Toyota Prius - How Fun!

Because of my abject paranoia about crashing my Jag again before I can get it successfully sold this weekend, we rented a car from Enterprise today. A supremely delightful university student named Katie picked us up at our flat and took us to the Enterprise office in Bracknell -- the next town over from us. It should have taken us 15 minutes to get there, but took 25 because of the usual UK propensity for tearing up streets for utility repair or something and just leaving them that way --with no one actually working on the utilities at all. Katie knew a slick route around the trouble or we'd have sat an hour in the "queue".

The car she picked us up in was a Toyota Prius -- a hybrid. I'd heard about them, never seen one up close, and never ridden in one. It was really cool and now we're thinking that this may be the car for us in the US.

To start it you push a "Power" button next to where the key goes in and the dashboard lights up like a video game. Otherwise, it doesn't make a sound. The gear shift is a little knob on the dash that you basically move to D or R. There's a button above the knob labelled, funnily enough, "Park". It didn't take a real long time to figure out the controls.

Only problem is that the only indication that it's running is that the dashboard is alive. It doesn't make a sound. You step on the gas to go forward and unless you've run over a cat that was sleeping under the tire (and didn't hear you start to move either), there's not a sound. A cute little animated diagram shows you whether you're running on battery or petrol (gasoline to the colonists). It also shows whether you're recharging the battery. It shows miles per gallon, which for substantial parts of the journey back to our house was pegged at 99.9 mpg. Can that be right? I guess so because, as we were signing the paperwork for the car, the office manager told us that he drives one and averages 50 mpg.

The transmission is apparently seamless. Somehow there must be only one gear in there. You just smoothly accelerate and there's no automatic transmission 'jump' at all. Cool again.

It rides nicely. Wife says that it's bigger inside than our Jag. And it does feel roomy. I had to have her hug the hood, or bonnet if you're reading this in UK, of the Prius and then show her that the Jag was too big to hug before she believed that the Prius wasn't bigger. I'm pretty sure you can fit a couple sets of golf clubs in the back.

We checked out some Houston Toyota sites and it looks like the going asking price is between $25,000 and $30,000. Steep, but in the same gradient as Mini Cooper that was Wife's choice up until a few hours ago.

Toyota also makes a hybrid version of the Camry. I'm sort of a Camry bigot, so maybe Wife will get Prius (pronounced Pree' - us in the Toyota video) and I'll get a Camry and we'll just be green as heck. That'll shock the heck out of everyone that knows me.

Good news and better news

Slowly, grindingly our move moves forward.

I sold the car this weekend. The initial trials and tribulations I documented in my earlier posts (Woes, More Woes, and Not Woes) are nearly put behind me.

In my previous post on this topic, it was Monday a week ago and I'd just driven away from Rainbow Bodyshop Ltd in one of their courtesy cars. I entertained a small hope that my red Jaguar would be repaired by early the following week -- giving me less than a week to get it sold.

I recieved a call at work last Thursday morning.

"This is Chris at Rainbow. I'm reporting the status of your car. ... "

My heart sank. Couldn't get the parts. More damage than expected. Car won't be ready until September.

" ... It's just gone into the drying room. It's projected completion is tomorrow."

I said, "Say that again. It sounded like you said 'It'll be ready tomorrow.'"

"That's correct. We'll call you when it's been cleaned and polished."

"You'll call me tomorrow when it's been cleaned and polished?"

"That's right."

"Tomorrow."

"That's right."

And then what's even MORE amazing they DID call on Friday morning. I drove their POS courtesy car back to them, and there my red cat sat waiting for me. Only problem was that they'd refurbished one of the alloy wheels and it wasn't dry yet. They said they'd bring it to us at home that night.

In the mean time, I'd knocked £1500 off the asking price in the online ads I'd placed. Suddenly people were interested. A guy at work told a friend who agreed to come look at it on Saturday. He liked it. He put a deposit down and signed a paper saying he'd give me my new asking price. He is arranging his financing and will pick up the car this coming Sunday, which is great because I shouldn't have to get a rental until then ... but more on that later.

The new alloy wheel didn't show up on Friday as promised, but it did show up at our house today. Looks great too. I'm pleased.

So that's the good news. And the better news:

Packers/loaders booked; appointment with landlord for final check out booked; interim living at Berystede Hotel down the road booked; flights booked. Still need to schedule cleaners for day before inspection. Still need to arrange taxi to airport. Still need to eat a bunch of food (can't import food into US anymore) and to drink the last of the alcohol.

An aside: last night we drank a bottle of 1993 Clos Pegase Cabernet Sauvignon. That's a vineyard in Napa Valley that I visited in a previous life in probably 1993. I see from their website that one of their 2004 cabs sells for $80 a bottle, so I'm not sure how much money we drank last night. I've been carting that bottle, and a few others, around through all my moves. That poor wine's been hard treated; but, wow, was it wonderful in spite of all the rough handling. Smooth as smooth right out of the bottle, didn't even need to breathe. Strong taste of blackberries. Sad to see it go, but it was worth the money, how ever much it was.

While all that was going on in UK, the transfer logjam broke in the US. Appropriate paperwork got processed. Relocation consultant called me. Company-approved realtor emailed me and I sent her back a list of housing requirements. I AM excited about the housing situation: the prices look really good in Houston.

Slowly, grindingly our move moves forward.

WIWAB - Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

Back at camp, Dad takes the fish down to the river and dumps the few remaining minnows from our bucket into the second one. By the time he's back I'm in my dry clothes, and they feel good.

"Had to tie the big fish to a tree," he said. "He was too big to fit through the neck of the live-net. I hope the turtles or snakes don't get him over night."

Snakes?

Dad strips off his waders and puts on his shoes. He's crumpled up probably an entire Sunday edition of newspaper on the ground then piled a few handfuls of twigs over it. He pulls a box of matches from his pocket and strikes two together on the lighting strip. They flare and he holds them to some of the corners of the newspaper.

"Your grandpa always said he could burn down city hall if he had enough newspaper. ... This stuff's gotten wet in the dew though. Can't get it to go."

The paper would flare briefly as he held the match to it but die to an ember once he pulled the match away. "Dog gone it. Go get me some more paper from the car, boy." A stack several inches high lay in the trunk of the car. I brought a handful back.

He crumpled up several sheets, added them to the pile. He twisted a final sheet into something resembling a torch and lit it. He used that to start on fire the mound of paper. The new dry sheets jumped into flame. He added small twigs and watched as they began to burn.

"Can't put too much on at once. Smothers it. Few at at time, putting bigger stuff on as you go."

Pretty soon a campfire blazed under the trees. He put a couple of the bigger logs on. I reached to put two more on myself. "Whoa, boy. No need for all that. Remember what the Indians said about the American settlers: 'Indian build small fire, sit close, keep warm. White-man build big fire; keep warm gathering firewood.'"

He pulled up a couple logs closer to the fire and sat down on them. "That's better. Lot a' walking today. Feels good to sit. Go get me a beer and the radio, eh?"

I walked to the car and pulled the battery operated radio -- only slightly smaller than a shoe box -- from the back seat. On the way back toward the fire I pulled a beer and a cola from the water that now filled the ice chest. A couple forlorn pieces of ice floated in the cooler, knowing their minutes were numbered.

Turning on the radio he said, "White Sox may be on. They're playing on the West Coast." and he began fiddling with the radio moving it back and forth, twisting the antenna left and right, trying to get a signal. The low hills forming the river valley must have interfered with the reception. Finally a static-backed voice came out of the tiny speakers, "Hoyt Wilhelm pitching tonight. It's humid here in Los Angles, perfect for the knuckle-baller." Dad sat back on his logs, stretched his legs toward the fire, sighed and opened his beer. I sat a few feet away, sighed, and opened my cola. Lightening bugs flew in the darkness outside the circle of the fire. We heard an owl from up the river, "Who who whoooo."

I took a sip of cola and looked at the flames. I picked up a longer stick from behind me and gave the fire a poke, moving a twig that wasn't quite burning into the flames. Another poke and a larger stick that had been poking above the heat of the fire was now burning fiercely in the embers. I broke my stick in two and threw the pieces on the fire. Not quite where I wanted. I reached behind me for another stick.

Just then the smoke that had been rising straight up into the trees seemed to bend as though touched by an unseen hand -- bent parallel to the ground and right over where I was sitting. My eyes started to sting. I stood up and looked at the fire. I picked up one end of the log that I'd been sitting on and dragged it around to the other side of the fire. I walked back into the smoke, got my cola, picked up another stick, and walked back to sit on my log again -- opposite the smoke.

A tinny voice said, "... was a passed ball if there'd been a runner on. He's having a devil of a time catching that knuckler tonight even with that over-sized mitt. ..."

Then I was in smoke again. What? I coughed and rubbed my eyes. Now the smoke was bending a full 180-degrees from where it had been before.

Dad said, "I don't know why it does that. Used to follow your Uncle Bert the same way. Could never figure it out. You might as well sit down. It's going to go where ever you go. Besides it keeps the bugs away."

I stood up and moved my log out of the smoke. Sat again. In a few minutes, the smoke was flowing all around me. Dad sighed and smiled.

"Stee-rike three. He's out and we're tied zero-zero here in the bottom of the first inning here in Anaheim."

I poked the fire with my stick. The smoke was drifting Dad's way now.

OK, Maybe I Was Wrong

Sometimes you get lucky. My last post whined about having to get our car repaired and being sure that things would go badly -- well, actually I laid out how things had already gone badly and predicting more of the same.

Reality however was modestly different.

Insurance-approved car repair facility, Rainbow Car Repairs, called on Monday. A day sooner than I'd really expected. They said, "It will take a week to get you an estimate if you want to take the car to the shop nearest your house." (They have two shops, I find out.)

"Can't do a week. Selling car. Moving. What's Plan C?" I ask.

"The problem is we have no drivers to come get your car. If you could drive it there, then we could estimate it today and get the repairs started."

"Fabulous ...," I start.

"... but we don't have any loaner cars to give you."

"Have to have loaner car. Can't do a week. Selling car. Moving. What's Plan D?" I ask.

"If you bring it to our other shop, we have a loaner car we can give you."

"Where's your shop."

"Farnborough. Where are you?"

"Camberley," I answer.

"Ten minutes away," says she.

"See you in ten minutes," says I.

Just as a quick check, I Google Rainbow. Among customer comments about shop, "Slow. Never done when they say. Never call you; you always have to follow up yourself." I put into my head the appropriate set of expectations for what I'm going to find and head toward shop. Thanks to Fiona, my ever patient sat-nav, I go easily to the shop ... more like five minutes away than ten, actually. That's a miracle when it comes to UK driving.

Waiting for receptionist to come back from lunch, I hear an American accent talking to another waiting customer, "Long commute. Hour each way. Beautiful place. Hot though."

"Where are you from?" I ask.

He answers, "Houston, Texas."

I say, "Oh, my land, I'm moving there in two weeks."

He says, "Want to buy a house?"

"Tell me about it."

"Conroe, Texas. 3400 square feet. In River-something country club. Lake near by. Good golf course. Built home myself in 2001. [Yada. Yada. Yada.] $295,000."

Email addresses are exchanged. Hands are shaked (shaken?).

By then the receptionist is back. Shows me my loaner car. Dark blue VW Polo POS, but OK for what I need it for. Golf clubs will (apparently) fit in back. I sign pieces of paper that say, short of direct asteroid impact, any thing bad happens to the car, I have to pay.

Estimator comes out, looks at my car. "Hummm."

I say, "Selling car. Moving. Got to hurry."

He says, "Depends on parts. How about early next week." That's about a week better than I was expecting.

I'm off in my POS with suitable expectations, but, for now, maybe, possibly, I'm going to scrape by. Stay tuned.

... and Then They Got Worse

Yesterday I wrote about accident with car: dented and scraped paint off passenger side door. Wife now has similar scratches where I hit her with the axe ... except hers are red on white instead of vice versa. She's recovering nicely but keeps complaining how the chains hurt her ankles and how dark it is in the closet.

This morning we drove car to nearby repair place, Autodex. They had handled fixing the ding I'd put on the rear bumper last month. Nice guy there: Estimator Alex. Took excellent care of Wife on Saturday. Actually walked to our house on Saturday to give preliminary estimate on car. Helped calm Wife down to reasonable extent too: she didn't jump out of our 3rd floor window, which was good. No fun beating a dead horse, as they say. Saturday he'd guessed £800 damage. OK, bearable. We probably wouldn't turn that into insurance company because we have £500 deductible. By the way, you won't be far off by multiplying every number in this post by two to get value in US Dollars.

Today though, at his shop, he does full computerized estimate; £1400. Gulp. Wife is now very white. I say, "Sorry. Gotta take this to insurance." He says, "OK, let me know when they'll have their adjuster look at it."

We go home, get organized, call our insurance company. We're told: (A) Yes, you can take it to Autodex, and (1) we won't warranty that service, (2) you won't get a rental car, (3) we can't have our adjuster look at it until next week because he's based at our facility, not theirs.

So I ask,"What's plan B?"

Answer: we'll call you either today or tomorrow with an appointment time at our contracted repair facility 20 miles (that's 40 minutes) from where you live; you bring it there at the appointed time; then we'll estimate it and then we'll see when we can fit you in to actually do the repairs.

We fly toward US in three weeks and I have to have the car sold before then, so, I'm caught between a rock and a bigger rock. I have to say yes to the guy.

I'm pretty sure this won't turn out well.

More House Moving Woes

My daddy always said, "Nothin's ever easy." I'm pretty sure he was an optimist. He also used to say when things were darkest, "Oh, don't worry. Things go along like this for a while, and then ... they get worse." Of course, he also would come out with, "Things are never so bad they couldn't be worse."

Everything he used to say applies to moving house. Here's a report from recent days:

My new supervisor hadn't used the correct form to communicate to my company's US HR department that I'd accepted her job offer. So nothing happened at that end until, hopefully, last week when the form got submitted.

Of course, that form just mobilizes a bunch of vendors to do the actual work.

One vendor does nothing except compute how much money I'm going to get for the move. I should get money for a house hunting trip (which we're not actually doing); interim living expenses for lodging and per diem for food etc in the new location before we select and move into a new house; closing costs for a new house, if we buy one; help selling our house here (if we had one). It's not completely obvious to me how they compute all this, but maybe next week they'll be kind enough to let me know so we can figure out a budget for this thing. Used to be you just turned in receipts and they paid you. Now evidently they tell you what they think it should cost and you have to live with it.

Also my company will mobilize a realtor to help us with house-hunting -- or helping us find a place to rent. Will be nice to get that person's name. I'm anxious about what we'll find in Houston. The prices look fabulous, but you know what they say: location, location, location. I'm worried that all the places that look so good are (a) in a flood plain; (b) twenty minutes from downtown on the weekends and two hours during rush hour; (c) directly under the flight path from Bush Int'l Airport; (d) next to the busiest street in the area. All those are "don't think about showing us" factors in our list of requirements.

On this end packers and movers are lined up for second week of August. Our landlord's inspection date is scheduled for after we're all moved out and had the place cleaned. Turns out there's ANOTHER vendor (UK this time) that does nothing but attend these checkout sessions and battle with the landlord on how much security deposit he's allowed to keep. I won't mind having someone help me with that.

The UK relocation firm sent me a nice email saying they'd take care of cancelling electricity, gas, water. They also warned that UK utilities are notorious for messing up all such service close-outs and that we could expect to be getting bills months after the move. (Since we pay by direct debit out of our UK bank account ... good luck, guys, because those debit instructions go away when I do.) I sent our relocation guy all the account info, addresses, etc for the utility companies.

The UK reloc guy also gave me a nice list of other things to cancel. That's where my headaches started this morning.

Post Office (Royal Mail): website - redirect your mail to overseas location -- $100 PER PERSON for six months! Grrr. But, what else yah gonna do? So I go through the website. Grinding of teeth #1: "Building Number" is a required field for 'send to' address. No such thing in US. My office building number in US is now "0". Grinding #2: pay-by-credit-card screen won't take AmEx. Takes MasterCard. Grinding #3: I enter correct information ( I swear to god) three times. Three times told information incorrect. Fourth time told: "You'll have to do this by mail or go to post office. We value your security and you fouled up three times." Or words to that affect. OK, I'll print the form and go to office down the street on Monday. Grinding teeth #4 or maybe #8, I lost count: Nope, printer is out of ink.

OK, move to Sky satellite TV vendor. Try to login to website. Won't accept userid. Note to myself dated July 2006 in document in which I keep all password and userid info: "F'd up site. Had to recreate userid." Looks like it happened again. But unable to even create new userid this time because it doesn't believe me when I tell it what bank account I'm paying them from.

OK, move to AOL for broadband and long distance telephone service. Can't shut that off online. Must call them.

OK, move to British Telecoms for telephone line. Can't shut that off online. Must call them.

OK, move to TV License (Unbelievably I have to PAY British government more than $250per year to have a color TV in my house. Apparently they use that to fund British Broadcasting Company (BBC) programming. Sort of like PBS in the US with a forced tax to pay for it. Only in UK.) Oh, any you can't cancel that online. Must fill out a form this time. Can't do that, printer still out of ink.

Now getting to the real meat of why I'm so frustrated. We have to sell our beautiful red over ivory Jaguar X-Type 3.0L Sport car. I scratched the heck out of the back bumper in June, but we got that repaired while we were in US. Then, yesterday, on her first solo trip in the car after receiving her UK driving license, Wife scrapes all the paint off the passenger side door trying to park the car. Hard to sell a car like that. I would've killed Wife, but she was suicidal anyway and I figured she might spare me the effort if I was patient, but no such luck, ... and I've calmed down (slightly) now.

I'll never move again, if I get through this without killing myself or someone else first. But then, things are never so bad they couldn't be worse ... as I'll probably find out tomorrow.

Big Fish and Shooting Stars

Dad reached in with both hands to pull the catfish out of the dip net. We were standing well up on the sandbar -- feet away from the water's edge -- and escape for our prize.

"What a fish. I haven't caught one like that on a bank pole in years. He must weigh six or seven pounds. Wow." The normally taciturn old man was virtually quivering with excitement. "Look. He's lost all the whiskers on one side."

Suddenly the fish whipped its thick body and Dad nearly dropped him. "What the heck are we going to do with this guy? Give me the stringer and let's see what we can do."

I handed him the stringer with the other fish on it. He took the smaller one off and strung on the prize, then put the small one back on. "OK, let's go see what else we've got. Won't be as big as this one, I bet. Here you take him. For pete'sake don't lose him."

I tied the free end of the stringer to my belt loop. Dad gave it a tug and nodded. Then I wrapped a couple turns of the line around my hand and tried to lift the fish. It was so long I could hardly get it up off the ground. I grabbed the line with both hands and carefully walked to the water and lowered him in. In my light I could see him sullenly shaking his his head slowly from side to side. Then he turned toward deep water and lazily pulled me away from the bank. I let him pull until the water reached my waist.

Dad was beside me again. "OK, I think we're re-organized. I put the biggest minnow I could find on the hook. Maybe we'll get another one."

So we continued running the lines -- checking, re-baiting, taking off fish when we found them. Nothing as exciting as the lunker that I could feel tugging on my belt loop.

When we'd checked the last pole, Dad scanned the bank with his light. "Now where the heck was that path we made?" Finding it he turned to me, "Looks like it's going to take two trips. I'll carry the bucket and stuff up first then you can hand me up the fish."

I untied the stringer from my belt as he clambered up the bank with the bucket in one hand. Looking up I saw his light and then his hand appeared above me. "Just hand me the end of the stringer. Don't worry about lifting them all the way up." I climbed up as far as I could and passed him the end of the line. The fish seemed to levitate up into the weeds above me. "OK, your turn." I climbed up the bank until I could reach his hand and then it was my turn to be pulled up.

"You take the bucket. I'll take the rest," he said turning away from the river through the nettles. I followed, using the minnow bucket to knock plants out of the way. We started to follow the dirt track back to our camp.

"Turn out your light," he said. "I always love this."

I turned out my light just as he turned out his. We were plunged into black. I couldn't even see the road any more. The corn to our left was a silhouette against the lighter black of the sky. Then I saw them. More stars than I'd ever seen to that time. In fact more stars than I'd ever see again until decades later in the sand dunes of the Egyptian desert. There in Illinois that night, it was like no sky I'd ever seen. The river valley focused the starlight like a telescope. The Milky Way seemed as though someone had swung a paintbrush of white paint across the center of the sky. Could you read by starlight alone? I wondered. The constellations stood out in sharp relief. There wasn't even a moon to dim the spectacle.

"Wow. That's a bright one." I said pointing.

"Must be a planet. Maybe Venus? The stars twinkle and the planets don't, I think. The only stars I know are the Big Dipper and how to find the North Star. Just follow the ends of the Dipper from bottom to top. The next bright star you see is the North Star -- always points north." I followed his pointing finger.

"Not very bright," I said.

"Nope, but when you're lost it's bright enough. Ho!"

Just then a light streaked across the sky -- a shooting star. "Your grandma used to say, 'Someone just died' when she'd see one of those."

"Really?"

"Nah. ... Well, sure, actually, someone's always dying somewhere. And someone's always being born. That's just the way it is. It's a cycle. No one gets out of this world alive. You just live and do the best you can do. Eventually you die, and someone else takes over." He looked at me.

Many years later when it was time for his shooting star, I held his hand in a hospital room watching him die. I remembered standing under that glorious sky with the stars and planets looking down on us. It helped.

But that was a long time in my future. We stood for a while in silence waiting for another shooting star, but none came. I was secretly glad. We walked to camp with our lights off.

WIWAB - Where's the Pole?

Dad came toward me with the fish in the net. I was grinning too. He lay the pole on the sand, and pulled the catfish from the net by the stout fishing line.

"What'd I tell you? Hooked 'im right through the eye. I've never figured out why, but that's the way it always is."

In the shine of our lights, I saw it was true: the point of the hook poked out just under the left eye of the fish. I winced. He reached in the fish's mouth and worked the hook out with a twist of his hand.

"Not great, but OK. Maybe the big ones are further downstream. Where's the stringer?"

I fished in my jeans pocket and pulled it out, handing it to him. He pushed the sharp end through the center of the fish's lower jaw where it was weakest and then pushed that end though the metal ring on the other end of the line, securing the fish in the loop. He handed the stringer back to me.

"Don't lose him. Keep him in the water if you can."

He opened the minnow bucket and pulled out a crawfish. "Big ones like crawdads."

He closed the lid of the bucket, and handed it to me. He then walked back across the current, replacing the pole. I followed him across until the water reached my crotch. Far enough. He was right: the water felt warmer -- up to that point. The fish trailed on the stringer behind me, tied to my belt loop. I turned right and followed Dad with my light downstream.

He checked several more poles. Some needed bait, some not. We crossed the shallow part where the river turned. He headed back to deep water again, to our right this time.

"Hey. Look at that. We got another one." Bing ... Bing ... Bing. The red, this time, reflector on the pole jerked up and down in our light.

"I think that's your set. Why don't you go get him? Here's the net."

My set. A fish. I couldn't believe it.

"How do I do it?"

"Just go on out. I'll show you." So I headed toward the red bungee-jumping firefly across the stream. The water was pretty shallow. Over my crotch, but I didn't notice.

"Loop the dip net over your head. Don't want to lose it."

I put the loop of cord over my head so the dip net hung under my right arm like a briefcase.

"Quiet now. Don't spook him, otherwise he could pull the hook out."

Bing. I saw the pole move. I was within arms length.

"Take the net in your right hand and reach for the line with your left. He doesn't look that big. Pull up on the line until you feel him."

I took the handle of the net in one hand and pulled up on the line with the other. The line lifted easily then got heavier.

"Move him to the net; don't move the net to him. Don't scoop him. Don't hurry. We've got all night."

I pushed the net deep in the water and tried to pull the line over it.

"When he's over it, just lift up the net."

And I did. Flopping in our lights: my first catfish caught on a bank pole.

"How big is he?" Dad asked. "Oh, maybe not quite a pound." as the light shone on the greenish-silver side of the fish.

He was right. This was a baby. Hardly bigger than some of the minnows in our bucket. Just then the line went slack in my hand. The fish dropped to the bottom of the net.

"Wow. We hardly hooked him at all. Didn't get him in the eye, did we? What do you say we let him go? Be darn careful getting him out. The barbs on these little ones are like needles. Keeps the big ones from eating them."

I dropped the line back in the water and changed the net to my left hand. The fish lay quietly in the bottom.

"Grab him so so your thumb and second finger go in front of his barbs on the side. That'll put his top fin between your fingers."

I eyed the fish. I reached in putting my fingers where he'd told me. Sure enough the dorsal fin fit right between by first two fingers. I pulled him out, twisting my hand when his barbs caught on the netting. I held him up in my light.

"Go back and get your grand-daddy." Dad said to the fish as I lowered my prize into the water and opened my hand. For a brief instant, the catfish stayed there in my palm -- unsure what was happening. Then with a burst from his tail, he disappeared downward. As I turned, Dad was holding out the minnow bucket. I baited my pole and dropped the line back in the water. Grand-daddy, I thought.

"OK. Where's the next one?" And we started walking downstream.

"Wasn't there one right here?" he asked, scanning the water ahead of us with his light. "Hoops. There it is." as his light found the white reflection. But as we watched, the reflected light slowly, inexorably disappeared below the water. I blinked. Had we seen a pole or not? We stopped. Slowly, first under the water and then fighting its way above it, the white tape appeared again in our lights.

"Better give me the net, boy. This one's a monster. The little ones just jerk up and down. The big ones pull it down and keep it down. They even try to pull pole and all out of the bank."

I unlooped the net from around my neck and passed it to him. He handed me the minnow bucket, and tightened the suspenders holding up his waders. He eyed the pole a few feet from us and started walking toward it. The whole pole, except the 12" or so nearest the bank, slowly disappeared again under the water. Dad stopped. In a few seconds the pole reluctantly reappeared, though the tip still stayed an inch or two under. We could make out the reflecting tape shining weakly up through the river water in our lights. He reached for the center of the pole, found it, and twisted the pole free from the bank. He held it like a real fishing rod now, using both hands. Just then the pole bent in his hands. "Whoa, nellie," he said. The stout bamboo bent further.

"I can't do a thing with him. Got to get this ol' boy on the bank. Let's walk toward the shallows."

But instead he walked downstream staying in the current. The fish was pulling him along. Eventually though he gained the upper hand and slowly shuffled toward the sandbar on our left. When the fish began to pull again, Dad just stopped and let him fight the bend in the pole. We finally got to knee-deep water.

"OK. You take the net, boy. Hold it right on the bottom and let me see if I can maneuver this old beggar over it. When I tell you just lift straight up. Got it?"

I carefully took the net from him, pulling the cord over his head and off, then I bent over, kneeling in the water flowing past us. I pushed the rim of the net right onto the rocky bottom. Dad took the pole by the middle with one hand and held the line near the tip with the other. The fish strained toward deep water. Time stopped. Then, as if by magic, the fish swam right over the net.

"Now, boy. Up!"

I stood nearly straight and then had to stop. I couldn't lift the fish that lay in the net. Or at least partially in the net. He was so big his tail hung over the top.

"Sweet, Jesus. Bobby. Look at that lunker!" my dad shouted. I just stared.

WIWAB - Running Lines In the Dark

We drove into the clearing under the trees from the dirt track and turned off the car's headlights. It was as though a giant had stuffed us in a black sack. The moon had not risen. Under the trees, not even starlight helped to light our way. Only four or five farm houses dotted the river valley and the closest of those was nearly a mile away. We couldn't even see the glow of their yard lights. The hills all around the river bottom blocked the light from the few small towns nearby. It was a place as free from light pollution as you could find where we lived.

Dad reached in the back seat and pulled out our two head-lamps. "Ready to see if we've caught any fish?" I took the light from his hand and groped for the switch to turn it on.

As he opened the door to get out, even the tiny dome light dazzled me briefly. I climbed out. I hooked the battery pack to the waistband of my jeans. A wire ran from there up to the light itself. I pulled the elastic band around my head -- fixing the padded back of the light against my forehead. As I turned my head the light shined on what ever I was facing.

"Better get into your jeans, then we'll get going," he said as he tugged off his shoes and forced one leg into his waders.

Jeans? Those wet jeans hanging on the bush? "I'll wear these."

"Nope, then you won't have anything dry to put on when you get back. Come on, get moving. Let's go see what we've got."

"Can't I wear these? Those other ones are freezing."

"Come on. When I was a boy we didn't even have a second pair to put on when we got back. We just had to be wet all night. Darn cold, I'll tell you. Just put 'em on. You'll warm them up pretty quick."

I swung my head toward the bush and the light shown on the dark jeans laying there. They even looked cold. I walked over and jerked them off the bush. I started to stomp off behind the car to change.

"You can change right here. You ain't got nothing I ain't got. And we've both seen it all." I could hear him smiling.

I unzipped the dry jeans and started to pull them off. I hesitated. I'd forgotten that my underwear was hanging on the bush too. Dad was looking away at something on the river. I stripped off my jeans and quickly jumped into the wet ones. They felt like slimy ice for the first few seconds, but then, he was right: not so bad.

"I don't know why, but you'll feel warmer once you get in the water," he said looking back my way again now. "Grab the stringer. Now where'd I put the dip net? You need any bug spray?"

Just as he said that I slapped something on my arm and when I took my hand away there was a spot of blood the size of a quarter.

"Yup, mosquito just got me. I'm swelling up already," I told him.

"OK, here you go. Spray all your skin, but don't spray your face. Just spray it on your hand and rub your face. You'll get it in your eyes otherwise. Don't forget your ears."

I did like he said. I could still hear the bugs buzzing around me, but mostly they weren't landing.

"It'll be better down on the water. No breeze under these trees. Let's go."

We scrambled down the bank onto the sandbar and walked toward the minnow buckets in the river to our left. He scanned across the river with his light. "Ho! Look at that. We got one there. Look at that pole going."

In his light the white reflective tape on the end of one of the poles was jerking up and down like a conductor leading an orchestra playing in the dark. It would stop for a few seconds then bing-bing-bing jerk up and down three or four inches. Then stop again. Then bing-bing-bing. I couldn't really see the pole. Only the reflection of the tape, like a lightening bug caught on a bungee cord.

"It's not very big, but it's a fish. Let's get the minnows and get over there before he tears the hook out of his mouth."

We lifted the bucket from the river and immediately turned toward the pole. But where was it? In turning away we'd lost track of it. We each shone our lights on the far bank. We'd pick out the reflections from the tips of three or four poles, but none were moving. "Looks like he got off," Dad said. "Oh, well." And he started across the river toward the first pole we could see.

"What should I do?" I asked.

"Stay dry for now. It's a little deep here. You can help with the next set. Nothing on this one. Bait's still on." he reported from the first pole. "Here too." from the second. "No bait on this third one though. Let's see if we can find a nice big minnow for this one."

He baited that line then glided downstream toward the next pole. Suddenly: bing-bing-bing.

"He's still on. He's still on." I shouted from the sandbar -- my light shining across the river. "I see him. I see him."

Dad slipped the dip net from where it hung from its cord around his neck. He quietly slid toward the pole. It went bing-bing again. He grabbed the line dangling from the pole with his left hand and lowered the dip net into the water with his right then slowly pulled up on the line. He slid the net deep in the water, trying to get under the fish -- nearly sloshing water over the top of his waders as he bent over. Then he lifted up.

"Not big, but a keeper. Probably 'pound - pound and a half'." That was a code phrase for: I actually have no idea how much this weighs, but it's not huge, and I'm still happy. I saw the fish in the net, flashing in the light of his head-lamp. He pulled the pole from the bank and waded toward me the pole in one hand and the net in the other. I could see him grinning even in the dark.

A Good Weekend

After a busy week at work I was ready for a quiet weekend. I didn't get one and it was OK.

Friday we had dinner with my wife's driving instructor, Cheryl, and her boyfriend Andy. We ate at our favorite restaurant in Ascot: Mikado. It's Chinese / Thai. Good pot stickers; they call them dumplings. Usually good, friendly service. This night though we struggled with service people who learned English as a second language. All the appetisers and main courses showed up OK. Dessert delivery was all wrong, but mostly we didn't care by that point and we all ate what we received.

Memo to self: sometimes Asian service people think that what your finger is on top of is what you want, not what is visible ABOVE your finger. I seem to remember that from my travels, but hadn't run into it in a long time ... until Friday.

Wife Lara had just passed her UK driving license practical test on 24 June before we went to US. It was a major accomplishment. Driving in the UK is tough and their testing system is really tough. Lara passed on her fourth try. She'd not driven much, hardly at all actually, before starting lessons here. She insisted on learning with a manual gear box, which made passing the test more than twice as difficult in my opinion. But she persevered and received her offical UK driving license in the post when we returned to UK last week. Cheryl had shown extreme patience and really supported Lara through the weeks long ordeal. I think both women were equally happy when Lara passed.

So, Lara and Cheryl split a bottle of wine then moved on to Lemoncellos ... the second ones complementary from the house. Andy and I were designated drivers and we had a good time watching the other two. Lara kept saying, "I'll drive you golf tomorrow, so I'll have the car." I kept saying, "Right."

We got home at not too an unreasonable hour, and I was up and moving to get ready for golf at about 7:00am. From under the covers there came the softest of snoring. If I'd've bet on whether she was going to be mobile in time to take me to golf, I'd've won.

So I played golf at "my" course (Pine Ridge GC) that I've been playing at nearly every weekend since I arrived in UK six years ago. Only one person from our posse showed up that day, Collin. No worries, we played the first hole, reached the second and the group there let us play through, reached the third and two nice guys let us play with them to make a foursome. I played badly on the first and the ninth holes, but managed to hit six of seven fairways. Good for anyone. Our mate Paul showed up to play the back nine with us, so we let our two new friends go on ahead and finished out the round as a three-some. Paul played great and I'm not letting him join late any more. I managed to win the overall against Collin and broke even on our $3 bets we have every week.

I went home and as usual had the best sleep of the week on the couch for the rest of the afternoon.

About 6:30pm Lara pushes me and I get ready to go to the dinner dance we'd booked back at the golf club. We sat with the guy, Roger, who'd originally invited me to join his golf crew back when I first arrived. His wife Anne was there and two of their friends, John and Mary. Roger and Anne had just returned from a riverboat cruise up the Danube. It must have been good. They talked about it more than any of their previous excursions. The four of them are heading to Tuscany in Italy in August. The fun just never stops.

After a pretty reasonable dinner (for a change ... the food's not always been great at the club functions), a band kicked off playing light jazz. I liked them a lot and Lara and I danced chacha and salsa when ever we could convince ourselves the beat was even remotely Latin. We hung out until about 11pm and then headed home.

Sunday was pretty lazy. I got up and spent two hours getting the Jaguar advertised at an online car sale website, www.autotrader.co.uk. Our computer was doing some sort of security check that I couldn't find or figure out how to kill. It would let me type for 15 seconds then lock up for 20 seconds. I'm surprised I didn't wake up sleeping beauty with my swearing at the machine. Lara got up about noon saying she'd not slept before dawn because of the horrible snoring coming from my side of the room. It couldn't have been me. I stayed awake all night one night listening and can tell you I don't snore at all.

Later a trip to the grocery store with Lara driving and then out to the driving range to hit a bucket of balls about rounded out the activities for the day. I don't know when it happened, but a thank you card from Cheryl/Andy was tucked under our windshield wiper when we came down to the car. Must have brought us luck: Lara did well on both her driving (car) and on her driving (golf).

Lara cooked her world famous pork fillets with brown rice and baked apples for dinner. We watched "Wild, Wild West" with Will Smith on TV. And that was the weekend.

A good time was had by all.

WIWAB - Harry's

Back at our camp I slid down the bank and walked to where the wire live-net held our two fish. I pulled up the cord. My fish lay on the bottom, mouth opening and closing. The smaller one gave out sullen "Croak", and flipped back and forth across the top of the larger one. I let go the cord and the net sank back in the river.

Dad stood beside me. "They OK?" I nodded. He said, "Go wash some of the dirt off you in the river. I'll give you a boost up the bank when you're ready. You can change clothes and we'll head to town."

Washing off the dirt to me meant taking a swim. So I did. I waded out as far as I could then ducked under and swam a couple strokes toward the poles on the far bank. Then I paddled back and walked up on the gravel. I shivered a little. It was getting pretty dark. At the bank Dad was waiting. He reached out his hand for me and 'hooked' me up onto the high ground.

"Peel off those wet clothes. Here's a towel. Get dried off. Change into your dry stuff. I'll get the fire ready for tonight."

I dried off while I walked to the car. My dry jeans, t-shirt, and a sweatshirt were in the backseat. I hid behind the car door and stripped off my shoes, jeans, and shirt. It felt strange to be standing in nothing but underwear out in the open. Then it dawned on me I didn't have a dry pair of underwear to put on. That was a dilemma: put on dry jeans over the wet shorts or go without? It felt really strange, but I stripped off the wet Jockeys and quickly pulled on the dry jeans. T-shirt came next and I was cool enough to put on the sweatshirt too. I stuffed my feet in my 'good' running shoes, and I was ready.

"What do I do with the wet stuff?" I called out.

"Bring 'em here. I'll hang 'em on a branch."

So I gathered up my dripping clothes and carried them over. I already felt better for being in dry gear. Dad had pulled off his waders and stood in his jeans too. He wrung out as much water as he could and lay my clothes over a bush.

"Man, I'm hungry," he said. "A 'burger or two sounds great, doesn't it."

I nodded.

"What do you think? Shall we go back home or go to Harry's? Harry's is a little closer, and I'm pretty hungry."

I said, "We always go to Harry's."

"OK, Harry's it is," he said, knowing that there really was no other answer.

We got in the car and drove out of the clearing back onto the dirt track next to the river. The car's headlights made a surreal tunnel as we drove the narrow road between the corn on our right and the nettles on our left. Eventually we made it to the main gravel road and turned right out of the gate guarding the field. The gravel road led to an asphalt highway. In 20 minutes we pulled into the small town of Deer Creek. On our right a neon sign flashed Harry's Bar.

We parked in front without a problem. The single main street was mostly deserted. A couple pickup trucks were parked near the bar.

Harry's had no windows and the single small window in the door was blacked out. Dad pulled open the door and waved me in. I gulped and walked in. Maybe ten men sat around the bar to my left or in booths that lined the wall to my right. The air was a haze of cigarette smoke. A jukebox at the far end played country and western music. All eyes turned toward me as I walked in, decided I was no threat and not interesting in any other way, and went back to staring at their glasses of beer or whiskey. One of the booths was empty -- right under the mural. Dad brushed past me and walked toward it.

"Glad to see they haven't changed the decor," he said. He slid into the booth facing the door. I slid in across from him, trying not to stare at the picture mounted on the wall to my right.

"Dance of the Amazons. Ain't it a master piece?" he said with a grin. I sheepishly looked at the painting: bare-breasted Amazons danced around a blazing fire. Sinister, dark jungle lurked just outside the light. I could hear the drums beating, the fire crackling, the chanting of the men sitting in a circle surrounding the dancing women. My introduction to the world of men. I knew I shouldn't look, but I wanted to look. But, Dad was looking, and smiling. So I looked, and smiled. Breasts. Pretty cool. You could look and it was OK. "It's just art. Nothing to be ashamed of," Dad said. "Not good art. In fact, really bad art. But, it does tell a story."

The bartender came over to take our order. I quickly looked at the table of our booth. Dozens of names, numbers, phrases were carved or written on the top.

"Bring us a schooner of beer and a schooner of Coke," Dad said. "We'll order food after you bring that."

The bartender nodded and headed back toward the bar. Dad pulled a couple of menus from behind the glass jar of sugar next to the wall. "Havin' the usual?", he asked.

I pretended to look at the menu but already knew what we both were having. He'd get a cheeseburger and fries. I'd get two cheeseburgers and fries. The bartender came back with our drinks and that's just what we ordered.

"Want to wash your hands?" Dad asked.

"Nah. I washed in the river," I answered.

"Yeah, me too. But I have to use the toilet." He stood up and walked to the restrooms in the rear.

I turned and looked at the painting. Breasts. Legs. Breasts. Short grass skirts. Breasts.

Still engrossed in the artwork, I jumped when he slid back into his seat.

"I decided not to wash my hands. Cheeseburgers just wouldn't be the same without a little crawfish slime as seasoning."

Knowing he was lying, I nodded and said, "Yes, but even that's not good unless mixed with nightcrawler slime."

"And minnow scales, of course."

"Mud doesn't hurt either."

"You need the bathroom before the food comes?" he asked.

"Yeah, maybe," I answered and slid out of the booth. I washed my hands when I was done.

When I got back, the food was waiting. Dad ordered another beer and I had a second cola. We ate like we were starving. Dad walked up to the bar to pay when we were done and came back with four candy bars. "I thought something sweet sounded good," he said giving me two Snickers bars. "Let's eat one now and save one to celebrate if we get any fish."

I pulled open the wrapper and took a bite, stuffing the second one in my jeans pocket.

"Ready? Let's go see how many fish we caught."

We walked out the door and jumped in the car. For some reason the ride back to our camp seemed twice as long as the ride to the bar.

The Joys of Moving House - part 1 of ...

Since returning to UK from US last week ... has it only been a week? ... my focus has been on all the chores involved in getting us moved to Houston. I'm already wringing my hands in dispair.

Not much had gone on while we were away, despite the fact that I'd accepted the job before we left for US in late June. When I got back on seat, I started calling people to see where we stood.

I started with UK relocation firm. The analyst I'd been dealing with had left the company while we were gone and so I was working with someone new -- nice guy. Happy to take my call. Yes, he had the requisite paperwork, he thought, from my company to get things kicked off. I asked what sort of schedule he was putting together so we could be in Houston on August 1. He said, "Oh, August 1. OK." With that illustrious start in a few minutes of conversation we backed into a schedule that said:

4 Aug - Report to work in Houston
3-2 Aug - House hunt in Houston
1 Aug - Fly to Houston
31 July - Have final inspection with UK Landlord
30 July - Have UK apartment professionally cleaned
29 July - Movers load UK household
28 July - Movers pack UK household

Sounded right to me. RelocGuy would call MovingGuy and get things started. MovingGuy tuned out to be MovingGal. Nice person. Happy to call me. Probably can't do house on 29 July. She'll send surveyor to check out our place and let us know.

I let my new Houston boss know that I'll be on seat Aug 4. RelocGuy lets Landlord know he can inspect on 31 July.

SurveyGuy shows up 15 minutes AHEAD of schedule at house yesterday. Nice guy. Happy to talk with us. Gave us booklet that included customs forms. Said we can't take food or alcohol into US. "No food?" says I. "No food," says he. "Could contain anthrax."

OK, I guess, we will be eating lots of canned food for the next few days. And plenty of various cocktails drinking up a cabinet full of booze we've got. And three bottles of 1998 and earlier vintage California Napa wines. I hope they're not vinegar.

MovingGal calls later that afternoon. They can't get to us until 5 August -- a week and a day later than I'd tentatively planned. Teeth grinding from my end of phone, but what can you do?

I write to god and everyone giving new dates -- all the dates a week and a day later than those listed above except for start date which is just a week later - 11 Aug.

Then MovingGal calls back saying they can start on 4 August. I don't know whether to grind teeth or not. It is, after all, an improvement. I let Landlord know we'll move inspection up a day, but sort of hold a secret from everyone else.

Current schedule, but don't tell anyone, is

Pack and Load: 4-5 Aug
Clean and Inspect: 6-7 Aug
Fly to US: 8 Aug
House hunt: 9-10 Aug
Report to work: 11 Aug

While all this is going on, the US HR person calls. Nice person. Happy to call me. USHRGal says she can't kick things off in US because she's not officially received word that I've actually been transferred.

"OK," says I, "who do you need to hear from?"

She says, "Your new boss."

I say, "Can I just forward her offer letter and my acceptance?"

"[Pause]Hmm. [Longer pause] OK."

So I get on the stick and do that.

Next major item: sell the car. Anyone want to buy a 2001 (Y-reg -- that's British thing) Jaguar X-Type 3.0Litre Sport in red with full-leather ivory interior? Only 46,000 miles. Of course, Internet is the way to do it, but that means pictures and pictures mean a clean car. So, last night I'm home from work and out doing the clean and polish job. Jeez, that car looks great when you clean and wax it. Especially if I do it myself. I just haven't had a chance because all it seems to do is rain here. Last night, though, was a window of opportunity. I got it washed. I put some wax on. I did a Grade-B job of cleaning the interior. ( I didn't have any leather cleaner.) Then out came the camera and just before the sun went down, I got some publicity pictures.


I started to write ad today. (Wish my father were here.) Chickened out when it got to part about giving email address. It gets published to the world and I want one I can shut off after the dust clears 'cause you KNOW how much spam THAT'S going to attract.

So, we'll save that for tonight.

And then there's all the work stuff to get done ...

I'm never moving again.

WIWAB - Runnin' the Lines

Our fish were now safely stuffed in a wire live-net suspended by a strong cord from a convenient branch and hanging down into the water. I couldn't stop pulling up the net and looking at my fish laying in the bottom - so big it had to curl in a half-circle to fit in the net.

I heard from the sandbar behind me, "Let's see if we've got anything. Let's go run the lines, then we'll go eat. How many minnows are in that bucket we used?"

Dropping the live-net back in the water, I ran to the buckets sitting in the river, lifted out one of the liners, and snapped open the top. Silvery minnows wriggled and jumped in the bottom. I tried to count. "I dunno. Looks like maybe 15 or 20. There's a few crawdads too."

"Great. That's plenty. Put some water in the bucket, push the liner in, and let's go. I've got the dip net and stringer."

We could see some of the poles just across the river. "Give me the bucket. I'll go check the lines. Doesn't look like anything's on here."

He waded out to the poles, lifting the line on each one to see if the bait was still on. "They're not even taking the bait. Well, it's early yet. And, these aren't the best sets: not much cover."

"Can I help?"

"Not right now. Just walk along the shore." He moved downstream easily with the current, lifting the lines on the poles as he went.

After checking several of the poles: "Hey, bait's gone here. That's a good sign. I'm going to try a crawdad. Come on out here and I'll show you how to do it." I rushed to wade out to him. The water was nearly to my chest when I reached him. I fought the current that wanted to take my feet from under me.

"I took the claws off before we put them in the bucket so you don't have to worry about getting pinched -- and the minnows in the bucket don't have to worry either. Hold the crawdad like this, hook him in the mouth, through the body, out the back, and let the tail curl around the bend of the hook. See? Holds 'em really well and they look natural in the water."

He let the baited hook plop back in the water. We waded to the next pole. "This is really good. Bait's gone here too. You try hooking up one."

I gulped, felt around in the bottom of the bucket while he held it and found the hard shell of a crawfish. I pulled him out, his eight legs beating against my hand, and Dad handed me the hook. In the mouth, through the body, out the back, curl of the tail -- done. "Perfect. Should get one here tonight." I grinned.

And so it went. I helped when the water was shallow enough. Mostly the baits were still on. We didn't have any fish.

"No problem. They usually don't start biting until after sundown. And these poles haven't really been out that long." We'd reached the tall bank he'd scouted earlier. "Let me go up first then you come," he said. Up the bank like a mountain goat he went, his waders making a slapping sound and the thick soled boots digging steps into the dark, dry soil.

From above I heard, "OK. It's steep, but you can make it, I think. Come on up."

I started up the near vertical dirt bank, trying to use the steps he'd dug. They were farther apart than my legs could reach easily, but I managed to get half way then my food slipped and I slid all the way back to the bottom.

"You OK there, boy?"

"Yeah."

"Take your time. Just get near the top and I'll give you a boost the last little bit."

I started up again. Got past where I'd slipped before but then realized the bank actually had an overhang at the top. I didn't know how I was going to make it past that to the top. Then a hand and arm appeared.

"Make your hand a hook and link it to mine." His fingers were tight together and curled toward his palms. I made mine the same and linked our two hooks together. In an instant I was airborne then standing with him at the top of the bank.

"Good job. Any idea which way to the road?"

We were standing at the edge of a patch of nettles. Each plant was at least 7-feet tall. I rubbed my cheek where I'd been stung earlier and looked around.

"This way, I think. Let me go first," he said. "I'll knock a way through. I've got the waders. Just don't let any of the leaves slap you." He started away from the river using his boots to press down the stalks of the nettle plants at their base -- forming a path. I followed putting my feet on the stalks that wanted to rise back up. He'd missed some and I tried to push those down too, but often they were so thick I couldn't bend them. I just tried to avoid the leaves. I could hear him crunching through the plants ahead of me. "This'll get easier every time we do it. Don't worry. How yah doin'?"

"OK."

"Almost out, I think."

And the next thing I knew we were standing on the dirt track that we had driven in on. The river was hidden by the nettles to our right. Corn stretched away down both sides of the track to our left -- leaves rustling in the light breeze. Everything was in shadow now. I had goosebumps on my arms.

"Good timing. It'll be dark soon. Let's get cleaned up and go eat."

He set off down the road toward our camp, kicking up little puffs of dust with each step. I looked at my muddy shirt, jeans and shoes. I'd surely need some cleaning up. But it had been a good day. I decided I'd look at my fish once more before we left. I hurried down the track after him.

WIWAB - Hidey Hole

We walked downstream back toward our camp. At the last bend before reaching what I now thought of as "our" sandbar, he stopped. "Let's try once more where I caught that other one. Wade out in the shallows here. See if you can find the channel."

I'd been walking in the water pulling the fish on the stringer behind me -- keeping him alive. Now Dad took the stringer from me and handed me my rod, a worm already dangling from the hook.

"Feel where the current gets strongest," he said. The water was only to my knees, but I sensed a change in the current as I walked toward the far side with my rod. "When you feel it, start walking downstream as far as you can."

I did and felt the bottom change from sand to pebbles to larger stones as the current washed away the finer particles. I was in the channel. With one step the water came to my thighs, in two more it was at my waist. I felt forward with my foot and the bottom continued to slope away in front of me.

"That's good enough. Now make a short cast. Let the worm bounce along the bottom and run up under that brush pile."

In front of me, branches over hung the water, almost touching the surface. The sun was going down and it was even darker under the trees. I could make out the pile of brush that had collected among the roots of the trees on the bank. The water swirled and eddied there. I pushed the button on my spin-casting reel and flipped the worm a few feet in front of me. The line tumbled off the reel as the current swept it toward the brush. I could feel the worm and sinker bouncing across the rocks on the bottom.

"OK. Stop it right there for a minute." I turned the handle on the reel. The line tightened. It moved back and forth in the current.

"Good job, boy. Right in their hidey hole."
-------------------
Laying under the bank where the water had hollowed out a depression, the fish felt a vibration in its black whiskers different than background movement of the current flowing by. Dully his mind came more awake. His whiskers were stubby and shorter now from constantly probing along the bottom for food. His tail and fins were rounded - even the spines were no longer sharp. But no matter, he was too big to be eaten by other fish now. His mouth and head were scarred from craw fish claws, fish spines, and bites from other catfish during mating time.

Then one of the whiskers sensed a microscopic piece of worm on the current. Food. He swung his head and felt several more scent bits along his whiskers. Instinctively his tail flexed and he moved out from under the bank, moving toward where the scent was strongest. Again he felt a vibration. And then his whiskers touched something soft, near the bottom floating in the current. Scent told him it was a worm. The soft thing moved and twitched. The fish's mouth gaped suddenly wide and the influx of water sucked the worm into it's throat. Something hard there too, though. Not right. The fish opened its mouth wide and tried to turn away. The hard thing caught on its bony lip. The fish snapped its mouth closed trying to crush the thing. He felt it turn in his mouth. No pain. Now the worm was down its throat and the fish swallowed -- satisfied. It relaxed its body, stopped fighting the current, and started to drift back downstream to the depression under the bank. But he wasn't drifting back as he should.
----------------------------
"I think I'm hung up again." I said, pulling up on the rod and watching it bend.

"I don't think so.", he said. "Just give it a minute, reel in tight, then pull up hard as you can ... but don't harelip him."

"Huh?"

"Don't pull the hook right out of his mouth."

"I think I'm hung up." and I reeled in until the line was tight. Then I pulled up hard on the rod. The line jerked tight and then slowly began to move toward the far shore near the brush.

"You got one, boy."

"I got one. I got one. I got one. What do I do? What do I do?"

"Just keep the line tight. Keep your rod tip up. Keep it up. Reel him in when you can."

I cranked hard on the reel and pulled the rod tip even higher. The rod bent and the line started to sing.

"Easy. Eeeeeasy. Don't horse him."

"What?"

"Don't horse him. Just keep the pressure on and reel when you can." He lay his arm load of fishing gear and the stringer with the fish on the sandbar to my left then walked out to where I was standing. He was holding the dip net. "That's it. Just keep the rod bent. Now lower it a little but don't lose the bend. Now reel then pull up again. Great. He's coming. Keep it up."

I pulled and reeled and little by little the angle the line made with the water got less. He was coming to us. I pulled, lowered, reeled.
-----------------
The fish was confused. It dimly remembered this happening before. The pressure on its jaw. The way its head would turn one way then be pulled back the other. Then he saw it. Something strange in the water like the legs of a huge heron. Instinct took over. He snapped his tail and turned hard across the current towards the deep water.
--------------------
Suddenly the line began to rip off the spool. The reel went zeeeee as the line poured off and the fish headed across the stream. I had to lower the rod tip. The pull was too much for me.

"Keep that rod tip up, boy. He'll tire. Keep the tip up. I hope he doesn't make it to the brush. He'll break our line for sure."

I put the butt of the rod in my stomach and pulled the rod up with both hands.

"That's it, boy. That's it. Oh, it's a good one. Look at him go."

Now the fish was at the far bank and racing downstream. With the current to help him the line went off the reel even faster. Then the fish reached the shallows at the far end of the pool. It turned.

"Reel. Reel. Reel. He's coming back. Keep the bend in the rod."

I let go of the rod with my right hand and used it to furiously crank the handle of the reel, taking back the line I'd lost. The fish stopped near the brush pile.

"Pull, boy. Pull or he'll get under that brush and that'll be it. Pull. Smooth and steady. Pull. Let's walk toward the shallows if we can."

I did as he instructed. The fish gained a few more feet toward the bank then stopped. The line moved slowly side to side as though the fish were shaking his head. A slow pull to the left then a slow pull to the right. I couldn't move him.

"It's a good one. Only the big ones do that. They put their feet in the mud and you can't do a thing with them. You're doing great."

For the briefest moment I thought: Feet in the mud? Fish? I pulled up again. This time I moved him. I reeled again. Slowly I pulled him toward the shallows at our feet. He came within sight this time. Visible under the brownish water. Brown himself, but also green and silver with a flash of white as he turned his head. But with that one glimpse he was off again, heading toward the far bank. The line zipped off the reel again. I pulled and waited and reeled and pulled and waited.

What seemed like hours later, he was at our feet again.

"I'll lower the net and you guide him in." He wet the dip net in the water and then kneeled and lowered the hoop until it was nearly on the bottom. With one last pull I moved the fish over the net and Dad stood up. Flopping and twisting in the net was the biggest fish I'd ever seen.

A Little Problem at Airport Security

I love the people at TSA security. They do such a great job protecting flights at US airports. They are professional, courteous, quick, friendly, conscientious. They execute their procedures flawlessly. They are responsible for having increased the travel safety for all of us in this post-9/11 world.

You see what I'm trying to do, of course. I'm sure a governmental computer will flag this post. I just want them to know that I'm sorry for my past mistakes and I promise never to do them again. I will never say bad words about security when I am at an airport. I promise that I won't grimace at their procedures while I'm standing in line. In Dog Whisperer terms, I shall be calm-submissive.

We flew from a regional US airport on Saturday on our way to a major hub to catch our trans-Atlantic flight. Check-in was quick and courteous. We arrived in plenty of time and had a nice chat over drinks at the restaurant until boarding time. We could see from the restaurant the security line was completely empty. No need to rush. The airport has six gates total -- 30 second walk to any gate after passing the security procedures.

We waltzed up to the checkpoint, as both of us have done dozens of times before at airports all over the world.

I try to brazen my way through security with my shoes on. I find the single most irritating part of current security procedures is having to take off my shoes. No chair to sit in to take them off, no chair to sit in to put them back on. Dirty floors. Stone-Face on the other side of the metal detector takes my ticket and says,"You'll have to go back, sir. Take your shoes off and place them in a container on the belt."

I grimace, grind my teeth, pout, frown, and after putting my shoes on the belt, I glare at Stone-Face and say, "Do you EVER find anything in shoes?"

For the record, my saying that was a mistake. I'm sorry I did it. I didn't mean it. The voice in my head, that normally TELLS me to do bad things, this time says, "You idiot. You said that out loud."

Then the fun began.

At least ten security people are on duty. This in an airport that probably only gets 60 passengers in an hour at peak. I'm guessing 'training exercise', but I don't have any evidence for that.

While my shoes are making their x-ray trip, the security people make me wait next to the belt and decide to frisk Wife even though she doesn't ding in the metal detector. Something about "airline has selected you". She's very cooperative. Smiling. Chatting with them. All this does is to make the contrast to me panting and showing my teeth even greater.

When they've finished with Wife, they wave me through the metal detector and thankfully not a peep. But, my passport then needs secondary checking.

The voice says, "See."

Security has become very interested our bags. My bag goes through x-ray twice. They open Wife's bag and purse. They pull everything out, swab everything and run it through the detectors. I'm pacing just beyond security, hackles raised. Growling under my breath, "I've never seen such a thing. Who's going to hijack a plane from this airport? There's nothing within 200 miles to fly it into."

My small voice just sighs. Maybe I didn't actually say it under my breath, I'm not sure.

While they are pawing through her things, we're called for our flight. That's the first time I've ever been paged for being late at an airport. Being late for a flight is a recurring nightmare of mine. This is real. My heartrate goes up another notch.

Shoes on, passport safely back in my pocket, clutching boarding pass and carry-on, I rush to the gate and tell the attendant while looking over my shoulder to see if Wife's escaped: "I'm here and my wife's coming. She's hung up at security."

Attendant: "Final boarding. You need to get on board."

Me: "My wife's hung up at security. I'll wait for her."

Attendant, curling her lip: "I need you to get on board. I'm not going to leave her."

Me: "I'm not going to leave her either or I'll be a dead man. And it's your airline that caused the problem."

Not-so-small voice in my head: "You f***ing IDIOT. You did it again."

Some three-minutes-feeling-like-an-hour later, Wife comes bustling up the corridor. We board without further problem.

We arrive home after 11 more hours of travel -- all incident free. When we open our check-in suitcases we find both have been ransacked. A nice pre-printed card inside each bag from the security people says, "Your bag was selected for security procedures. Yada Yada Yada." They tossed her bag pretty good. Mine they put back in relatively reasonable order. I know what the cards in the bags really meant though: "We know who you are. We know where you live. Don't let us hear you talking nasty about us ever again."

I understand. I'm really sorry. I promise. Please read this post and believe me. If I had a tail I'd lay on my back, wag it, and show you my neck.

I love the people at TSA security ... the ones that do such a great job protecting flights at US airports. They are professional, courteous, quick, friendly, conscientious. They execute their procedures flawlessly and are responsible for having increased our safety in this post-9/11 world.

WIWAB - Definition of Patience

"I lost my worm."
....."Here's the bucket. Fish one out. Put the hook right through his nose."

"My line's in a tree; can you help?"
....."Wade out as far as you can. Walk upstream and pull. If that doesn't work, walk downstream and pull."

"I lost my worm."
....."Here's the bucket. You can do it."

"I'm stuck. Can you get it loose."
....."Wade out as far as you can. If you can't get it loose, walk upstream and pull. If that doesn't work, walk downstream and pull."

"It's still stuck."
"Ok. Let's see what we can do." [Short pause.] "Here you go."

"I lost my worm."
....."Here's the bucket. We've got lots of night crawlers."

"My line's tangled."
....."Don't pull it tight. Just keep picking and pulling."

"My line's tangled again."
....."Let me take a look." [Short pause] "Here you go."

"I lost my worm."
....."The bucket's right here."

"I'm tired fishing."
....."OK, I'll make a few more casts and then we'll go run the lines."

"I see minnows."
"What's this green stuff?"
"Can I climb up the bank?"
"There's a turtle."
"I see racoon tracks."
"What's this rock?"
"What makes these tracks."
"Have you caught anything?"

...."OK, let's go run the lines."

You can go home

I'm spending the week at my mother's house in Illinois. It's on a lake -- beautiful setting especially this year. With all the rain everything is emerald green.

I didn't grow up here. That was in another much smaller house on the other side of town. Still, this one feels like home too -- after 35 years. My days here have been great and taken on a restful pattern that's going to be hard to let go on Saturday when we have to fly back to UK. I'd originally written "home to the UK", but then realized that (a) it doesn't feel like home (even though that's where my stuff is) and (b) even if it did, it wouldn't feel like that for long because we're moving back to US.

I've been getting up early here -- unusual for me. Probably caused by six hours jet lag. And "early" is a relative term. Earlier than my mom and wife is what I really mean, but no earlier than 6:30am and today it was 8:00am. Still, for me, early.

I pull on yesterday's shorts and tee-shirt. Slap barefooted down the driveway to pull the newspaper from the box. Come back and push the button to start the coffee brewing. Mom's always prepared everything the night before. Aren't moms great? How do they do that? Then I slide open the door to go out and sit in a chair on the upper deck eating a cinnamon roll and drinking a glass of OJ while I read the paper. It's been wonderfully cool in the mornings, too cool some mornings. The sun's been out and it's so quiet!

Birds are singing. A wren's made a nest in the birdhouse hanging under the deck. I love her song, impossible to imitate. Always reminds me of my grandparents' house. A "jenny wren", as my grandfather called her, used to perch on his hat when he worked in the garden. A wren's not much bigger than your thumb. When her babies finally fly out they seem the size of big bumble bees. And you only get to see them once if you're lucky. The big blue heron flew down the lake at sunset last night. He's at the other end of the bird spectrum. You have to look twice to make sure you're not seeing an airplane if he's just gliding along. The cardinals have a distinctive call, and the doves, of course. Now in July the Canada goose babies are as big as their parents. The only thing funnier than watching them learn to fly is watching them learn to land.

Mom's cat, George, likes nothing better than to sit at the door and look at this bird channel outside. Viewing is better in the winter, though, when the leaves are gone and the bird feeders are out.

Yesterday a big groundhog lumbered across the backyard. Looked like a stubby legged barrel. Fun to see but not good to have around ... industrial strength tunnellers and hungry plant eaters. From the size of him someones garden has been taking a real hit.

Last night driving home from eating out, we saw a deer standing in the meadow next to the road at the entrance to the subdivision. In all my years it's the first time I've seen one here. Mom says current record is seeing eight in her back yard one time. Also not good to have around if you like nice gardens, but with all the cornfields near by, I guess they have better things to eat than marigolds and petunias.

I caught a couple fish in the lake: the village idiot and his slightly less intelligent younger brother. Large mouth bass. Fun to catch. I showed off the bigger one to my wife, carrying it dripping through the house into the bedroom, just as my dad would've done. Her reaction? Not "Well done" as I might have hoped, no. She says, "Put it back. It's still alive. Put it back. Eeee. Put it back." Well, of course. I just wanted my pat on the head.

We played golf yesterday. Mom smacks that ball at age 87 with her new Cleveland driver -- arrow straight, which I consider unfair. Wife is just learning: as un-straight as Mom is straight, but wife just hits it a mile. We were having a great time right up to the point it started raining and I heard a clap of thunder. That did it; we were in. I was shooting one of my better rounds of golf, but I'm a baby when it comes to lightning. Yes, the odds of getting hit are small, but the penalty for getting hit outweighs it by so much that I just hoof it when I hear thunder.

After newspaper and coffee in the morning, I sit here at the computer and try to write my few dozen words. Soon Wife and Mom will be up and the day will start in earnest.

And this is home. And why am I leaving? I don't know. Maybe I won't.