretty much alcohol free. [Downside: blinding ice headache.]
- Flight on commuter plane to Peoria bump free and on time. Wife slept like a baby for whole 50 minute trip.
- Limo waiting as promised on arrival.
- Three bags arrived. Golf clubs in tact. Four bottles of vodka unbroken.
- Ride to Mom's house safe, uneventful and pleasant.
- Mom has batch of her world-famous chocolate fudge made.
I am in big trouble. The god or gods that watch over travel have a certain balance sheet that must be maintained. Travel cannot be overly pleasant or people will want to do it all the time and that will over-crowd the system, cause oil prices to rise, and generally just not be good for the general zen of the universe.
The pay back in bad trips that must be coming to balance out this trip doesn't bear thinking about.
The optimist sees the glass half-full.
The pessimist sees the glass half-empty.
The rationalist sees a glass that's twice as big as it needs to be.
Monday, June 23, 2008
WIWAB - Part 6 - Nettles and firewood
"Need help getting up there?"
"Nah. Don't think so.", I said. I looked from river level up the 6' to the clearing where our camp was. I eyed the steps he'd kicked into the near vertical bank. Taking a big breath I started scrambling up -- slipping, sliding back, kicking dirt down, on hands-and-knees sometimes. Eventually I stood on top. I was grinning.
He joined me. "Good job. Let's find some wood." he said and disappeared into the taller-than-head-high weeds to our left. I followed. "Oh, man, look in the shorter stuff over there. These nettles are nasty.", he called back to me from up ahead. Just then one of the stalks snapped back as he brushed by it. A broad, seemingly soft leaf slapped my face.
"Yeow.", the sound popped out of me before I could stop it. It was like I'd been scraped with a piece of hot sandpaper. I backed out of the weeds.
"You OK?"
"Yeah."
"Don't rub it."
"OK," I said rubbing my cheek with the back of my hand. Immediately my face hurt even more and the back of my hand started burning.
He came out of the nettles dragging a large dead branch. "Here's a good start." I ran to help him pull it towards the clearing near the car.
"Got hit by the nettles, eh?" he asked looking at my red cheek. "Burns like heck, doesn't it? Never mind. It'll stop in a while. Just stay out of them from now on. And don't rub it." I snuck a glance at the back of my hand. It was red too.
"Why don't cha look over there?" He pointed with his chin to the other side of the car.
I didn't see any nettles there and walked into the knee-high grass growing in the sun between the trees. I picked up sticks as I walked. I heard wood snapping behind me and he came out of the tall weeds dragging another big branch. I went a bit further, found some larger sticks and added them to the ones already in my arms. I walked to where he'd dropped the branches and put down my load. "Good kindling." he said nodding at my sticks.
"One more log ought to do it. Come on." We walked through the sun where I'd just been and into the gloom under the canopy of leaves. A whole dead tree, nearly 6" across lay on the ground -- broken off at the stump. He bent to pick up the thick end and grunted. "Little help here please." I wrapped my arms around it and we started dragging it toward the car. It's branches kept catching on the thick weeds behind us. After a few steps, he said, "Whoa, take five." and dropped it. It was too big for me to hold on my own and I dropped it as well. "We'll come back for it if we need it."
He walked to where I'd laid our gear earlier in the clearing. He picked up the hand saw and started attacking the branches he'd dragged over. "Grab me a beer out of the cooler," he said. I pulled off the white Styrofoam lid, pushed the bucket of worms to one side, and reached through the ice to a can. I got a cola for myself, put the lid back, and carried the cans to where he was still sawing away. He took the beer from me and dragged it across his forehead. "We'll probably wish we had some of this heat tonight." He pulled the pop-top from the can and dropped it inside. He took a big swallow and then went back to sawing. "I'll cut 'em; you stack 'em," he said. After a while we had a nice pile.
"Good enough for now. You getting hungry?" I was always hungry. I nodded. "Well, let's fish for a bit, run the lines once and then head into town for a 'burger." I nodded again.
"Nah. Don't think so.", I said. I looked from river level up the 6' to the clearing where our camp was. I eyed the steps he'd kicked into the near vertical bank. Taking a big breath I started scrambling up -- slipping, sliding back, kicking dirt down, on hands-and-knees sometimes. Eventually I stood on top. I was grinning.
He joined me. "Good job. Let's find some wood." he said and disappeared into the taller-than-head-high weeds to our left. I followed. "Oh, man, look in the shorter stuff over there. These nettles are nasty.", he called back to me from up ahead. Just then one of the stalks snapped back as he brushed by it. A broad, seemingly soft leaf slapped my face.
"Yeow.", the sound popped out of me before I could stop it. It was like I'd been scraped with a piece of hot sandpaper. I backed out of the weeds.
"You OK?"
"Yeah."
"Don't rub it."
"OK," I said rubbing my cheek with the back of my hand. Immediately my face hurt even more and the back of my hand started burning.
He came out of the nettles dragging a large dead branch. "Here's a good start." I ran to help him pull it towards the clearing near the car.
"Got hit by the nettles, eh?" he asked looking at my red cheek. "Burns like heck, doesn't it? Never mind. It'll stop in a while. Just stay out of them from now on. And don't rub it." I snuck a glance at the back of my hand. It was red too.
"Why don't cha look over there?" He pointed with his chin to the other side of the car.
I didn't see any nettles there and walked into the knee-high grass growing in the sun between the trees. I picked up sticks as I walked. I heard wood snapping behind me and he came out of the tall weeds dragging another big branch. I went a bit further, found some larger sticks and added them to the ones already in my arms. I walked to where he'd dropped the branches and put down my load. "Good kindling." he said nodding at my sticks.
"One more log ought to do it. Come on." We walked through the sun where I'd just been and into the gloom under the canopy of leaves. A whole dead tree, nearly 6" across lay on the ground -- broken off at the stump. He bent to pick up the thick end and grunted. "Little help here please." I wrapped my arms around it and we started dragging it toward the car. It's branches kept catching on the thick weeds behind us. After a few steps, he said, "Whoa, take five." and dropped it. It was too big for me to hold on my own and I dropped it as well. "We'll come back for it if we need it."
He walked to where I'd laid our gear earlier in the clearing. He picked up the hand saw and started attacking the branches he'd dragged over. "Grab me a beer out of the cooler," he said. I pulled off the white Styrofoam lid, pushed the bucket of worms to one side, and reached through the ice to a can. I got a cola for myself, put the lid back, and carried the cans to where he was still sawing away. He took the beer from me and dragged it across his forehead. "We'll probably wish we had some of this heat tonight." He pulled the pop-top from the can and dropped it inside. He took a big swallow and then went back to sawing. "I'll cut 'em; you stack 'em," he said. After a while we had a nice pile.
"Good enough for now. You getting hungry?" I was always hungry. I nodded. "Well, let's fish for a bit, run the lines once and then head into town for a 'burger." I nodded again.
WIWAB ... Part 5 - Set the lines
We made our way downstream, putting out poles as we went. Soon the sandbar on our side disappeared against the tall bank as the river meandered to our left.
"Looks ok here. Shallow.", he said and we waded across toward the sandbar on the other side. He reached inside his waders and pulled out a kerchief. He mopped the sweat from his face and then with the kerchief hanging like a limp flag from his hand he pointed across the river to our right. "See the turtles?" I looked and looked. "Come on. We'll get closer.", he said. We baited a couple poles and splashed our way into the deeper water. In a few steps I said, "Oh, yeah! Three of them on the log." And with that all three seemed to look up at us, sigh, and then lazily crawled off their perch into the water. One was as big as a dinner plate. "Snapping turtles?", I asked and looked into the muddy water swirling around my legs. "Nah, softshell turtles, I think. No problem."
We were taking poles from the second bundle now. The river changed course again, this time making a big turn to our right. The water became a few inches deep at the start of the turn. The stream bubbled and gurgled over the rocks on the bottom. You could hear stones clattering along as the current relentlessly pushed them toward the Mississippi River.
Halfway across he stopped and pointed. Silent as a ghost a blue heron came flying toward us from downstream. He looked big as an airplane with his long neck and long sharp beak. His stick-like legs trailed behind him. We froze and the bird flew past within a few feet of us -- close enough to hear the snap of his flight feathers with each beat from his three-foot long wings. Gracefully he pulled up and gently landed on those skinny legs at the edge of the sandbar we'd just left. Cocking his head he seemed to tiptoe through the shallow water, then freeze like a statue, then tiptoe then freeze then. Zap! The curled neck straightened and the beak speared into the water. Out he came with a stuggling minnow clasped at the very tip of his beak. With a funny flip of his head the fish disappeared into his mouth. I could see his throat work as he swallowed. "Well, he got one. I hope we do." my father said and turned back across the little rapids.
We put more poles out along the big bend. The water was deep and fast. Some spots I couldn't wade to -- too deep. By the time we reached the end of the bend, we were back in the shadows of the trees again. Cooler. As the stream straightened the channel became shallower. We put the last of the poles out in that channel near a big pile of brush that had built up along the bank to our left.
"That's it. Fifty poles out. How yah doin'?"
"Great."
He took the minnow bucket and looked inside. Closing the lid he dumped half the water out. "Not many left in there. Might as well lighten the load." And handed it to me.
He scanned the bank behind us to our right. "Here's where we want to climb out next time." It was higher than where we'd first come down to the river -- maybe 10' from river level to where the corn grew. "Hoo. Big bunch of nettles up there." he said looking up and shading his eyes. He walked closer to the bank and along it for several steps. The river started to bend away to our left again. "Here we go." and he disappeared up the bank and into the weeds at the top. "Stay there. This is fine." I heard him say, then in a flash he was back down the bank and standing next to me. "Let's check 'em out on the way back." We started to retrace our steps back to our car.
As we walked the shore he said, "Ok, we've got ten right here by the brush pile. Twelve along the bend." He kept up a running commentary, fixing in his mind where the poles were. As we crossed the little rapids to the second sandbar, I noticed the heron was gone. We crossed over the river once more and at the far end of the sandbar I could see the second minnow bucket sticking from the water. We were back to the car. Two hours had past since we started.
Now it was time to make camp.
"Looks ok here. Shallow.", he said and we waded across toward the sandbar on the other side. He reached inside his waders and pulled out a kerchief. He mopped the sweat from his face and then with the kerchief hanging like a limp flag from his hand he pointed across the river to our right. "See the turtles?" I looked and looked. "Come on. We'll get closer.", he said. We baited a couple poles and splashed our way into the deeper water. In a few steps I said, "Oh, yeah! Three of them on the log." And with that all three seemed to look up at us, sigh, and then lazily crawled off their perch into the water. One was as big as a dinner plate. "Snapping turtles?", I asked and looked into the muddy water swirling around my legs. "Nah, softshell turtles, I think. No problem."
We were taking poles from the second bundle now. The river changed course again, this time making a big turn to our right. The water became a few inches deep at the start of the turn. The stream bubbled and gurgled over the rocks on the bottom. You could hear stones clattering along as the current relentlessly pushed them toward the Mississippi River.
Halfway across he stopped and pointed. Silent as a ghost a blue heron came flying toward us from downstream. He looked big as an airplane with his long neck and long sharp beak. His stick-like legs trailed behind him. We froze and the bird flew past within a few feet of us -- close enough to hear the snap of his flight feathers with each beat from his three-foot long wings. Gracefully he pulled up and gently landed on those skinny legs at the edge of the sandbar we'd just left. Cocking his head he seemed to tiptoe through the shallow water, then freeze like a statue, then tiptoe then freeze then. Zap! The curled neck straightened and the beak speared into the water. Out he came with a stuggling minnow clasped at the very tip of his beak. With a funny flip of his head the fish disappeared into his mouth. I could see his throat work as he swallowed. "Well, he got one. I hope we do." my father said and turned back across the little rapids.
We put more poles out along the big bend. The water was deep and fast. Some spots I couldn't wade to -- too deep. By the time we reached the end of the bend, we were back in the shadows of the trees again. Cooler. As the stream straightened the channel became shallower. We put the last of the poles out in that channel near a big pile of brush that had built up along the bank to our left.
"That's it. Fifty poles out. How yah doin'?"
"Great."
He took the minnow bucket and looked inside. Closing the lid he dumped half the water out. "Not many left in there. Might as well lighten the load." And handed it to me.
He scanned the bank behind us to our right. "Here's where we want to climb out next time." It was higher than where we'd first come down to the river -- maybe 10' from river level to where the corn grew. "Hoo. Big bunch of nettles up there." he said looking up and shading his eyes. He walked closer to the bank and along it for several steps. The river started to bend away to our left again. "Here we go." and he disappeared up the bank and into the weeds at the top. "Stay there. This is fine." I heard him say, then in a flash he was back down the bank and standing next to me. "Let's check 'em out on the way back." We started to retrace our steps back to our car.
As we walked the shore he said, "Ok, we've got ten right here by the brush pile. Twelve along the bend." He kept up a running commentary, fixing in his mind where the poles were. As we crossed the little rapids to the second sandbar, I noticed the heron was gone. We crossed over the river once more and at the far end of the sandbar I could see the second minnow bucket sticking from the water. We were back to the car. Two hours had past since we started.
Now it was time to make camp.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
When I was a boy ... Part 4 - My first pole
I'd managed to hook baits to a couple of poles by the time he waded back to shore. He glanced at them then quickly baited two more and started back across the river. I followed him out a short way.
He glanced back over his shoulder saying, "Too deep for you here. Better water for you on down there a way." I stopped waist deep in the water. He passed two of the poles back to me. "Hold these for me."
At the far shore he gingerly waded into the channel, testing his footing. The water again was inches from the top of his waders. He backed away, walked a bit further downstream and tried again. This time he got close enough to the bank to push two poles in quite close together at angles to each other with their lines hanging near a tangle of branches. "If we get one in there, I don't know how I'm going to get him out without getting wet." We both hoped he'd get a chance to try.
He took the other two poles from me and started walking still further downstream and across the river. "Bring the bucket on down a ways. I'll get the poles in a minute." So, I waded back to shore and hefted the bucket. I walked along the shore several steps and put it down. He'd already put the poles in the far bank and was back at shore. He dragged the two bundles of poles out into the shallow water and let them float with the current. As he came parallel with me, he said, "Let's try down a bit further." and kept walking. I picked up the bucket and walked after him. In a few steps I put the bucket down again and wiped my hands on my jeans.
He said, "You're wet already. Come on out here and just let the bucket float with you. It'll save your hands." So I walked out in the water again and let the bucket float next to me. "Just don't let it tip.", he said.
After walking a few dozen yards , he pulled three more poles from the bundle and walked over to me. He quickly baited the hooks. "Put the bucket back on the bank. I think this spot's ok for you." I rushed to get the bucket onto the shore and waded back out to where he stood. The butt ends of the bundles of poles were now in the shallows near shore. They wouldn't float away.
He handed me one of the baited poles and we started across the stream. "You get on this side.", he said positioning me upstream of him. As the water got deeper, my feet kept wanting to float off the bottom. I slowed as I tried to keep my balance and he waited for me. "Grab me if you start to go.", he said. "We're almost there." I realized it was true. The channel was less pronounced here -- almost no drop-off -- and we were nearly to the other side. He pushed one of his poles into the bank. I walked a bit away from him and then tried to push mine in. The bank had more rocks in it here. I couldn't push the pole in. "It doesn't have to be perfect. Try a little farther down. Or try sticking it below the water. Sometimes that's easier." And in a minute I'd pushed the pole into the bank. It was angled more skyward than his were, but he said, "Good spot." and we started back toward shore. I kept looking back, trying to remember which pole was 'mine'.
He glanced back over his shoulder saying, "Too deep for you here. Better water for you on down there a way." I stopped waist deep in the water. He passed two of the poles back to me. "Hold these for me."
At the far shore he gingerly waded into the channel, testing his footing. The water again was inches from the top of his waders. He backed away, walked a bit further downstream and tried again. This time he got close enough to the bank to push two poles in quite close together at angles to each other with their lines hanging near a tangle of branches. "If we get one in there, I don't know how I'm going to get him out without getting wet." We both hoped he'd get a chance to try.
He took the other two poles from me and started walking still further downstream and across the river. "Bring the bucket on down a ways. I'll get the poles in a minute." So, I waded back to shore and hefted the bucket. I walked along the shore several steps and put it down. He'd already put the poles in the far bank and was back at shore. He dragged the two bundles of poles out into the shallow water and let them float with the current. As he came parallel with me, he said, "Let's try down a bit further." and kept walking. I picked up the bucket and walked after him. In a few steps I put the bucket down again and wiped my hands on my jeans.
He said, "You're wet already. Come on out here and just let the bucket float with you. It'll save your hands." So I walked out in the water again and let the bucket float next to me. "Just don't let it tip.", he said.
After walking a few dozen yards , he pulled three more poles from the bundle and walked over to me. He quickly baited the hooks. "Put the bucket back on the bank. I think this spot's ok for you." I rushed to get the bucket onto the shore and waded back out to where he stood. The butt ends of the bundles of poles were now in the shallows near shore. They wouldn't float away.
He handed me one of the baited poles and we started across the stream. "You get on this side.", he said positioning me upstream of him. As the water got deeper, my feet kept wanting to float off the bottom. I slowed as I tried to keep my balance and he waited for me. "Grab me if you start to go.", he said. "We're almost there." I realized it was true. The channel was less pronounced here -- almost no drop-off -- and we were nearly to the other side. He pushed one of his poles into the bank. I walked a bit away from him and then tried to push mine in. The bank had more rocks in it here. I couldn't push the pole in. "It doesn't have to be perfect. Try a little farther down. Or try sticking it below the water. Sometimes that's easier." And in a minute I'd pushed the pole into the bank. It was angled more skyward than his were, but he said, "Good spot." and we started back toward shore. I kept looking back, trying to remember which pole was 'mine'.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
When I was a boy ... Part 3 - Getting Started
I watched as he eased the end of the bundle of poles over the bank to the gravelbar below then give the other end a push. The poles toppled end for end and landed with a crash at river level. He walked back to the car for the second bundle. I was pulling the rest of the gear out of the trunk and back seat, laying it in the short weeds nearby. I heard the second bundle thump on the rocks.
"Good enough for now.", he said, looking at the work I'd done. "Let's go get the lines in the water."
He pulled his waders from the gear I'd laid out, sat on a near-by tree stump, and started to kick off his shoes. I went back to the car and got pair of old canvas shoes of mine we'd. I took off my good (or at least better) running shoes and put on the old ones. No waders for me: at age 10 or so I was too short to find any that would fit. I was wearing an old pair of jeans and a t-shirt. By then he'd pulled the green rubber waders on and stamped his feet into the thicksoled boots at the end of each leg. He stretched the suspenders up over his shoulders and flexed his arms to check the fit.
"Ready? OK. Be careful getting down the bank."
We made our way down to where the poles lay. He picked up a bundle under each arm and dragged them to the water's edge. We walked to our left toward where the minnow buckets sat in the stream above the ripple. I couldn't wait any longer and walked in the river. The cool water felt great against my legs. I walked out until it was to my knees.
"You ought to stay dry if you can. You'll be cold in those wet jeans tonight."
"I'll be OK."
He pulled the bucket of water off the liner and dumped the water out into the river. He scooped up another bucket full and set it on the shore. He stood in the water next to the liner, unfastened the lid and looked in.
"Only a couple dead ones. That's good." he said reaching into the bucket and scooping the dead bait out with his hand. He tossed them up toward the shore. Turning to the bucket, he looked at it and then at me and then poured some of the water out on the rocks. He lifted the liner by the handle, then plunged the liner into the waiting bucket. He dropped the liner handle and made sure it was tucked under its rim. Then he picked up the bucket handle and hefted it, testing the weight.
"You get the bucket and I'll get the poles." I rushed over to the bucket and picked it up with both hands, turning to follow him. He'd already untied the two sets of lines holding one of the bundles. One line he tucked into the inside pocket of the waders. The other he moved to the center of the bundle.
Picking one of the poles from the bunch, he took the hook from the eye and looked at me. I hurried over with the bucket. He reached in and pulled out a wiggling silver minnow in his palm. He manuvered it until its head was in his fingers.
"Remember how to do this? In the mouth, out the gill, then into the underside of the tail. Keeps them alive better. It always ends up hooking the fish right in the eye, too." I watched intently. "Here you do this one." he said, handing me a pole. I fished in the bucket among the wiggling minnows and finally got one. I pulled it out and had to use both hands to get the head in my fingers. I took the hook from him and tried to get it in the tiny mouth. It must have known what was happening and clamped its mouth tight shut. "Pull down on his lower lip with the point." Sure enough the fish's mouth popped open surprisingly large. I put the hook in and then out the gill opening. Turning the hook over I slipped the hook into the underside of the muscle of the tail. I felt a tiny pop as the hook went in and the fish wiggled in my hand. I swallowed.
He took the two baited poles and started across the river. The water was only knee deep most of the way across and then in one step it was mid-thigh and with the next up to his waist. He stopped momentarily getting used to the push of the current from his left then felt his way forward. The water stayed near waist height for the next four or five steps until he was standing hear the far shore. He pushed the butt end of one of the poles into the dirt of the bank a foot or two above the water letting the line dangle down where the river was deepest. Taking a step back, he eye'd his work. He gave the pole a final push to embed it deeper in the bank then walked several steps downstream to where the tree had fallen in the water.
Here the water swirled and eddied around the branches hanging in the current. He edged his way up to the branches, the water becoming even deeper as he walked. As he started to take one more step, he stopped. The water was nearly to his arm pits, just inches from the top of the green waders. "Deep here. Can't feel bottom," he said looking across the river back towards me. "We'll get a fish here tonight. Bait me a couple more poles." He turned back to the bank and this time with both hands pushed the pole at into the bank. He angled it to have the line in the deepest water and close to the branches. He started to pick his way through the current back towards me where I was struggling to bait another hook.
We'd started fishing. Only forty-eight more poles to put out -- forty-eight more lines to set.
"Good enough for now.", he said, looking at the work I'd done. "Let's go get the lines in the water."
He pulled his waders from the gear I'd laid out, sat on a near-by tree stump, and started to kick off his shoes. I went back to the car and got pair of old canvas shoes of mine we'd. I took off my good (or at least better) running shoes and put on the old ones. No waders for me: at age 10 or so I was too short to find any that would fit. I was wearing an old pair of jeans and a t-shirt. By then he'd pulled the green rubber waders on and stamped his feet into the thicksoled boots at the end of each leg. He stretched the suspenders up over his shoulders and flexed his arms to check the fit.
"Ready? OK. Be careful getting down the bank."
We made our way down to where the poles lay. He picked up a bundle under each arm and dragged them to the water's edge. We walked to our left toward where the minnow buckets sat in the stream above the ripple. I couldn't wait any longer and walked in the river. The cool water felt great against my legs. I walked out until it was to my knees.
"You ought to stay dry if you can. You'll be cold in those wet jeans tonight."
"I'll be OK."
He pulled the bucket of water off the liner and dumped the water out into the river. He scooped up another bucket full and set it on the shore. He stood in the water next to the liner, unfastened the lid and looked in.
"Only a couple dead ones. That's good." he said reaching into the bucket and scooping the dead bait out with his hand. He tossed them up toward the shore. Turning to the bucket, he looked at it and then at me and then poured some of the water out on the rocks. He lifted the liner by the handle, then plunged the liner into the waiting bucket. He dropped the liner handle and made sure it was tucked under its rim. Then he picked up the bucket handle and hefted it, testing the weight.
"You get the bucket and I'll get the poles." I rushed over to the bucket and picked it up with both hands, turning to follow him. He'd already untied the two sets of lines holding one of the bundles. One line he tucked into the inside pocket of the waders. The other he moved to the center of the bundle.
Picking one of the poles from the bunch, he took the hook from the eye and looked at me. I hurried over with the bucket. He reached in and pulled out a wiggling silver minnow in his palm. He manuvered it until its head was in his fingers.
"Remember how to do this? In the mouth, out the gill, then into the underside of the tail. Keeps them alive better. It always ends up hooking the fish right in the eye, too." I watched intently. "Here you do this one." he said, handing me a pole. I fished in the bucket among the wiggling minnows and finally got one. I pulled it out and had to use both hands to get the head in my fingers. I took the hook from him and tried to get it in the tiny mouth. It must have known what was happening and clamped its mouth tight shut. "Pull down on his lower lip with the point." Sure enough the fish's mouth popped open surprisingly large. I put the hook in and then out the gill opening. Turning the hook over I slipped the hook into the underside of the muscle of the tail. I felt a tiny pop as the hook went in and the fish wiggled in my hand. I swallowed.
He took the two baited poles and started across the river. The water was only knee deep most of the way across and then in one step it was mid-thigh and with the next up to his waist. He stopped momentarily getting used to the push of the current from his left then felt his way forward. The water stayed near waist height for the next four or five steps until he was standing hear the far shore. He pushed the butt end of one of the poles into the dirt of the bank a foot or two above the water letting the line dangle down where the river was deepest. Taking a step back, he eye'd his work. He gave the pole a final push to embed it deeper in the bank then walked several steps downstream to where the tree had fallen in the water.
Here the water swirled and eddied around the branches hanging in the current. He edged his way up to the branches, the water becoming even deeper as he walked. As he started to take one more step, he stopped. The water was nearly to his arm pits, just inches from the top of the green waders. "Deep here. Can't feel bottom," he said looking across the river back towards me. "We'll get a fish here tonight. Bait me a couple more poles." He turned back to the bank and this time with both hands pushed the pole at into the bank. He angled it to have the line in the deepest water and close to the branches. He started to pick his way through the current back towards me where I was struggling to bait another hook.
We'd started fishing. Only forty-eight more poles to put out -- forty-eight more lines to set.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Police Station
So, I'm in line at the police station. Never mind why. Two guys in line in front of me. West African by their accents.
Policewoman behind counter: "No, you can't get your car out of empoundment until you prove it has insurance."
"But when the car was seized it was insured. I have the document here."
"OK, but to drive it now, you need to prove insurance."
"I had insurance."
"Yes, OK. But it expired June 13th."
"I just want to drive it home and park it. I can't afford the petrol, the insurance, the MOT. I just want to get it home and then sell it."
"OK. Get it insured and we'll release it to you."
"It was insured when you seized it."
"OK. We'll release it to you after you prove it's insured now."
"My friend here has insurance. Can he drive it?"
"No. Insurance covers the car."
Bing, I wake up from where ever I was up to this point. HUH? You don't insure the DRIVER? Sure you do. If I have an accident, the CAR doesn't lose its 'no claim' discount.
[I'd just discovered this week that UK car insurance doesn't cover the insured person if they drive a rental car ... say in US. You HAVE to buy the extra insurance at like $20 per day from the rental company. So I guess this police officer is half right: UK insurance covers the car and the person as an item. Does that mean only I can drive my car here? I can't drive someone elses; I can't let someone else drive mine? And for this priviledge I get to pay the equivalent of $1500 per year?]
Back in reality: "Can I take my car now?"
"You have to prove you have insurance for it."
"I have a provisional licence. If I put my provisional license tags on it, can I drive it?"
I get my book out and glance at my watch.
Policewoman behind counter: "No, you can't get your car out of empoundment until you prove it has insurance."
"But when the car was seized it was insured. I have the document here."
"OK, but to drive it now, you need to prove insurance."
"I had insurance."
"Yes, OK. But it expired June 13th."
"I just want to drive it home and park it. I can't afford the petrol, the insurance, the MOT. I just want to get it home and then sell it."
"OK. Get it insured and we'll release it to you."
"It was insured when you seized it."
"OK. We'll release it to you after you prove it's insured now."
"My friend here has insurance. Can he drive it?"
"No. Insurance covers the car."
Bing, I wake up from where ever I was up to this point. HUH? You don't insure the DRIVER? Sure you do. If I have an accident, the CAR doesn't lose its 'no claim' discount.
[I'd just discovered this week that UK car insurance doesn't cover the insured person if they drive a rental car ... say in US. You HAVE to buy the extra insurance at like $20 per day from the rental company. So I guess this police officer is half right: UK insurance covers the car and the person as an item. Does that mean only I can drive my car here? I can't drive someone elses; I can't let someone else drive mine? And for this priviledge I get to pay the equivalent of $1500 per year?]
Back in reality: "Can I take my car now?"
"You have to prove you have insurance for it."
"I have a provisional licence. If I put my provisional license tags on it, can I drive it?"
I get my book out and glance at my watch.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
When I was a boy ... Part 2 - We Arrive
The man turned from the river and walked back to his car that was sitting in the shade of the trees a few yards away. The boy lingered, hoping to see a fish jump in the smooth water flowing by, then he too turned back to the car. Looking beyond the car the boy saw a cloud of insects dancing their mating rituals in the sun above the cornfield. He could hear their faint buzz, like a carrier wave for the birds singing in the trees around them. He wiped the sweat from his face and swallowed, tasting the dust and the pollen from the corn tassels. The air was so still the stiff green leaves of the corn stalks weren't even making a sound by rubbing together. And, yet once in a while faint crackle came from the field. The heat and humidity made the corn grow -- you could hear it.
The man had opened the rear door of the car and was taking out the minnow buckets. He looked back at the boy saying, "Let's get these in the water." The boy grinned and reached for one of the buckets. "Let me get them down the bank first", his father said, picking up the two metal buckets. Father and son walked to where the bank dropped off to river level some six-feet below. The man peered over the edge looking for an easy way down. He skirted the bank a few yards to his right, knocking aside nettle plants as tall as he was with the buckets. At the bank edge again, he found a place where run-off had almost cut steps into the sandy soil. As he made his way down, he kicked the steps deeper and in a few seconds stood on the gravel bar below. The boy waited at the top and then followed using the steps. At the bottom the man handed him one of the buckets without a word and started across the rocks and sand toward the river.
Upstream to their left the gravel had poked out into the river making the water ripple as it went over the stones. "Let's put these above the riffle," the man said as he walked. The boy, holding the bucket in both hands in front of him, followed. The wire handle dug into his palms. He stopped to put the bucket down, shaking his hands and changing his grip. The man turned, looking back briefly then continued walking. The boy followed. At the water's edge the man pulled the liner from his bucket and plunged it into the river, wiggling it, seating it in the sand and gravel of the stream bed. He took the bucket from the boy and did the same then set the outer buckets still full of water on top of each liner to hold them in the current. "That should keep 'em alive until we need 'em", he said.
Again they looked across the water around them. Upstream the water was wide and looked shallow. At the point they were standing ,the gravel bar forced the water toward the far bank and the stream narrowed. Against that bank the current was clearly faster. Erosion had toppled a tree there. Its roots still clung to the shore, but the trunk lay parallel to the river. Half its branches, with their dead brown leaves, felt their way over the bank and disappeared under the water.
"Good place to put some poles there," the man said nodding toward the fallen tree. Just then a fish jumped among the branches. "What'd I tell you?". The boy smiled up at him. They turned and started back towards the car to get the poles.
[I can see this like yesterday, except for the tears in my eyes when I think about it. I miss that old man.]
The man had opened the rear door of the car and was taking out the minnow buckets. He looked back at the boy saying, "Let's get these in the water." The boy grinned and reached for one of the buckets. "Let me get them down the bank first", his father said, picking up the two metal buckets. Father and son walked to where the bank dropped off to river level some six-feet below. The man peered over the edge looking for an easy way down. He skirted the bank a few yards to his right, knocking aside nettle plants as tall as he was with the buckets. At the bank edge again, he found a place where run-off had almost cut steps into the sandy soil. As he made his way down, he kicked the steps deeper and in a few seconds stood on the gravel bar below. The boy waited at the top and then followed using the steps. At the bottom the man handed him one of the buckets without a word and started across the rocks and sand toward the river.
Upstream to their left the gravel had poked out into the river making the water ripple as it went over the stones. "Let's put these above the riffle," the man said as he walked. The boy, holding the bucket in both hands in front of him, followed. The wire handle dug into his palms. He stopped to put the bucket down, shaking his hands and changing his grip. The man turned, looking back briefly then continued walking. The boy followed. At the water's edge the man pulled the liner from his bucket and plunged it into the river, wiggling it, seating it in the sand and gravel of the stream bed. He took the bucket from the boy and did the same then set the outer buckets still full of water on top of each liner to hold them in the current. "That should keep 'em alive until we need 'em", he said.
Again they looked across the water around them. Upstream the water was wide and looked shallow. At the point they were standing ,the gravel bar forced the water toward the far bank and the stream narrowed. Against that bank the current was clearly faster. Erosion had toppled a tree there. Its roots still clung to the shore, but the trunk lay parallel to the river. Half its branches, with their dead brown leaves, felt their way over the bank and disappeared under the water.
"Good place to put some poles there," the man said nodding toward the fallen tree. Just then a fish jumped among the branches. "What'd I tell you?". The boy smiled up at him. They turned and started back towards the car to get the poles.
[I can see this like yesterday, except for the tears in my eyes when I think about it. I miss that old man.]
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Driving to the Mackinaw
Driving to the Mackinaw River to set out lines was always fun. Through windshield we'd see the poles on the roof bobbing up and down. Were they going to go flying off? Dad drove slower than normal.
The route was one we took only to go fishing. It was fun to see what had changed, but usually there wasn't much new. Corn fields are pretty much corn fields all the time. But, sometimes a new house would've gone up, or a barn burned down, or a formerly gravel road now a hardtop surface. Sometimes an abandoned restaurant at some crossroads would've reopened, or an open one closed down.
While driving Dad would decide which fishing spot to use. There were two available: Schlappi's farm and Foster's farm. Dad kept up relations with both farmers: Christmas cards every year, stopping by when ever he saw one of them in the barnyard as we drove by, offering them some of our fish if we caught any. We didn't always feel they were happy with us being there, but they let us fish their properties without problem for a lot of years. I suppose now they've shut the gates. There're probably liability concerns with having people on your land that we never even thought of back then.
Foster's farm was arguably better fishing. The river was deeper there and had more 'structure' with downed trees, brushpiles, a more defined channel. It also had steeper banks and the river cut a pretty straight course. When dad went fishing with rod and reel he usually picked Foster.
Schappi's stretch of the river was wider and not as deep. The banks tended to be lower and the sandbars bigger. It's big advantage for setting out lines was that Schlappi's included a horseshoe bend in the river. That meant we could start walking upstream of the bend, walk downstream with the current while we tended the poles, and then climb out of the river and walk a short distance over land back to where we started. It saved a lot of steps and walking against the current, so generally Dad picked Schlappi's.
After turning off the gravelled road and through the open gate onto Schlappi's property we'd be on a dirt track with the river to our right and corn or soybean fields to our left. The track followed the meander of the river. It always seemed to take hours on the track to finally get back to where we fished. It was probably no more than 10 minutes. We strained to catch a glimpse of the river through the weeds and trees. Was the river high and full of water or low and just creeping along? Did it look muddy or clear? Was a particular sandbar still there from last time? Was the brushpile where we'd caught the big catfish still making the water swirl around it? Then it would be gone from sight again as we drove along and we'd have to wait for the next glimpse.
Finally at the end of the track we'd pull to the right into a flat spot under the trees overlooking the river. We'd jump out, walk to the edge of the steep bank, and look down for our first good view. The greenish-brown water flowed from our left, quiet, smooth, maybe 50 feet across. A gravelbar eased out into the flow from the base of the bank where we stood. The bar forced a bend in the river, the faster flowing water and a steep bank on the far side. Trees over hung the water there, casting shadows and making the water look dark and cool. That's where we'd put our first poles. It was good luck to see a fish jump. We'd smell that clean, mossy, earthy, wet smell of running fresh water. After you'd been there awhile you couldn't smell it anymore as you got used to it. At first though, it was a smell that told you that you were going fishing.
It was time to unload the gear and get started.
The route was one we took only to go fishing. It was fun to see what had changed, but usually there wasn't much new. Corn fields are pretty much corn fields all the time. But, sometimes a new house would've gone up, or a barn burned down, or a formerly gravel road now a hardtop surface. Sometimes an abandoned restaurant at some crossroads would've reopened, or an open one closed down.
While driving Dad would decide which fishing spot to use. There were two available: Schlappi's farm and Foster's farm. Dad kept up relations with both farmers: Christmas cards every year, stopping by when ever he saw one of them in the barnyard as we drove by, offering them some of our fish if we caught any. We didn't always feel they were happy with us being there, but they let us fish their properties without problem for a lot of years. I suppose now they've shut the gates. There're probably liability concerns with having people on your land that we never even thought of back then.
Foster's farm was arguably better fishing. The river was deeper there and had more 'structure' with downed trees, brushpiles, a more defined channel. It also had steeper banks and the river cut a pretty straight course. When dad went fishing with rod and reel he usually picked Foster.
Schappi's stretch of the river was wider and not as deep. The banks tended to be lower and the sandbars bigger. It's big advantage for setting out lines was that Schlappi's included a horseshoe bend in the river. That meant we could start walking upstream of the bend, walk downstream with the current while we tended the poles, and then climb out of the river and walk a short distance over land back to where we started. It saved a lot of steps and walking against the current, so generally Dad picked Schlappi's.
After turning off the gravelled road and through the open gate onto Schlappi's property we'd be on a dirt track with the river to our right and corn or soybean fields to our left. The track followed the meander of the river. It always seemed to take hours on the track to finally get back to where we fished. It was probably no more than 10 minutes. We strained to catch a glimpse of the river through the weeds and trees. Was the river high and full of water or low and just creeping along? Did it look muddy or clear? Was a particular sandbar still there from last time? Was the brushpile where we'd caught the big catfish still making the water swirl around it? Then it would be gone from sight again as we drove along and we'd have to wait for the next glimpse.
Finally at the end of the track we'd pull to the right into a flat spot under the trees overlooking the river. We'd jump out, walk to the edge of the steep bank, and look down for our first good view. The greenish-brown water flowed from our left, quiet, smooth, maybe 50 feet across. A gravelbar eased out into the flow from the base of the bank where we stood. The bar forced a bend in the river, the faster flowing water and a steep bank on the far side. Trees over hung the water there, casting shadows and making the water look dark and cool. That's where we'd put our first poles. It was good luck to see a fish jump. We'd smell that clean, mossy, earthy, wet smell of running fresh water. After you'd been there awhile you couldn't smell it anymore as you got used to it. At first though, it was a smell that told you that you were going fishing.
It was time to unload the gear and get started.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Seinin' minnies
Got the car packed and now we're driving on a hot Illinois summer afternoon towards one of the many creeks that run through the farm and woodlands. Minnow seine and minnow buckets are in the back seat of the car. I'm sitting shotgun with my dad driving. Parking in the entrance to a corn field near the creek we get the net and buckets. Dad pulls on some hip waders. We walk down the road to the bridge over the creek. We hop the barbwire fence and fight our way through head high weeds to the water.
First we'd pull the liner out of the minnow buckets -- kind of like the liners from spaghetti cookers -- perforated to let water drain out when lifted from the solid outer bucket. We'd fill the outer bucket with water from the creek then force the liner into it -- aerating the water.
We each take one end of the seine and unroll it. The seine is a fine mesh net about 12-feet long with 4-foot long rake handles tied on each end. The bottom is weighted with lead; the top held up with cork floats. Dad has me stand in the shallows holding one end of the seine tight to the bottom. He wades out first down stream then in a big circle back upstream and finally back in toward the shallow sloping bank. The whole time he's moving he's saying, "Keep it on the bottom." Usually silver fish were left flopping in the net on the shore -- plus rocks, weeds, plastic cups, and other left overs from the streambed. We'd pick out the biggest minnows plus any crawfish we'd find and throw them in the minnow bucket -- keeping a rough count. Those times when we didn't get anything worth keeping, Dad would say, "You didn't keep it on the bottom. They all got out." I was probably 18 years old before I figured out it really wasn't my fault.
We'd move upstream and repeat the process until we had 150 or so baits in the buckets. Before leaving we'd pull the liners, dump the water and replace it with fresh, then plunge the liners back in. Good big bait meant good big fish. And we were off to get those big fish.
First we'd pull the liner out of the minnow buckets -- kind of like the liners from spaghetti cookers -- perforated to let water drain out when lifted from the solid outer bucket. We'd fill the outer bucket with water from the creek then force the liner into it -- aerating the water.
We each take one end of the seine and unroll it. The seine is a fine mesh net about 12-feet long with 4-foot long rake handles tied on each end. The bottom is weighted with lead; the top held up with cork floats. Dad has me stand in the shallows holding one end of the seine tight to the bottom. He wades out first down stream then in a big circle back upstream and finally back in toward the shallow sloping bank. The whole time he's moving he's saying, "Keep it on the bottom." Usually silver fish were left flopping in the net on the shore -- plus rocks, weeds, plastic cups, and other left overs from the streambed. We'd pick out the biggest minnows plus any crawfish we'd find and throw them in the minnow bucket -- keeping a rough count. Those times when we didn't get anything worth keeping, Dad would say, "You didn't keep it on the bottom. They all got out." I was probably 18 years old before I figured out it really wasn't my fault.
We'd move upstream and repeat the process until we had 150 or so baits in the buckets. Before leaving we'd pull the liners, dump the water and replace it with fresh, then plunge the liners back in. Good big bait meant good big fish. And we were off to get those big fish.
Monday, June 16, 2008
But, when I was a boy ... Part 1 - Get the Gear Ready
By the time I was a boy, things had changed a bit when setting out lines. Dad had on the order of 50 bamboo poles in a big bundle or two up in the rafters of our garage. Each pole was probably 8’ long. Each had a yard or so of stout line tied to the thin end. A big hook was tied to the free end of the line and a lead weight was wrapped around the line a few inches above that. Reflecting tape, either white or red, was wrapped around the end of the pole near where the line was tied on. An eye screw was fixed into the pole just a couple inches more than a yard from the end. By bending the pole a bit, the hook fit into that eye keeping everything neat and tidy for storage and transport. No one else I ever knew had anything like those bundles in their garage.
On a Saturday morning in the heat of summer, Dad would pull the car out of our (one-car) garage into the driveway. He'd get out the step ladder and drag down the bundles of poles from the rafters. He’d take the poles into the backyard in the shade under our apple tree. Then he’d set a lawn chair next to the bundles, get some emerypaper (fine sandpaper) from the basement, pull a cold Schlitz beer from the frig, sit in the lawn chair, and start checking the lines. Each hook had to be polished sharp and shiny with the emerypaper because the hooks would all have rusted since the last use. He’d also make sure the reflecting tape was still in place, that the line wasn’t frayed, that the hook was till tightly tied, that the pole wasn’t cracked or broken. As each pole was checked it would go into a pile on the other side of the chair, a sip of beer would be taken, and then the next pole checked. When they were all done, he’d tie them back into a couple of bundles and lay them next to the garage out of the way.
Then he’d go into the basement and start hauling up the rest of the gear: minnow seine, two or three metal minnow buckets, rubber waders, fishing rods and reels, tackle boxes, fish stringers, dip net, wire live-net, ice chest, battery operated headlamps, spare batteries, an ax, a hand-saw, a box of light-anywhere kitchen matches, battery operated radio, mosquito repellant, big stack of newspapers, blanket, some rope ends, light jackets, baseball caps. He’d fill a small wooden bucket with nightcrawlers (big, big earthworms) out of a box of them he kept in the basement. That dark rich loam that they lived in always smelled so good and clean and earthy to me. (How we used to catch those worms is a whole other story.) He’d fill the ice chest with beer and colas then throw in ice cubes from trays in our refrigerator. All this stuff would get piled on the front lawn near the driveway.
He’d get roof top luggage racks out of the garage next. No fancy Thule racks, these. They were strictly utilitarian: two 2"x2" wooden planks just the width of the car with two big rubber suction cups bolted to each and some straps with wide hooks fastened to the wood as well. The suction cups would sit on the roof and the hooks would fasten racks to the gutter of the car. You'd tighten everything down by pulling the straps and fastening their buckles -- not too tight because you could actually pull them enough to dent the roof of the car –- which I did once. No one else I knew had these racks in their garage either.
The bundles of poles went on top of the racks and were secured with clothesline or what ever other rope was handy. The loose ends of the line either got shut in the doors so the ends hung inside the car, or would get rolled up in the windows. He’d usually also secure the front of the bundles to the car bumper with another length of line. Apparently one time while driving at speed with the poles on top, the tie-downs holding the poles to the rack had broken. The poles had gone flying back over the roof and nearly caused an accident for the car following behind. Worse yet, some of the poles had broken. He never wanted that to happen again.
He’d load all the other gear in the car. It was a tight fit and usually quite a bit ended up in the back seat. The seine and minnow buckets had to be in easy reach; we'd need those first. Often the worm bucket ended up in the cooler. “For pete’s sake, don’t tell your mother”, he’d say. I thought it was great even when that dirty old bucket was sitting on my Cokes. Why is it that sharing secrets with one parent against the other is always such fun?
By this time it was usually 3PM or so. He’d go back in the house, catch his breath, kiss my mother good-bye, (she'd say, "Be careful."), and off we’d go. It was time to seine some “minnies”.
On a Saturday morning in the heat of summer, Dad would pull the car out of our (one-car) garage into the driveway. He'd get out the step ladder and drag down the bundles of poles from the rafters. He’d take the poles into the backyard in the shade under our apple tree. Then he’d set a lawn chair next to the bundles, get some emerypaper (fine sandpaper) from the basement, pull a cold Schlitz beer from the frig, sit in the lawn chair, and start checking the lines. Each hook had to be polished sharp and shiny with the emerypaper because the hooks would all have rusted since the last use. He’d also make sure the reflecting tape was still in place, that the line wasn’t frayed, that the hook was till tightly tied, that the pole wasn’t cracked or broken. As each pole was checked it would go into a pile on the other side of the chair, a sip of beer would be taken, and then the next pole checked. When they were all done, he’d tie them back into a couple of bundles and lay them next to the garage out of the way.
Then he’d go into the basement and start hauling up the rest of the gear: minnow seine, two or three metal minnow buckets, rubber waders, fishing rods and reels, tackle boxes, fish stringers, dip net, wire live-net, ice chest, battery operated headlamps, spare batteries, an ax, a hand-saw, a box of light-anywhere kitchen matches, battery operated radio, mosquito repellant, big stack of newspapers, blanket, some rope ends, light jackets, baseball caps. He’d fill a small wooden bucket with nightcrawlers (big, big earthworms) out of a box of them he kept in the basement. That dark rich loam that they lived in always smelled so good and clean and earthy to me. (How we used to catch those worms is a whole other story.) He’d fill the ice chest with beer and colas then throw in ice cubes from trays in our refrigerator. All this stuff would get piled on the front lawn near the driveway.
He’d get roof top luggage racks out of the garage next. No fancy Thule racks, these. They were strictly utilitarian: two 2"x2" wooden planks just the width of the car with two big rubber suction cups bolted to each and some straps with wide hooks fastened to the wood as well. The suction cups would sit on the roof and the hooks would fasten racks to the gutter of the car. You'd tighten everything down by pulling the straps and fastening their buckles -- not too tight because you could actually pull them enough to dent the roof of the car –- which I did once. No one else I knew had these racks in their garage either.
The bundles of poles went on top of the racks and were secured with clothesline or what ever other rope was handy. The loose ends of the line either got shut in the doors so the ends hung inside the car, or would get rolled up in the windows. He’d usually also secure the front of the bundles to the car bumper with another length of line. Apparently one time while driving at speed with the poles on top, the tie-downs holding the poles to the rack had broken. The poles had gone flying back over the roof and nearly caused an accident for the car following behind. Worse yet, some of the poles had broken. He never wanted that to happen again.
He’d load all the other gear in the car. It was a tight fit and usually quite a bit ended up in the back seat. The seine and minnow buckets had to be in easy reach; we'd need those first. Often the worm bucket ended up in the cooler. “For pete’s sake, don’t tell your mother”, he’d say. I thought it was great even when that dirty old bucket was sitting on my Cokes. Why is it that sharing secrets with one parent against the other is always such fun?
By this time it was usually 3PM or so. He’d go back in the house, catch his breath, kiss my mother good-bye, (she'd say, "Be careful."), and off we’d go. It was time to seine some “minnies”.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
New Job in Houston
After weeks of wondering whether my company was trying to get rid of me, I received word today that I've been accepted for a position in Houston, Texas, USofA. Timing of the actual move is a bit uncertain still, but seems to be sooner rather than later -- which potentially will agravate my current boss, but there you go.
I'll be leading a group of 5-10 people figuring out how to manage the information that traders use in buying and selling crude oil and refined products. I've never been in that line of the business before and I'm looking forward to it.
I just got back from a Father's Day dinner with my wife. We filled up a couple pages of a notebook on things we have to start thinking about. It would be slightly easier, but we have a previously scheduled holiday trip back to the US scheduled already. It's going to be an "interesting" next few weeks.
I'll be leading a group of 5-10 people figuring out how to manage the information that traders use in buying and selling crude oil and refined products. I've never been in that line of the business before and I'm looking forward to it.
I just got back from a Father's Day dinner with my wife. We filled up a couple pages of a notebook on things we have to start thinking about. It would be slightly easier, but we have a previously scheduled holiday trip back to the US scheduled already. It's going to be an "interesting" next few weeks.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Fishing back in Dad's day
So what is this setting out lines, or limb lines, or bank poles, or what ever?
My father learned it from his father. Dad fished this way with his dad and his two brothers back in what must have been 1930s at least. In those days, so I'm told, it consisted of first cutting an arm load of willow branches and tying line, weight and hook to the end of each branch. That done, you went to a creek and seined a bucket or two of minnows and crawfish (crawdads) for bait. The bait and the poles all got carried by wagon down to the river. For my dad's family this was the Spoon River in Stark County central Illinois. The Spoon is a relatively small and slow running river with tree lined banks where corn fields haven't encroached all the way to the edge.
The fishing consisted wading into the river and then pushing the willow branches into the bank with the line dangling in the deepest, usually fastest flowing part of the stream. Finding a spot near brushpiles that had accumulated in the current or other "structure" was an added benefit. In the Spoon, deepest usually wasn't much over chest deep and often not even that deep in the dry spells of summer. With the branch firmly seated, you'd bait the hook from the bucket then wade on downstream with the bundle of remaining willow poles floating next to you. Once all the poles were in place, there was nothing for it except to wait.
Waiting usually involved changing out of wet clothes, gathering some wood for a campfire, and having a beer or two. In a few hours, you'd "run the lines", meaning wading out to each pole, checking whether there was a fish on, and if not, as was usually the case, re-baiting the hook. The thrill was, of course, when you'd see the end of a willow pole being pulled down below the water as a fish tugged on it. It was almost always a catfish. In that case you'd pull the hook from its mouth, put the fish on a cord stringer clippled to your belt, and rebait the hook to try again.
This went on through the long, usually hot and humid, Illinois summer afternoon. At some point sandwiches would be broken out. As the sun began to set, a campfire would be started. Then when it was fully dark it was time to run the lines again. This time everyone donned miners' headlamps. In Dad's day these were some sort of oil flame lights that put out hardly enough light to matter. Each time Dad told his stories the lamps got dimmer, the walks got longer, and the fish got bigger.
A one or two more runs of the lines and it was well past midnight and time to go home. Sleep was always easy after all the walking through waist deep water or better for a mile or more several times that day.
After daybreak the next day, it was back down to the river for a final run of the lines. This time there was no re-baiting -- just removing the fish if there were any, slapping the bait off the hooks, taking the lines off the willow poles and coiling the line for use the next time. The willow branches were tossed away.
That was in my dad's day. Not a lot changed when it was time for me to set out lines. But that's for the next post.
My father learned it from his father. Dad fished this way with his dad and his two brothers back in what must have been 1930s at least. In those days, so I'm told, it consisted of first cutting an arm load of willow branches and tying line, weight and hook to the end of each branch. That done, you went to a creek and seined a bucket or two of minnows and crawfish (crawdads) for bait. The bait and the poles all got carried by wagon down to the river. For my dad's family this was the Spoon River in Stark County central Illinois. The Spoon is a relatively small and slow running river with tree lined banks where corn fields haven't encroached all the way to the edge.
The fishing consisted wading into the river and then pushing the willow branches into the bank with the line dangling in the deepest, usually fastest flowing part of the stream. Finding a spot near brushpiles that had accumulated in the current or other "structure" was an added benefit. In the Spoon, deepest usually wasn't much over chest deep and often not even that deep in the dry spells of summer. With the branch firmly seated, you'd bait the hook from the bucket then wade on downstream with the bundle of remaining willow poles floating next to you. Once all the poles were in place, there was nothing for it except to wait.
Waiting usually involved changing out of wet clothes, gathering some wood for a campfire, and having a beer or two. In a few hours, you'd "run the lines", meaning wading out to each pole, checking whether there was a fish on, and if not, as was usually the case, re-baiting the hook. The thrill was, of course, when you'd see the end of a willow pole being pulled down below the water as a fish tugged on it. It was almost always a catfish. In that case you'd pull the hook from its mouth, put the fish on a cord stringer clippled to your belt, and rebait the hook to try again.
This went on through the long, usually hot and humid, Illinois summer afternoon. At some point sandwiches would be broken out. As the sun began to set, a campfire would be started. Then when it was fully dark it was time to run the lines again. This time everyone donned miners' headlamps. In Dad's day these were some sort of oil flame lights that put out hardly enough light to matter. Each time Dad told his stories the lamps got dimmer, the walks got longer, and the fish got bigger.
A one or two more runs of the lines and it was well past midnight and time to go home. Sleep was always easy after all the walking through waist deep water or better for a mile or more several times that day.
After daybreak the next day, it was back down to the river for a final run of the lines. This time there was no re-baiting -- just removing the fish if there were any, slapping the bait off the hooks, taking the lines off the willow poles and coiling the line for use the next time. The willow branches were tossed away.
That was in my dad's day. Not a lot changed when it was time for me to set out lines. But that's for the next post.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Setting Out Lines ?
My daughter is a good writer and recently started her blog(http://missionimprovisational.blogspot.com/). With that as inspiration I decided to start a blog of my own rather than exorcising (or exercising) my writing-demons by continually just putting comments into her posts.
I entertain delusions of someday becoming a writer in my own right -- and righter in my own write too, I suppose. Many sources say that the only way to become a writer is to write. I find it hard to discipline myself to do that, but hope that having this blog calling to me will get at least a few dozen words out of me each day.
The first problem was to pick a name for the site. My initial thought was "sisdui". That was a word I'd heard from my father growing up. It meant "left over food for dinner". He often used it in conjunction with "slumgullion". As in, "Dad, what's for dinner?" "Either sisdui or slumgullion.", he'd say, meaning that he didn't know what was for dinner. By the way, according to one source slumgullion variously means a stew (dad's use of it), a weak tea- or coffee-like drink, leftovers from whale butchery, or the red runoff from mining waste. It was first used in America in 1840-1850 and probably came from the Scotish gullion meaning quagmire or cesspool.
I didn't actually know how to spell "sisdui", pronounced sis - doo' - hee. Running a web search on the word didn't turn up any hits except on some non-English sites. Neither did "sisdoey" ("Did you mean sydney?"), "sisdoohee", or "sissdoey". "Cisdui" turned up a couple hits -- but not in English. "Cistui" actually had two hits: 1. a character from Lord of the Rings; 2. a type of shrub.
Checking with a few members of my family only found one person, my daughter, who even remembered the word. She remembered it as "sistui". We used it with her as the secret password when she was little. If a stranger said, "Come with me, Little Girl. Your father asked me to come get you.", then she asked, "What's the secret word?" If the guy didn't know "sisdui", he'd obviously not talked with me or I'd have given him the word. She was to run screaming to the nearest place of safety.
So anyway, "sisdui": maybe not the best name for my new site. Casting about for other names I ran through the list of other fairly bizarre sayings and quotes from my father:
Slumgullion - I just didn't like the sound of it.
ConfusionToTheEnemy - This was the start of a drinking toast to which the proper response was "May they rot in hell.". The whole quote is probably from somewhere in literature, but I don't know where. I figured using this name could label my site as being written by some skinhead war-monger, so I moved on.
HeresToUs - Another toast with response, "To Hell With Them". Or "And Those Like Us" if you were in a less belligerent mood. I didn't like it as a site name without the required apostrophe.
SeeingTheElephant - Civil War or earlier phrase meaning to have gone off to see strange sights away from your normal world. When wagon trains were going West, some would reach the plains or mountains, realize pioneering wasn't for them, and return East. It was called "Seeing the Elephant". As a kid, when it was time to return home from somewhere, my dad would say, "Well, I guess we've seen the elephant and heard the owl." The "owl" part appears to be something only he used, but it's in keeping with the idea of having reached your limit and ready to go home. I liked it but the site name was already taken.
TheHideyHole - The place where the big fish live. Fishing with my daughter, my dad would throw his line out to a particularly fishy looking place and say, "Oh, that's right in their hidey hole." I liked it, but that name was taken too.
DontHorseEm - Another fishing term meaning, don't reel in so fast you pull the hook out of their mouth. Needed apostrophe.
EverEasy or NeverSoBad - Dad's sayings were "Nothing's EVER easy" and "Things are never so bad they couldn't be worse." True statements, but as site names they didn't really say much concerning what I wanted to write about in my blog.
Turning to my mom's sayings, I thought briefly about Fukgitit. It's what Mom says to shock people when what she really means is "forget it". It's particularly funny when she says it because it comes out "Fuk...get it". Funny because this is a woman that doesn't even swear when she misses a 6" putt or hits her thumb with a hammer.
Having exhausted the old sayings that I could remember, I moved on to word play with "site", as in DarnSiteBetter, LineOfSite, OutOfSiteOutOfMind, SitelyMore, SiteUnseen, Unsitely, and Sight. In the same vein: BumpOnABlog was taken. None of these names thrilled me anyway.
I turned nautical and tried DriftingOnABreeze and ComingAbout. I considered one literary one: ToBeOrNot. Then I thought briefly of: TheWriteStuff (already taken), AndThenISaid, SoISaid, LookBacks, LooselySpeaking.
In a moment of weakness, I also considered NoArmsNoLegs, as in "What do you call a man with ... swimming in the ocean?" "Bob". Figured I'd have every physically challenged person on the net trying to crash my site. Cross that one off.
Then it came to me: SettingOutLines. On the surface, this could be setting out lines of writing for others to read. The hidden meaning is another from my childhood: going fishing using bank poles. My sister and I did this with our dad on the Mackinaw River in Illinois from the time we were big enough to carry the bucket of minnows. I see on the Internet it is still a valid (and legal) way to fish, but the last time I personally went was in 1972 more than 30 years ago -- subject of another posting at some point, I'm sure.
I want this blog to be about things I remember, like setting out lines, that are from my past and that I don't want to be lost with the passage of time. Like sisdui, don't horse 'em, and the hidey hole.
So let's begin.
I entertain delusions of someday becoming a writer in my own right -- and righter in my own write too, I suppose. Many sources say that the only way to become a writer is to write. I find it hard to discipline myself to do that, but hope that having this blog calling to me will get at least a few dozen words out of me each day.
The first problem was to pick a name for the site. My initial thought was "sisdui". That was a word I'd heard from my father growing up. It meant "left over food for dinner". He often used it in conjunction with "slumgullion". As in, "Dad, what's for dinner?" "Either sisdui or slumgullion.", he'd say, meaning that he didn't know what was for dinner. By the way, according to one source slumgullion variously means a stew (dad's use of it), a weak tea- or coffee-like drink, leftovers from whale butchery, or the red runoff from mining waste. It was first used in America in 1840-1850 and probably came from the Scotish gullion meaning quagmire or cesspool.
I didn't actually know how to spell "sisdui", pronounced sis - doo' - hee. Running a web search on the word didn't turn up any hits except on some non-English sites. Neither did "sisdoey" ("Did you mean sydney?"), "sisdoohee", or "sissdoey". "Cisdui" turned up a couple hits -- but not in English. "Cistui" actually had two hits: 1. a character from Lord of the Rings; 2. a type of shrub.
Checking with a few members of my family only found one person, my daughter, who even remembered the word. She remembered it as "sistui". We used it with her as the secret password when she was little. If a stranger said, "Come with me, Little Girl. Your father asked me to come get you.", then she asked, "What's the secret word?" If the guy didn't know "sisdui", he'd obviously not talked with me or I'd have given him the word. She was to run screaming to the nearest place of safety.
So anyway, "sisdui": maybe not the best name for my new site. Casting about for other names I ran through the list of other fairly bizarre sayings and quotes from my father:
Slumgullion - I just didn't like the sound of it.
ConfusionToTheEnemy - This was the start of a drinking toast to which the proper response was "May they rot in hell.". The whole quote is probably from somewhere in literature, but I don't know where. I figured using this name could label my site as being written by some skinhead war-monger, so I moved on.
HeresToUs - Another toast with response, "To Hell With Them". Or "And Those Like Us" if you were in a less belligerent mood. I didn't like it as a site name without the required apostrophe.
SeeingTheElephant - Civil War or earlier phrase meaning to have gone off to see strange sights away from your normal world. When wagon trains were going West, some would reach the plains or mountains, realize pioneering wasn't for them, and return East. It was called "Seeing the Elephant". As a kid, when it was time to return home from somewhere, my dad would say, "Well, I guess we've seen the elephant and heard the owl." The "owl" part appears to be something only he used, but it's in keeping with the idea of having reached your limit and ready to go home. I liked it but the site name was already taken.
TheHideyHole - The place where the big fish live. Fishing with my daughter, my dad would throw his line out to a particularly fishy looking place and say, "Oh, that's right in their hidey hole." I liked it, but that name was taken too.
DontHorseEm - Another fishing term meaning, don't reel in so fast you pull the hook out of their mouth. Needed apostrophe.
EverEasy or NeverSoBad - Dad's sayings were "Nothing's EVER easy" and "Things are never so bad they couldn't be worse." True statements, but as site names they didn't really say much concerning what I wanted to write about in my blog.
Turning to my mom's sayings, I thought briefly about Fukgitit. It's what Mom says to shock people when what she really means is "forget it". It's particularly funny when she says it because it comes out "Fuk...get it". Funny because this is a woman that doesn't even swear when she misses a 6" putt or hits her thumb with a hammer.
Having exhausted the old sayings that I could remember, I moved on to word play with "site", as in DarnSiteBetter, LineOfSite, OutOfSiteOutOfMind, SitelyMore, SiteUnseen, Unsitely, and Sight. In the same vein: BumpOnABlog was taken. None of these names thrilled me anyway.
I turned nautical and tried DriftingOnABreeze and ComingAbout. I considered one literary one: ToBeOrNot. Then I thought briefly of: TheWriteStuff (already taken), AndThenISaid, SoISaid, LookBacks, LooselySpeaking.
In a moment of weakness, I also considered NoArmsNoLegs, as in "What do you call a man with ... swimming in the ocean?" "Bob". Figured I'd have every physically challenged person on the net trying to crash my site. Cross that one off.
Then it came to me: SettingOutLines. On the surface, this could be setting out lines of writing for others to read. The hidden meaning is another from my childhood: going fishing using bank poles. My sister and I did this with our dad on the Mackinaw River in Illinois from the time we were big enough to carry the bucket of minnows. I see on the Internet it is still a valid (and legal) way to fish, but the last time I personally went was in 1972 more than 30 years ago -- subject of another posting at some point, I'm sure.
I want this blog to be about things I remember, like setting out lines, that are from my past and that I don't want to be lost with the passage of time. Like sisdui, don't horse 'em, and the hidey hole.
So let's begin.
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