Something from the tackle box:
Expecting snow in summer and
rain in the dry season makes more sense than honoring a fool. A curse you don’t deserve will take
wings and fly away like a sparrow or a swallow. Horses and donkeys must be beaten and bridled – and so must
fools. Don’t make a fool of
yourself by answering a fool.
(Proverbs 26:1-4 CEV)
The nice
young man pushed his Old Towne canoe away from the dock. He paddled out into the early morning
mist of a cooler than normal Fourth of July morning on the lake. It was just starting to get light
enough to see, the sun still a good ten minutes away from showing its upper
edge over the pine forest that lined the opposite shore of the lake. Just enough time to paddle up the cottage
lined western shore, northward, to Old Doc’s Cove. It was a good time of day, and Old Doc’s Cove was a good place
to toss some cork poppers to the bluegills that would be feeding there in that
hour it takes for the rising sun to drive the mist off the water’s
surface.
It was
the nice young man’s regular habit to go fly-fishing for panfish on any morning
he didn’t have to get ready for work, even on Sunday mornings, as he didn’t
have to start getting himself and family ready for church until nine o’clock or
so. He never missed church with
his wife and three boys, even if the fishing was good in the early
morning.
A nine-foot
long fly-rod, a #3 weight Grey’s Streamflex, was the nice young man’s only
companion this morning, at least at this point in the outing. He had a number of fly rods, old and
new, to choose from on mornings like this, like a ladies’ man with a little
black book of numbers to call on for a Friday night date. All set up and ready to go, his rig
rested with its reel end nestled between his feet, the length angled out and
before him supported by the crosstree brace running across the center of the
canoe. His tackle looked as
relaxed and ready for the morning at hand as the young man felt.
As he
paddled along the young man smiled.
He mused to himself, that having the Independence Day Holiday fall on a
Sunday this year would have cheated him out of a morning’s fishing if the last
contract negotiation hadn’t granted him Monday off as a compensation for this
year’s Holiday cohabitating the calendar with his weekly Holy Day. The weather permitting, tomorrow’s
sunrise would greet the young man in the same fashion as it promised to greet
him today. It was a good thought,
and he paddled on with long firm strokes.
Just a
minute or so away from turning in at the mouth of the cove, our young man heard
the first buzzings of a potential fly in his Sunday morning ointment; a fly so
unlike the bright yellow cork popper, already cinched to the tippet of his rig,
that it began turning his smile into a frown just as surely as the rising sun
would drive away the morning mist.
It was the voices of two other lake residents, both well known to the
nice young man, Doc Mallery and Thomas King.
Though
still somewhat muffled by the intervening shoreline, cottages and trees, the
conversation was unmistakably contentious, judging by the tone and vocabulary
that could be picked up on.
“Well you’re a fine piece of
work, you dumb-ass redneck, rumbling in her in that pig of a tub at this time
of the morning! Rumble, rumble,
rumble! You act like you think you
own the whole dang lake, and can ruin everyone’s peaceful morning any time you
want, with the noise from that hideous piece of junk you call a bass boat!
Oooo, fancy baaaass boooat!”
“Bugger off, Doc! You don’t own this cove any more than I
own the lake! I shut down and coasted
in before you even came down to your dock, so you didn’t hear a thing, and you
know it. So just shut up and fish
where you are, while I fish where I am!”
“Bugger off yourself! And don’t rev that dang monstrosity of
a barge on your way out, or I’ll call the cops! There’s no wake allowed this close to the docks!”
“The only wake in this cove is
coming from all the stinky wind blowing out of your big mouth! I’m fishing right here, where I fish
all the time, you old gut-bucket, so get used to it!”
“Only because you enjoy
ruining my fishing, that I’m trying to do, - off – of – my – own – dock, by the
way! Why can’t you catch fish over
by where you live! Probably got
‘em all fished out with all the fancy fish murdering gear you got packed on
that nautical eye-sore you zoom around on tryin’ to wipe the whole lake clean
of fish! Leave something for the
rest of us, ya greedy, pork rind muchin’ Florida redneck!”
“Doc, - or should I say, ‘Quack,’ - you’ve been watching me
fish here for years, and you know dang well that I release every single fish I
ever catch! Unlike you, you old
mud-fish muncher! But go ahead and
keep all of them bottom feedin’ trash fish you want! It’s no skin off my butt, - or your face, - which are just
about the same thing, - ya backwoods bumpkin!”
Having
lived his whole life on this lake, the young man knew both of these old-timers. He had known one of them for as long as
he could remember, Doc having lived on the cove that bore his name for over
fifty years. They were a pair to
draw to, those two, for sure.
Doc
Mallery was the first person to build a house that was nice enough to live in all-year-round
on the lake, way back before our nice young man was even born. It was still considered the second nicest house on the lake,
although many others had been built since, including the one our young man lived
in. As the only local dentist in
the community, Doc had made a good living over the years and had put most of
his income into his lake property, so it
was really nice.
Ten years
ago, at the age of seventy, Doc had sold his dental practice, and now spent all
of his days inflicting pain on his fellow lake residents. Let me explain that statement. You see, Doc had long ago been judged
as the crankiest person in the county, as judged by patient and neighbor
alike. Everyone admitted that he was
a good dentist. In fact, he was noted for doing very fine dental work, with very little physical pain inflicted on his patients,
which accounted for his very successful practice. But his chair-side manner, along with all the other manner that
he proffered towards the world around him for that matter, left a whole lot to
be desired.
How he had
managed to woo, wed, and stay married to the sweetest girl in town, a woman
regarded as the nicest person in the
county by all who know her, was a
mystery that very few could ever even begin to unravel, try as they might. But there you have it!
Despite
his reputation, the nice young man knew Doc to be an “alright guy,” once you
got to know him better. He had
fished on Old Doc’s Cove since he was a
very young man, and had always been able to talk with Doc, even when Doc
was in his crankiest of moods. You
just had to look past the rough manners to see what his wife, Sandy, saw in
him. There was way more there than
meets the eye.
The other
half of this argumentative equation, Tom King, was another story. Mr. King had bought a lot, and built what
was generally regarded as the nicest home on the lake, with part of the
fortune he had made as a spectacularly successful luxury auto dealer and real estate
speculator down in Florida. His
place was two miles north and the half mile across the lake, on the eastern
shore, from the cove he was fishing, and
arguing in, now. Retiring
fifteen years ago, at age fifty-five, Tom now spent the good months of May
through October, “up north,” on this lake, preferring the weather at his
Florida home on Marco Island for the rest of the year.
Now, Tom was
different than Doc in many ways, and he was generally well liked by all his summer
neighbors. He worked really hard
at being likable, as all really good
salesmen do. He was quick with a
smile, quick with a handshake, told good stories, and liked listening to what you had to say as well. Tom would help you with things, joined some
of the local organizations, where he helped doing good things with others. He took his wife to church every
Sunday. Went to the same church
our nice young man belonged too.
Tom was a good man on the face of it, as well as underneath, just like
Doc was a good man underneath, but not so much on the face of it.
That’s
not to say that Tom was without fault.
He wasn’t. The air of self-confidence
that Tom possessed, an air so common and necessary to the success of any good
salesman, often seemed to tip over into the realm of arrogant and overbearing
braggadocio, especially to those who don’t care for salesman personalities, of which Doc was certainly one. Tom’s personal taste in clothing,
jewelry, cars, boats, homes, and just about anything else he owned, did tend towards the flashy - if not the downright ostentatious, another
strike against him in Doc’s book. And
probably his biggest fault, at least in
the mind of our nice young man, was that Tom really did fancy himself to be
a much better fisherman than he actually was!
Tom
really did suppose, that if he hadn’t been so busy making a fortune in limos
and land down in Florida, he would have certainly been a leading moneymaker on
the professional bass fishing tournament circuit. He did have the gear for it, top of the line boat, tackle,
fish-finders and such. And he did
use them a lot, spending most of his free time in Florida and up north, plying
the local waters for bass of both greater and lesser mouth size variations.
Tom King loved fishing for bass! But, as our
young man knew, Tom King wasn’t really any better at it, for all that he put
into it time and money-wise, than the young man’s oldest boy, floating around
the lake in an inner-tube tossing rubber worms at weed beds with his ten dollar
Zebco rod and reel.
“But what
did that matter in the end?” thought the nice young man, “Is Tom’s love of
fishing any less important to him, than mine is to me? As Thoreau had first noted generations
ago, ‘Many
men go fishing all of their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are
after.’”
“Well,”
the young man mumbled to himself, “I might as well turn around and find some
peaceful fishing in my second
favorite spot to work the old buggy whip, back at Delmar’s Cove. Just
thirty yards from where I started out! The sunrise feeding frenzy will be half over by the time I
get back there, I suppose. But, -
anyway, - I guess I’ll paddle up and say, ‘Hi,’ to each of these miscreants in
turn, before I make my exit. If
they can’t find it in themselves to observe the finer points of the Honorable
Brotherhood of Hook and Line’s code of social conduct when meeting on the
water, I guess it’s up to me to set a better example.”
The young man glided on up to
the retired salesman first, Tom’s bass boat being just off the near shore of
the cove, as he turned the corner to paddle in.
“Hey
there, Tom. How’s the fishin’ this
morning?”
“Oh, hi
there! The fishing is actually
pretty good. I’ve boated and let
go three nice ones already!” (Then
turning his head and projecting his voice towards Doc’s dock) “The
fishing’s good, - but the company is lousy! Just like it always is in Old Quack’s Cove, when the Old
Quack is out on his dock!”
“Kiss my
bass!” came the reply from forty yards away.
“Ya know,
Tom, I can’t figure out why you keep dropping in on this spot. It’s the same story every time. You and Doc just end up abusing each
other the whole time you’re fishing here.
You’ve got a six hundred acre lake, with lots of great bass spots, and
you’ve got the boat to get to any one of them in ten minutes. Why, there’s three spots within a
quarter mile of your own place that are every bit as good as this old
cove. You don’t have to even see
Doc when you’re out fishing, cuz Doc only ever fishes off of his own dock. Why antagonize the guy? It doesn’t seem like it could be fun
for you. – Or am I wrong about that?”
“Oh
no! I hate all this arguing, - BUT – I’ve got as much right to fish here
as anyone else! Old Doc’s name might be on this cove, but he doesn’t own the water! As long as I stay fifty feet away from
his dock, I can fish here all day long if I feel like it. And I’m not going to let that old
sucker-muncher badger me out of it. Turning
his head and projecting again)
Did you hear that, - you old sucker-muncher!”
“I heard it, - you old fish
murderin bass turd!” came the reply from Doc’s dock.
“Well, I
guess you’ve got your point to make.
But I sure don’t get it.
Will I be seeing you and Tanya at church later this morning?”
“Sure,
sure! We’ll be there by nine
thirty. We’re setting up for the
coffee hour after the service.
Everything’s all already to go.
See you then, good buddy, and I hope you get some big slabber ‘gills
before you go back in. Got to keep
those three little ones full of fish, eh!”
The nice
young man moved away in the direction of Doc’s lawn chair outpost at the end of
his dock. Half a dozen paddle dips
and he was back-paddling to hover near the old dentist.
Doc
actually was a bottom-fish eater,
just as Tom so often accused him of being in their ongoing argument. Mostly he fished for the redhorse
suckers that came out into the sandy shallows of the cove from the stream that
ran along one edge of Doc’s property and opened out into the lake, creating the
cove that bore Doc’s name. Doc’s
wife, Sandy, canned those Redhorse suckers, mixed with spicy mustards and
relishes, into something very special.
In fact, Sandy’s canned sucker was considered a real gourmet treat whenever
she provided it to be eaten on fancy crackers at the coffee hour after
church. Old Tom King never hurled
out the epitath of “sucker-muncher” at himself when he was stuffing his face
with that fine fare after a service.
Those redhorse were Doc’s prime target when he was fishing, but he
didn’t have anything against fried catfish for dinner either, if he happened to
get one of those with the worms that he fished flat on the bottom of the cove.
“Hey
there, Doc, how ya doin this morning?”
“Shove
off, will ya! You’re scarin all
the redhorse away from my bait!”
“I’ll be
out of your way in a minute. I Just
wanted to say ‘hi’ before I tried to get some shallow gills to go for a popper
down there, - just like I always do, Doc.
Say, ya know that Tom isn’t taking
any of your redhorse out of the cove.
He’s strictly a crank-baiting bass man. Why do you harass him so bad every time he fishes over
here?”
Following
Tom’s example, Doc answered the question loudly, face turned towards his verbal
adversary. “Cuz he’s an obnoxious, fish murderin, fish hog! That’s why! The props on that ugly boat of his alone kill more fish than
all the hooks and lines that go into this lake put together!” Turning back to the young man, he added,
“He’s not a sporting fisherman, - like
you and me.”
Our young
man couldn’t miss the irony of this statement, arising from the fact that both
he and Doc did fish for the pot,
mostly, while Tom did release pretty
much everything he caught.
“Come on, Doc. You know that isn’t so. Tom may have the
fastest fishing boat on the lake, but he doesn’t have the only one. He doesn’t churn up the water any worse than many others you
know.”
“But they don’t do it here in front of my
dock, - at least not all that much.
HE’S here every other dang day, churning everything up! And he does it just to get under my
skin! Well, he’s not going to get
away with it without hearing about it
whenever I’m on my dock!”
“Whatever, Doc. Will I be
seeing the lovely and charming Mrs. Mallery at church later?” (They
young man already knew the answer to his question. Sandy Mallery never missed church.)
“Of course.”
“Great. Why don’t you join
her some Sunday, Doc? We’d love to
have you.” (The young man already knew the response to this question as
well.)
“Never gonna happen, Pal. Now get out of the way of my
fishing! The bluegills are over there!” Doc jerked his thumb in the direction of the lily pads on
the far side of the cove, which is right where our nice young man had
originally intended to fish.
“I think
I’ll head back towards my place, and fish around Delmar’s Cove, instead. Don’t want to crowd you, or Tom, seein as how you’re all gettin
along so well this morning. See ya
later, Doc.”
The young
man paddled off towards the mouth of the cove and the shoreline leading back
south. With his back to the
dueling duo, he listened as the verbal war heated up again.
“….You old backwoods, mud-fish muncher!....”
“….You old red-necked, big
mouthed, bass murderin!....”
As the
young man paddled past the first cottage just south of the cove’s mouth, he
spotted Sally O’Neil, reading her morning paper on the porch by the light of
the rising sun.
“Good
morning, Sally.”
“Good
morning to you as well. Can you
believe the racket those two idiots make?
I thought the fireworks weren’t supposed to go off until tonight. It’s the third time in the last six
days they’ve been at it like this.
Can you believe that I come up here all
the way from Grand Rapids, a week out of every month, just to get away from the big city noise? Sure makes it hard to enjoy a cup of
coffee and the morning paper on your own cottage porch, - let me tell you.”
“I know,
Sally, - I know. – You should try living up here with them full time.”
“What a
pair of fools, - that’s what I say!”
Something to take home in your creel:
Two, otherwise goodhearted and decent humans,
sure can be hard to figure out when they just don’t like each other at all for
some reason or another. If you
don’t believe it to be the case, just ask any small-town church pastor if it
isn’t so.
