The Florida Dock

Something from the tackle box:

       Leave your country, your family, and your relatives and go to the land that I will show you.  I will bless you and make your descendants into a great nation.  You will become famous and be a blessing to others.  (Genesis 12:1-2 CEV)

       When my youngest child, and only daughter, graduated from college, she and her boyfriend/future husband, along with their Boston Terrier, decided to move away from the cold environs of Michigan and make a life for themselves in the Sunshine State of Florida.  She did not like snow and ice and cold, and when you’re just starting out you might as well start out in a place that you like.  While her mother and I were not overly enthusiastic about our daughter’s plans to move so far away, to say the least, we did acquiesce gracefully, remembering what it had been like to be young adults striking out on our own once upon a time.

       Andrea, Chad, and Brody the dog, all bumped around doing things in the Tampa Bay area for a while, and then ended up settling down further south when Chad took a job with the Marriott Hotel on Marco Island.  It wasn’t long before my daughter took a job with the rival Hilton Hotel, just a few blocks down the street from where her beau worked.  In fact, they eventually both ended up holding the position of Recreation and Activities Director for their respective resorts.  They were doing just fine. 

the dock from the apartment

       Of course, even with decent jobs, they couldn’t afford to live right on Marco Island.  Even the simplest of housing accommodations on the Island proper are out of the price range that most working stiffs can afford.  So they got a very small and somewhat rundown duplex apartment, over the bridge and a couple of miles up the coastline, in a community called the Isles of Capri.  It was still expensive, but doable on two incomes.  And, small though it was, the place did have some nice features, including a bit of back yard and a dock on one of the Gulf channel that ran right behind their duplex. 

the apartment from the dock

       This was my daughter’s situation in life when, after a couple of years of being apart from her, my wife and I decided to drive down in our well used Subaru, which we planned to leave in our daughter’s possession before flying home.  The financial stresses of starting out in life in such a high cost-of-living neighborhood made the parental gift of even a clunky, old-timers car (which the Subaru was) a much appreciated gesture from the youngster’s point of view.  It was to be a very amicable visit.  And I would get to do some fishing!

the skipper and first mate

       While the kid’s work schedules wouldn’t allow us to spend all of our time together, we did have one day for all of us to take one outing.  In honor of my presence, it was decided that we would rent a pontoon boat and spend the better part of a day cruising and fishing in the extensive channel waters that crisscross the whole coastline around Marco Island.  It was a wonderful way to spend the day, and while the fishing wasn’t gangbusters, I did catch my first Florida fish, a Caravelle Jack. 

my caravelle jack

       I knew the fish I caught was a Caravelle Jack because, having spent the money for a one-week non-resident Florida fishing license, I figured that the few dollars extra for the nice fold-out guide to Fishes of Florida’s Gulf Coast would be money well spent.  While I was only able to look up that one fish on our pontoon boat ride that day, the guide would come in very handy later on.  For the most part, on that first outing, Kathy and I just enjoyed the warm sun, the beautiful water, and the good company of the kids on the boat.  It was a day to be remembered. 

a happy smile

       My real Florida fishing adventure would come the next day, on my own, fishing right off the daughter’s dock.  Chad had to work the next day, and Andrea and her mom decided to take off with Brody in tow and do some “girl” stuff.  That left me alone for the day with a fishing rod, a bucked of live shrimp, and my own private dock to fish the channel waters from without leaving my daughter’s back yard.  I couldn’t think of a better way to spend the time. 

       Once I had all of my tackle rigged up, I set up my lawn chair on the dock and got down to it.  Chad had told me that I would be able to catch a number of species of fish right off the dock, and probably wouldn’t have much trouble doing it, some would even be pretty good to eat, if I wanted to clean them.  As we had plans to all go out to dinner together that night, I told him I would just be doing catch-and-release fishing that day, but I had my guide and would make a report on the number and species of the fish I managed to land.  I honestly didn’t think it would be as fast paced as it turned out to be.

a look to the left

       Once set up on the end of the dock, the first aquatic wildlife spotted was a giant manatee lazily swimming past on her way up the channel.  She was so close that I could have reached out and touched her with my rod tip, by way of saying hello, had I wanted to.  I just took it as a very good omen, and let her pass undisturbed by my advances. 

       The fishing was easy that day.  You just put a live shrimp on a hook, cast it out as far as you can, let is sink for a few seconds, then slowly reel it back in.  If something is there with a mind to eat your shrimp, you will get a bite, and I got a lot of bites, one after another.  In fact, it seemed more likely to pull in a fish than to recast the same shrimp for a second time.  I lost count of the number of fish I caught, and the only reason I didn’t catch more is because I had run through the whole bucket of shrimp that I was using for bait and had to quit.

a look to the right

       While I lost count of the number of fish that I unhooked and tossed back into the channel that day, I did make note of all the different species I landed.  I caught Grey Snapper and Lane Snapper.  I brought in more Carevelle Jacks, like the one I’d caught the day before.  I landed a Red Drum and some Sand Sea Trout.  I caught some Pinfish, Pigfish, and a Sheepshead.  I landed a Common Snook.  I caught several small Barracuda (be careful getting the hook out of their mouth).  I even had several crabs grab my bait and let themselves be hauled to within a foot of the surface before letting go to sink back to the channel floor.  But the fish that was, by far, the most fun to catch, is a skinny little silver thing called the Ladyfish. 

the little ladyfish

       I learned that nobody eats Ladyfish (there’s not that much meat on them to start with and what’s there really isn’t all that tasty) but, for above the surface acrobatics, I’ve never had a Michigan bass or trout put on a show anywhere near as exciting.  These little fish, that only average about a foot long, will rocket themselves a good six feet into the air when fighting a tight line.  On a sunny day, it looks like you’ve hooked into a launched bottle rocket with a polished mirror surface.  It is just spectacular.  Good eating or not, I could spend all day catching Ladyfish on light tackle, and I’d be happy in the doing of it. 

       Well, that was my one and only Florida fishing adventure.  We went out to dinner that night and ate shrimp with the youngsters!  The irony of spending ten times what my whole bucket of bait had cost, for just our four plates of shrimp, did not go unnoticed.  But it was very good.  The next day, Andrea drove mom and I to the airport in the car that we were leaving behind for her to use, and we flew on home.  My fishing would again be done on the lakes and cold-water streams of my beloved Michigan.  And while I still think that pan-fried bluegills are every bit as good as any Florida fish I’ve eaten, and that catching a Michigan brown, rainbow, or brookie on a #3 weight fly-line is as worthy a pursuit as an angler can undertake, I wouldn’t mind trying to catch some more of those Ladyfish, on that same #3 weight fly-line, if I got the chance to do it – someday. 

Something to take home in your creel:

       The way things work out can be funny.  The Promised Land was good, and a good place to be for Chad and Andi, while they were called to be there. But callings can change.  A couple of years after the adventure I’ve just described, Chad felt that he needed to return to Michigan and enter the Michigan State Police Academy.  It was a calling.  My daughter, who loves Florida, loves Chad more, and so she came back to be with him upon his graduation from the Academy as a trooper. 

       My son-in-law is now a Michigan State Police trooper working in the Metro Area division.  It’s dangerous work, and we all worry about him, but it is what he was meant to do, and he’s good at it, so we try not to worry too much – most of the time.

       My daughter and her State Trooper now own a nice home in Waterford Township, just a two-hour drive for Kathy and I to go and visit them now.  Go figure.  Brody is still with them, although getting a little long in the tooth, and they’ve gotten a younger Boston terrier, named Mulder, to keep him company.  They are all very happy together, and so are Kathy and I.  And now they come to fish with me on my dock.

Pig Wart Pollywogs

Something from the tackle box:

       Can you catch a sea monster by using a fishhook?  Can you tie its mouth shut with a rope?  Can it be led around buy a ring in its nose or a hook in its jaw?  Will it beg for mercy?  Will it surrender as a slave for life?  Can it be tied by the leg like a pet bird for little girls?  Is it ever chopped up and its pieces bargained for in the fish-market?  Can it be killed with harpoons or spears?  Wrestle it just once – that will be the end.  Merely a glimpse of this monster makes all courage melt.  (Job 41:1-9 CEV)

       I have written a number of stories featuring my grandparents on my Mother’s side of the family, Delmer and Thelma Carr.  These are the grandparents who originally bought a cottage on Long Lake, in Cheboygan County, back when I was a senior in High School.  They bought it to be the place where they would enjoy the warmer months of their semi-retirement, and eventual full-retirement, from farming their homestead on the eastern edge of Ingham County, near the town of Dansville.  This cottage is the same place that I now own, and which is the setting for so many of my fishing stories, both fictional and autobiographical (or some combination of those two).

       I love my place on Long Lake.  It is my spiritual homestead, my safe haven, the place that I always want to be when I’m not there, and the place where I’m always happy to be when I am.  As I enter my own senior citizen years, I fully expect that it will become my own year-round home once I retire from my post as the pastor of the small church downstate, in the town of Lake Odessa, where I currently spend most of my days.  I will forever be grateful to my Grandpa and Grandma Carr for buying the place on the Lake that I love so much. 

       However, despite its use as the setting for so many of my stories, Long Lake plays no part in the actual history of my own childhood years before the age of seventeen or so.  I’d heard of it through conversations with my Grandpa and Grandma, who would go up there to visit their friends and neighbors who did own cottages on Long Lake, but I never dreamed that they would buy a summer home of their own that I could come and visit, and eventually inherit.  But they did, bless their souls, partly to indulge my Grandpa Delmer’s own deep love for hunting and fishing, that passion which I seem to have inherited as completely as I’ve inherited the cottage. 

       Now, eastern Ingham County, where the Carr farm was located, has some great farmland, and my grandparents owned a couple of hundred acres of it.  It was a wonderful place to grow up hunting for ring-necked pheasants with my Grandpa, working the extensive fields and fencerows of the farm behind one of his German shorthair retrievers.  But when it came to fishing, the old homestead couldn’t have been in a much worse part of the whole state of Michigan for it. 

        Aside from a little pot-hole lake about three miles away, off the dirt road behind the Millville store, there wasn’t any fishing that didn’t involve making a big trip out of it.  That was something a responsible hog farmer, like my Grandpa, couldn’t often arrange to do when his two daughters, their husbands, and all of his grandkids, came to share dinner and a day on the farm, which we did just about every other weekend throughout my entire childhood.  You could spend all of the time you wanted spooking up rabbits and birds from lanes and woodlots of the Carr farm, but fishing around there was a much rarer experience.  That being said, there was a place for aquatic childhood adventure right on the farm, a place that we grand kids all called, “the Pig Wart.”

       The Pig Wart was located on the vacant lot immediately to the east of my Grandparent’s farmhouse.  It was a fenced in pen, about five acres in area, which had a substantial depression in the center which collected runoff and drain water from the surrounding farmlands, which were basically as flat as a pancake in any direction you looked.  A lot of water came into that depression. 

       The proper name for the lot was probably, ‘the Hog Ward,’ as my Grandpa did sometimes let a few brood sows, or other Hogs that needed to be kept out of the feeding pens in the main barn, have the run of this securely fenced-in lot.  Having heard the penned-in lot being called, “the Hog Ward,” one of the first grandchildren probably morphed that name into, “the Pig Wart,” which caught the fancy of everyone.  Even my professional farming Grandfather called that place, “the Pig Wart,” as far back as I can remember, and none of us mid-to-late arriving grandchildren ever knew it by any other name.   

       The Pig Wart Pond, which the depression in the middle of the Pig Wart formed from the drain water it collected, could be substantial.  It might be as big as a couple of acres in area in a wet year, and it hardly ever completely dried out, except in the late summer or autumn of a very dry year.  The constant moisture of the Pig Wart pond caused the center of the lot to be the home for a grove of a hundred or more poplar trees, growing up around the edges of the wet area.  In a very wet year the pond would swell to a size that would flood the bases of the poplar trees, giving the whole the appearance of a floating forest, like one saw in movies set in the swamps of Louisiana, or the jungle forests along the Amazon river.  It was a wilderness area ripe for childhood adventure, and all within easy hearing of the shouts of, “Come wash up, it’s time for dinner,” that would come from the farmhouse.  

       In the spring, when the water was at its highest, you could often pole yourself around in the boat if you liked.  The boat was just an old mixing trough, about three feet wide by four feet long and a foot deep, that my brother Joe and cousin Ned had hauled down to the water’s edge for the express purpose of Pig Wart Pond navigation.  You couldn’t stand up in it, but you could kneel or sit while you poled yourself from tree to tree.  The problem was that the trough leaked enough that sopping wet pants were usually the result of even the shortest excursions, and attempts to cross the pond might result in wading back to shore dragging the boat behind you.  Needing to hose off in the yard, before coming into change into dry cloths, was not unheard of.

       As interesting as all of these facts are, they are not germane to the fishing adventure I wish to relate today, other than as background information.  This is the story of what happened, as best as I can recollect it:

       The water in that shallow depression we called our Pig Wart Pond never got more than two or three feet deep, even in a wet year, so it would freeze right to the bottom in the wintertime, that is if it hadn’t dried right out in the fall of a drought year.  This meant that it would not sustain a population of even the smallest of actual fish.  But, being wet most of the time, it did sustain a population of various frogs and other amphibians. Which meant that, at certain times of the year, the waters were alive with fish of a sort, as a myriad of pollywogs and tadpoles swam around on their way to becoming frogs, newts and other swamp critters.  These were always fun to fool around with and fish for as a child. 

       I’m not sure how old I was when we decided that we wanted to keep the pollywogs we’d caught in the Pig Wart Pond that morning.  My oldest cousin, David, was still interested in poking around the Pig Wart with his younger siblings and cousins, which means that he couldn’t have been older than about thirteen, at most, making me about ten, and my younger brother, sister, and cousin, Joe, Joy and Ned, were all between seven and nine.  That sounds about right.

       We’d caught some pollywogs with an old flour sifter that we’d found in one of the sheds on the farm, and we had them swimming around in a feed bucket from the hog barn.  When we got called in to clean up for dinner, David said that we should just dump our catch, or leave them here in the bucket for now, if we wanted to come back and catch more later on, after dinner.  He then headed up to the farmhouse. 

       Joy was for dumping them out now, so they could swim free while we had our dinner. (My sister, a future veterinarian, was a wildlife rights advocate from earliest childhood.)  Anyway, we could always catch and release them again later, if we really wanted to.  Expressing this opinion, she then headed up to the house.

       Ned and Joe thought that they might each like to take a few pollywogs home in a jar.  I said that I thought we could probably get Grandma to let us have a couple of lidded jars for that purpose.  We could bring them down to the Pig Wart and fill them from the bucket after dinner, if we wanted, but maybe it would be better to take the bucket with us up to the house.  Then we could show our catch to Debbie and Susie, who might want to take a few pollywogs home in a jar too.  And that’s what we decided to do.

       Coming up near the back door of the house, we were spotted by Grandpa, who was just coming in for dinner after taking care of some quick chores in the hog barn.

       “Hey you kids,” He said to us, on his way in the back door, “I wondered what happened to my new feed bucket.  Don’t be taking that down to the Pig Wart to play with.  Go hang it back up on the nail where you found it, and leave it there.  Use that old leaky bucket, over by the shed door, for fooling around with.”

       Well, those instructions put us in a quandary.  We couldn’t pour our catch into a leaky bucket, because the water would leak out and our pollywogs would die before we had a chance to show them off to Ned’s sisters, let alone get them jarred up to take home later on. 

       “What do we do now?” asked Ned.

       “I’ve got an Idea,” I said, “You and Joe go in through the kitchen, and then on into the dinning room where everyone is getting ready for dinner.  I’ll go in the back way, up through the spare room.  If I can get around the corner of the living room to the staircase without being noticed, I’ll run our pollywogs up to the upstairs bathroom.  I’ll put a little water in the bathtub and put them there.  Then I’ll come back out the way I came in and run to the barn to put the bucket away, like we were told to.  After dinner we can get our jars and divvy the pollywogs up, and show them to Susie and Debbie too.”

       Surprisingly, I was able to make it around the corner in the living room with the bucket, and then on into the stairwell, without being noticed.  I ran a little water in the old upstairs bathtub and put the pollywogs in, making sure that the rubber stopper was firmly seated in the drain, before going back down and running Grandpa’s good bucket back out to the hog barn.  I ran back to the house from the barn, coming in by way of the kitchen, to wash up like everyone else had.  I was pretty confident that this would all work out just fine. 

       At the dinner table, the subject of taking pollywogs home in jars was brought up.  My aunt Liz and uncle Phil told Ned that he would NOT be bringing any pollywogs home from the farm, for any reason.  There was no place to put and keep them alive once they got back to Grand Ledge.  My parents told my brother Joe that he would NOT be taking any pollywogs home, either.  We had plenty of pollywogs of our own, just a short walk back to Brumm’s Pond from our house.  There was no need to transport Ingham County pollywogs back to Barry County.  In any event, added my Grandmother, she would not be donating any of her canning jars or lids for any such foolish notions in the first place, so we could set our hearts at rest, no pollywogs would be leaving the Pig Wart.  Except, of course, I knew that some already had. 

       Ned and Joe seemed to accept the imposed verdict with no qualms whatsoever.  They hadn’t taken any pollywogs upstairs, or even seen them swimming in the bathtub up there.  Their consciences were clear, and I don’t think either of them gave any of it another thought after that.  But I sure did.

      What could I do?  With dinner over, all of the adults moved into the living room for after-dinner drinks and conversation.  There was no way I could sneak back up the staircase with a bucket now without being seen.  To transport the little squigglers back to the Pig Wart would require full disclosure of my own culpability in the affair, and I didn’t have what it took to do that, so I just kept my mouth shut. 

       Amazingly, no one went upstairs to use the bathroom again that afternoon.  Or, if they did, they didn’t look into the bathtub against the south wall, which would be hard not to do if you were sitting on the stool.  In any event, no one said anything to me about the captive juvenile amphibians living up there. 

       In a little while uncle Phil and aunt Liz loaded David, Susie, Debbie, Ned, and little Amy, into their car for the half hour trip back to Grand Ledge.  My Mom and Dad got Joy, Joe and I, loaded up for the hour’s ride back to Nashville soon thereafter.  I tried not to think about the pollywogs that I’d left in the bathtub too much on the ride home that night, or later on, trying to go to sleep.  By the next day I was doing pretty good at not thinking about them much at all.  By the time we all went back to the Carr farm, a couple of weeks later, I’d pretty much put the whole escapade out of mind all together. 

       My Grandpa and Grandma hadn’t. 

                                                                          Something to take home in your creel: 

 

       I’m pretty sure that my parents knew what topics of discussion would come up on our next trip out to the farmstead.  I’m pretty sure that it had all been discussed over the phone, well before hand.  No one individual was punished, or even verbally reprimanded, over the pollywogs found in the bathtub the evening of our last visit, after we had left and my Grandpa decided he would take a quick bath before bed time.  It was just made very, VERY clear, that all living critters, be they pollywogs, insects, baby birds, or even new kittens found in the hayloft, should ALL be left right where we had found them.  They wisdom of this new edict, as presented to us all, seemed reasonable enough to me, as well as to everyone else, and we all readily agreed to it. 

The Big Blow Up

Something from the tackle box:

       That evening, Jesus said to his disciples, “Let’s cross to the east side.”  So they left the crowd, and his disciples started across the lake with him in the boat.  Some other boats followed along.  Suddenly a windstorm struck the lake.  Waves started splashing into the boat, and it was about to sink.

       Jesus was in the back of the boat with his head on a pillow, and he was asleep.  His disciples woke him and said, “Teacher, don’t you care that we’re about to drown?”

       Jesus got up and ordered the wind and the waves to be quiet.  The wind stopped, and everything was calm.

       Jesus asked his disciples, “Why were you afraid?  Don’t you have any faith?”

(Mark 4:35-40 CEV)

       Grandpa Otis and little Joey had gone out early in the morning, before sunrise, because grandpa had wanted to get to the far end of the lake, two and a half miles away, before first light.  There was a hole there, just sixty yards due south of the dense clump of cattails that jutted into the lake from the swamp.  Grandpa Otis had never fished that hole himself, but the nice young man who lived next door had told him that the perch would bite there in the first light of day if you fished right down near the bottom.  When it came to fishing for panfish, the nice young man knew the lake better than anyone else Grandpa knew.  The nice young man had also been Grandpa’s next-door neighbor on the lake since the day he was born, so Grandpa trusted the tip as the result of many years of genuine good-neighborliness between their families.  Grandma Otis sure loved perch. 

       At six years old, little Joey was spending a whole week with Grandpa and Grandma on the lake.  His parents and two teenaged brothers were roughing it on a wilderness fishing trip to a remote lake in Western Ontario, and he wasn’t quite big enough for that sort of adventure just yet.  That was OK.  This was his third day at the Lake with Grandpa and Grandma, and his third trip out to fish with Grandpa, or with anyone else for that matter. 

       For a brand new fisherman, little Joey was learning fast, and he liked it.  He liked it a lot.  He had been awake and ready to go when Grandpa had told him that it was “time to get up and at ‘em,” around five fifteen, but he hadn’t expected it to be quite so dark and drizzly as they puttered northwest on the lake this early in the morning. 

       There had been some thick fog on the lake when Grandpa had taken him out on Monday, but that had quickly burned off.  Joey’s first fish had been caught on a glorious sunshiny morning.  Yesterday they had slept in and goofed off in the morning, so Joey’s second outing was a late afternoon affair.  There had been a cool breeze, but the sun was out again, and a sweatshirt was all Joey had needed to stay comfortable on the lake.  This morning Grandpa had made him put on both his sweatshirt, and his fleece lined hooded windbreaker, before putting on his lifejacket and heading down to the dock.  By the time they were a few minutes out on the lake in the cold drizzle, he was glad he had them on. 

       “It’ll be another ten minutes or so until we get to our spot.  Are you OK, or do you want to turn back?” asked Grandpa.

       “I’m OK, Grandpa, keep going,” Joey replied.  But he was beginning to realize that fishing might not always be quite as comfortable as it had been on his first two tries.

       For his part, Grandpa Otis had watched the weather report before turning in the night before.  He had known that they could expect this drizzle, and maybe even some brief rain showers here and there, but he had fished in much worse and, if he was dressed for it, it would be good for Joey to experience a bit of rougher fishing.  It would give him a story on par with the ones his brothers would have for him.  Little did he know…

       After a fifteen-minute boat ride, Grandpa and Joey anchored in their spot at the far end of the lake around a quarter to six.  If it hadn’t been so overcast and drizzly they could have expected to see the sunlight coming through the treetops to the east in another ten minutes or so, but cold gray light was the best they could hope for this morning.  Pondering this fact, it dawned on Grandpa Otis that, drizzly overcast skies or not, it should be getting a bit lighter by now than it was.  That’s when they heard the first deep and long rumble, and saw the first flashes of light, coming from the dark skies off to the west of them. 

       “Well, best fishing buddy,” announced Grandpa Otis, “Sorry to head back in before we even get a worm wet, but that’s the way it is.  Fishing in a drizzle is one thing, but fishing in a thunderstorm is out of the question.  And it looks like that’s what we’re going to get, and real quick too.” 

       With the next flash of distant lightening, Grandpa could see that the treetops on the western shoreline were starting to wave back and forth a bit.  It was blowing up fast.  The lightening wouldn’t be on them before they could get back home, but the wind and rain certainly would be on them in a minute or two.  Grandpa Otis winched the anchor up as fast as he could crank, and then gave Joey a few instructions before firing up the Johnson.

       “Buddy, I’m going to be taking us back in a bit faster than you’ve gone in this boat before.  I want you to put your hood up and snap that top button under your chin to hold it on snug.  Then I want you to sit on this middle bench, facing me.  Hold on to the side of the boat with your right hand, tight.  Now hold on to the back edge of the bench with your other hand, tight.  That wind coming in is going to stir up some waves for us to go through on our way home, and it could get pretty bumpy, so hold on.  But even if it gets pretty bouncy, don’t worry.  I’ve been out on this lake in rough stuff before with this boat.  She can take it and get us back safe.  We are going to get pretty wet though!  Especially if we have to plow through choppy waves in this flat-bottomed johnboat, which it looks like we’re going to have to do from the way those treetops are acting.” 

       “OK, Grandpa,” replied Joey, as he set down and grabbed the gunwale and the seat edge as instructed.

       Grandpa started the engine and headed them southeast along the lee shoreline.  Even running the little ten-horse Johnson wide open, it would take a good ten minutes to make the run back to the house.  Maybe more if they had to fight a chop.  Which is exactly what they did have to do before they’d gone half a mile. 

       The spray from the johnboat’s bow smacking into the rising waves soon had Joey’s back, as well as Grandpa’s face, dripping wet.  Grandpa kept smiling at Joey with that wet face, and Joey responded in kind, but his Grandpa could tell that it was taking some effort for him to do it. 

       “Keep it up, best buddy,” shouted grandpa over the wind and engine noise.   “Another two minutes and we’ll be at Old Doc’s Cove.  If we have to, we can tie up at Doc Mallery’s place and take shelter there.  That old coot Doc will probably gripe about us waking him up so early, if we do it.  But, on the other hand, Mrs. Mallery will feed us her famous homemade coffee cake until it’s coming out of our ears!  Hot cocoa with marshmallows, too!  Wouldn’t you like that!”

       Grandpa’s wet faced joshing had brought just the hint of a genuine smile to Joey’s face, but it was short lived.  The first bump that was big enough bounce his little bottom off the seat, replaced the forced smile with a look of genuine panic in Joey’s eyes.  His grandpa could see that he was really scared now, and he knew that the big bumps would be coming every second or two now all the way back in.

       “I’ll admit that it’s a bit rougher than the penny-horse-ride at the Walmart, best buddy, but we’re OK,” said Grandpa.  “It would take a lot bigger waves than these to swamp this old boat, or your old Grandpa, for that matter. We’re over half way home now anyway.  I think we can pass up on Old Doc’s place and go right for your Grandma’s hot cocoa. You just hold on tight and pretend that you’re the best cowboy at the rodeo, pal.” 

       The next five minutes were might choppy.  If the truth is to be told, it was rougher than anything Grandpa Otis had ever driven that old boat through before.  But Grandpa knew that it wasn’t bad enough to sink them, and he kept smiling at Joey all the way.  And Joey, in between bounces, kept smiling right back at his Grandpa.  He didn’t like the bumpy ride one bit, but if he had to be the best cowboy at the rodeo to stay on this bronco all the way back to the cottage, he could do it, because his Grandpa believed in him, and told him so. 

       “OK, Joey.  We’re almost there.  One more minute and we’re home.  I can see Grandma standing at the picture window now.  She’s watching us come in with the binoculars.  She’s waving at us,” declared Grandpa.  This news was a huge relief to Joey’s troubled mind.

       Grandpa said, “I’m not going to try and tie up to the dock, best buddy.  It’s too rough for that.  I’m going to run the boat right up onto the sand beach our neighbors put in for their kids to play on.  When I tell you it’s OK, go right up over the front of the boat onto the shore, and then head straight for the cottage.  Grandma is already standing in the doorway, waiting for you.” 

       And that’s just what little Joey did. 

       By the time Grandpa Otis had gotten out of the boat, pulled the craft far enough up to keep it securely beached until the storm was over, and then made his way to the cottage as well, Grandma Otis had Joey in dry cloths and wrapped in a blanket in front of the fireplace, where a newly laid birch stick fire was just starting to crackle to life.

       “Well, best buddy,” said Grandpa, as he hung up his dripping wet coat and hat, and wiped his face with the fresh towel Grandma had just handed him, “You sure rode that one out like you was old Captain Ahab himself.  For nautical adventures to tell about, I guess even that riming Ancient Mariner has got nothing over on you, for the likes of it!”

       Little Joey had no idea of what Grandpa meant by any of what he had just said.  But the way that Grandpa had said it made little Joey chuckle, and that made Grandpa chuckle too. 

Something to take home in your creel:

       One of the most important books I’ve ever read, apart from the books contained in the Holy Bible, is a little volume entitled, ‘Man’s Search for Meaning,’ written by a Holocaust survivor, Victor Frankl.  This little book taught me that, even when we have lost every bit of control over any of the circumstances of our lives, we can always choose how we will react to those circumstances.  Those who chose to react with dignity and loving compassion for others around them, even in the most dire of circumstances imaginable, like being imprisoned in a concentration camp with unavoidable death staring you in the face, choose the best way.  While they may not be able to save their own lives, much less the lives of any others, in doing so, they inspire hope.  They inspire the will to life that is often the difference between life and death for those who witness it.  Victor Frankl knows because he saw it firsthand.

       My little story has nothing to do with anything like Victor Frankl was forced to go through in his life.  Yet, the way we choose to react to the circumstances of our lives, be they ever so mundane, still holds the power to influence the way that others around us react to them.  Do we choose to react in ways that inspire faith, hope, trust and love?  Or do we choose to react in ways that inspire only fear and despair?  The choice is always ours. 

A Fine Mess of Fish

Something from the tackle box:

       Young people take pride in their strength, but the gray hairs of wisdom are even more beautiful.  (Proverbs 20:29 CEV)

     Thanks to all my readers who have conveyed to me how much they enjoyed my last story, Growin' Up.  I thought it was pretty good when I wrote it, and that it might go over well.  One friend in particular, Matt Davis, said that it brought to mind an incident from his own life about a grandson starting to fish with his grandpa.  After he had told me his tale in a few short sentences, I asked if I could expand on it a bit and use it as a story on my blogsite.  Matt graciously gave me his permission, and so that is what I’ve done here.  While Matt was neither the little boy, nor the grandpa, in his telling of the tale, I’ve decided to call the boy, ‘little Matt,’ in my version. I hope that pleases him. 

       Learning to fish up at his grandparent’s cabin on Long Lake was something to look forward to.  Little Matt, along with his Mom, Dad, and two older sisters, had arrived ‘up north’ late in the afternoon, after a long day’s drive up from the middle of the buckeye state.  Nine hours of being belted in the back seat of the Buick, stuck between two pre-teen girls nonetheless, would have been just about intolerable for most five year old boys, and certainly would have been for little Matt, if it wasn’t for the promise of that first fishing adventure awaiting him at the end of the road. 

       Their arrival at the lake sparked a round-robin barrage of hugs and kisses from both Grandma and Grandpa, who were both in the driveway to greet them all before they could get their seat-belts unfastened and the car doors opened.  They all laughed when little Matt informed them that he wanted to go down to the water and start fishing before they’d even gotten their bags out of back of the station wagon. 

       “Let’s all wait until about eight o’clock or so,” said Grandpa, “The fish will be biting again right about then I think.  Anyway, your Grandma has got supper ready to go on the stove, and your folks and sisters probably need an hour to rest up after that long drive north.  Besides, The Laurence Welk Show is on at seven, and I never can catch many fish unless I’ve watched it.”

       Little Matt couldn’t imagine why anyone would need to ‘rest up’ after spending the whole day just sitting there watching the scenery go past the car windows.  But on the other hand, now that he thought about it, he was a bit hungry.  On the phone that morning grandma had promised him tacos for supper when he got there.  Well, thought little Matt, if eight o’clock was soon enough to go fishing for Grandpa, then it was soon enough for him, too!

       The tacos were wonderful, the Laurence Welk show was almost unbearable, and then they did all go fishing, except Grandma, who cooked and ate fish but didn’t fish for fish.  Mom, Dad and the girls took the boat with the motor and headed off to the other end of the lake, out to the spots Mom had liked to fish as a girl.  Grandpa took little Matt out in the rowboat, just a hundred yards or so to the south along the shoreline, right to place where the crocked pine tree bent out over the water, and then straight out into the lake another fifty yards.  There, after swearing little Matt to secrecy, Grandpa dropped the anchor, an old paint can full of concrete attached to the boat by a clothesline.  They were now anchored at what he told Matt was their – secret honey-hole.  This is where little Matt began his education in the basics of bobber-fishing with a cane-pole, and he took to it all like a fish takes to water.  The fishing wasn’t spectacular that evening, but by the time an hour had passed, and they both needed to use the bathroom, he and Grandpa did have ten good-sized sunfish in the basket between the two of them. 

       Little Matt was very interested in that fish-basket.  It was a collapsible wire mesh contraption, with a trap door in the top, and was attached to the boat by its own length of clothesline, just like the anchor.  After unhooking each fish from his or Matt’s line, Grandpa would pull the basket up out of the water and put the new fish into it before lowering it back into the water beside the boat.  Little Matt was fascinated by the way the brightly colored fish placed there would flip and flop in the basket, spraying glistening water drops all over the place.  Each time it was brought up for the addition of a new fish, their display of vigorous acrobatics would become more frenzied.  Little Matt thought that the gyrating fish, dancing in that basket, might just be the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.  Once he’d asked Grandpa if he could pull it up himself, just to see them, without a new fish to add to the mess.  Grandpa allowed that they were indeed a pretty sight, and said that he could.  And he did, holding them up against the side of the boat until grandpa informed him that they needed to be let backdown into the water again. 

       “Well, best fishing buddy, we’ve got a fine mess of fish, and I need to pee.  I’m guessing that you do too, by the way you’re starting to fidget around in your end of the boat.  What say we head back in before your folks and sisters come back down the lake and spy out our – secret honey-hole.  Besides, with the sun getting so low now, I’m starting to get a lot colder than I thought I would.  I didn’t bring a warm jacket like your Mom made you wear.  Wish I had.  We better tell grandma to cover her flowerbeds.  I wouldn’t be surprised if we got a late season frost tonight.”

       Little Matt had forgotten that he had his fleece-lined windbreaker on under his life-jacket.  Now that he took notice of how cold the breeze really was getting, he was glad that his Mom had made him wear it.  Between his grandpa having brought the chill in the air and his need to use the bathroom to his attention, Matt noticed that the row back in to the dock took a lot longer than the row out to their – secret honey-hole – had taken.  Once moored to the dock Grandpa didn’t need to tell little Matt to run on in to the cabin and use the bathroom first.  It was getting cold.  And he did need to pee, bad. 

       After he was back in the cottage, and had made himself much more comfortable than he had been on the trip in, grandma sat him down at the table to share in a warm peanut-butter cookie and cup of hot chocolate with her.  That’s where grandpa found them when he came in from getting the boat secured and tackle put away. 

       “Boy, it’s getting chilly out there,” grandpa said, as he hung up his hat and headed towards the bathroom.

       “Weatherman says we’ll likely be getting a hard frost tonight,” said Grandma.

       “Better get your flower beds covered then, sweetheart.”

       “Already done,” she replied.

       When Grandpa was done in the bathroom, which took a lot longer to accomplish than little Matt had taken, he came to the table for his own cookie and cup of coffee.  When the cookie was gone, but the coffee cup still half full, little Matt’s two sisters came in the back door. 

       “Wow, it’s getting cold out there!” said Tess. 

       “Yeah, Dad had to tell Mom that he couldn’t take it any more, and to get us back to the cabin now!” added Bess.

       “Hot water’s on the stove, the cocoa mix is on the counter beside it,” grandma informed them.  “Fix your own.  Fresh cookies are on the sideboard.”

       “You better get your flower beds covered up tonight, grandma.”

       “Already done.” 

       Before the girls even had their cocoa all stirred up, Mom and Dad came in.  “Man, is it getting chilly out there!” said Dad.  “You’d better get your flowers covered up, Ma.”

       Grandma just rolled her eyes. 

       “Did you guys get any fish?” little Matt asked his parents.

       “Not as many as you guys,” replied his mother.  “Man!  You and grandpa did really well tonight!  That’s a fine mess of fish!  Grandpa must have taken you to his – secret honey-hole.”

       “Mom!  It’s a – secret!” broke in Matt.

       “Anyway, We put our four in the fish-basket with yours.  That will give us each at least two fish apiece for lunch tomorrow even if we don’t catch any more in the morning, that is IF it warms up enough to go out again!”

       “Should we bring the fish inside tonight, Grandpa?” asked little Matt.

       “Well, it’s getting late, and I don’t really want to clean a mess of fish out there right now in this cold.  And then, maybe I’d just have to clean another mess of fish tomorrow, if we DO go out again in the morning.  I’d rather do them all at once, and in the daylight.  We’ll just leave the ones we’ve got in the fish-basket hanging off the end of the dock for now, and we’ll see what it’s like in the morning.”

       “Will they be alright, out there in the cold water, overnight like that?”

       Everyone laughed, and Dad said, “I’m pretty sure they’ll be just fine out there until morning, Matt.”

       It did get cold that night.  Cold enough that sleet was tapping on the windows before the children went to bed at ten.  Cold enough that when the adults decided to turn in at eleven-thirty, they had all agreed that they would not wake the kids up in the morning.  They would all sleep-in under warm blankets until the sun was well up, and the thermometer reading a lot more bearable, before making any decisions about what to do with the rest of the day.  It was a good plan of action – but not one that would be strictly kept.  It was about seven in the morning when Grandpa came into the back room where the kids were all soundly sleeping in the bunk beds.

       “Matt.  Wake up.  Wake up.” Grandpa whispered, as he gently prodded Matt’s shoulder.

       “Wha? – Oh – Hi Grandpa.  It’s morning, isn’t it.”

       “Yes it is.  Come out into the kitchen with me.  We need to talk.”

       “Ok, grandpa,” said Matt, groggy, he got up and followed his grandpa into the other room, both in their pajamas.  They sat down at the table. 

       “So, best fishing buddy – would you like to tell me about what you did last night while everyone was else was asleep?”

       “I didn’t do anything,” replied little Matt, sensing trouble in the air.

       “Well – I pretty sure that you did.  And I think that we should talk about it before everyone else gets up for breakfast.  I’m sure that it will all work out much better for everyone that way.”

       Obviously, the jig was up.  The only thing to do was come clean to Grandpa.

       “When I went to bed I couldn’t sleep.  I kept thinking about those poor fish out there in that cold water all night.  I heard you and Mom and Dad saying that we wouldn’t be getting up to go out this morning, and I knew they would be so cold by the time we cleaned and brought them in. – So, after I heard you guys all go to bed, I got up and went down to the dock in my pajamas to check on the fish.”

       “It was awfully cold to go out there in your pajamas.  And you know that you aren’t allowed on the dock without a grown-up with you in the first place,” interrupted Grandpa.

       “I know, but I just kept thinking about those poor cold fish.  So I went down and pulled up the basket, just to see if they were alright.”

       “And they were just fine, weren’t they?” interrupted Grandpa, again.

       “They were flopping around like crazy!  But then it was so cold – and I was getting so cold out there checking on them – and they started to stop flopping out there in the cold – and I couldn’t put them back in that cold, cold water – so I brought the fish-basket inside and set it on the heater in the living room – where it was nice and hot.  That’s all I did!  Then I went right back to bed.”  The truth sounded perfectly reasonable to Matt, as he told it.

       “That’s – just about what I thought had happened – when I woke up and smelled something fishy about ten minutes ago,” said Grandpa, in a calmer tone than you might imagine.  “As you can see – I’ve taken them back outside.  I’m sorry to tell you this – but they did not make it through the night – despite your noble efforts to keep them warm.  -  As you can also see, I have the cabin windows facing the lake all open.  Fish do not smell good when they die and get warm for too long.  Nor are they any good to clean and eat for lunch.  They will have to go in the flowerbeds to feed Grandma’s pansies.  Now – IF we can get the smell out of here, and the windows closed back up before everyone else gets up for breakfast, we’ll just let everyone else think that the family of pesky raccoons living out back had a nice fish dinner on our tab –  except maybe Grandma.  She’ll never buy that story.  Besides, she’s going to find the fish buried in her flowers before long.  Anyway – just between you and me – the fish needed to stay in the water last night.  They really don’t mind the cold as much as you and I do.”

       “Ok, Grandpa.”

       “You can go back to bed now, if you want.”

       “I think I’d rather have a bowl of cereal now – if that’s alright.”

       “Yeah – me too – best fishing buddy.”

Something to take home in your creel: 

       Wisdom is always best imparted in a gentle manner.  Always remember that many wise things, which are patently obvious to the truly adept, may seem downright counterintuitive to the uninitiated, and may remain so until they have been taught otherwise.  That is only natural – and reasonable.