Panfish Pie!

Something from the tackle box:

       The people started crying when God’s law was read to them.  Then Nehemiah the governor, Ezra the priest and teacher, and the Levites who had been teaching the people all said, “This is a special day for the Lord your God.  So don’t be sad and don’t cry!”

       Nehemiah told the people, “Enjoy your good food and wine and share some with those who didn’t have anything to bring.  Don’t be sad!  This is a special day for the Lord, and he will make you happy and strong.”

       The Levites encouraged the people by saying, “This is a sacred day, so don’t worry or mourn!”  When the people returned to their homes, they celebrated by eating and drinking and by sharing their food with those in need, because they had understood what had been read to them. 

a light catch for an evening on jordan lake

        When it comes to the trout and bass that I go after, be it with a fly rod or spinning tackle, I am a dedicated practitioner of ‘catch and release’ fishing.  However, I am very much a ‘pot’ fisherman when I am in pursuit of panfish.  Bluegills, sunfish, perch, and crappies, if they are at least six inches long, are consigned to the creel, stringer, bucket, fish cage, or live well, as the particular fishing circumstances may dictate.  They have an imposed appointment to keep with the three ‘F’s, fillet knife, freezer, and frying pan. 

done up just the way I like them

       I like panfish.  I like them rolled in cracker-meal and pan-fried golden brown, served with a little tartar sauce, and fresh steamed vegetables on the side. It is a delicious repast to experience, and I am blessed by the fact that my wife likes them prepared this way too!  When the fishing has been good, we eat very well. 

       We also like sharing this favorite feast with others whenever the fishing has been better than good and we have a bountiful supply of panfish fillets on hand to share, which happens fairly often here in the Water Winter Wonderland in which we live.  A good number of friends, family, neighbors and parishioners can all attest to just how good Kathy’s pan-fried panfish really are. 

       That all being said, not everyone is a big fish-eater, and not every fish-eater is as an enthusiastic fried fish eater as I am.  Take my son, Nate, his wife, Tracy, and the three grands, Nolan, Gwen and Lydia.  They’ve done the pan-fried panfish thing a good number of times at our house over the years, and while there have never been any complaints, the last fish dinner did elicit a comment from my son that motivated me to undertake the culinary adventure I am about to relate. 

       “Wow, that sure was good, Mom, as always.  But ya know, Dad, you ought to check out some other recipes for your bluegills.  Just for a little variety, ya know.  Maybe something broiled or baked, with a glaze or something.  That would be good.”

       Now, I’m thinking; What kind of heresy is this!?...  Well… I can take a hint… better than most... I guess… Well… I CAN take a hint… even if it stings… just a little bit.

      But I’m saying;  “Sure, son.  That sounds like a good idea.  I’ll look into it,” as I put the whole idea on the furthest back burner of my mind, where it would simmer without too much attention for almost a year.  And the notion didn’t really come off that back burner until just a few weeks ago, when I was up at the cottage for a few days with a friend, teaching him the basics of how to use a fly rod on the waters of Long Lake. 

       I’ve known Wayne Johnson for over a dozen years now.  We’ve spent many weekends together, along with other men involved in an organization called ‘Keryx Prison Ministries,’ doing volunteer work at one of our State’s Department of Corrections facilities.  Our friendship became even closer when, a couple of years ago, Wayne told me that he would really like to go fishing with me sometime, and maybe even learn how to use a fly rod like I was always talking about.  Well, it took a while, but earlier this spring we did just that.  While the fishing was lousy, the gills and bass not having come up into the shallows to bed yet, Wayne did make some very good progress in learning the basics of fly casting.  I doubt that he will need much more of my dubious instruction when we go up again later this summer and, hopefully, get some fish. 

       Anyway, getting back to the subject at hand, during one of our mealtime conversations at the cottage, Wayne brought up a fish dish that he had tried, and liked very much, while on a yearlong job assignment in England, Fish Pie.  Being an Anglophile, that rare American who actually appreciates traditional British cuisine, I was interested.  I’ve eaten a lot of fish & chips on my several trips to the British Isles over the years, but never a fish pie.  He told me that it was a lot like a shepherd’s pie, but with fish and a cream sauce in place of the red meat and gravy that is found in the traditional British meat pie.  I asked Wayne if he had the recipe, and, if so, would he send it to me?  He said, “yes,” on both counts. 

       I am currently in possession of the aforementioned document, which I now lay out for your perusal.  A few conversions have been made to translate British usages into American equivalents (Celsius to Fahrenheit, grams to ounces, that sort of thing) and I’ve substituted heavy whipping cream for double cream, which is a tad bit fattier than whipping cream, but also, sadly, unavailable here. 

Small boneless fish fillets       1 lb.

Spinach                                        2 handfuls

Potatoes                                       4 large

Onion                                            1

Carrot                                           1

Eggs                                               2

Heavy Whipping Cream          8 oz.

Cheese (sharp cheddar)          2 handfuls

Lemon                                           juice of 1

Dry mustard                                1 tsp

Parsley (flat)                               2 tbsps

Some olive oil

Other seasonings as desired

       Cut potatoes into chunks and boil for 2 minutes.  Add the eggs and boil for 8 minutes.  Put the spinach into a steamer and steam for 1 minute.  All this can be done in one pan.  Remove spinach, squeeze out the water and chop.  Shell eggs and cut into slices.  Mash potatoes. 

       Meanwhile, chop onion and carrot.  Fry both together in olive oil for 5 minutes.  Then add cream, mustard, lemon juice and parsley to onion and carrot, mix off the heat. 

       Lay out fish fillets in buttered casserole dish or large pie pan.  Top the fish with the cream mixture, egg slices, spinach, and most of the cheese.  Then layer on the mashed potatoes and rest of the cheese.  Bake in oven at 400 F for 25/30 minutes.

This is the basic recipe.  Variations can include different type of fish, or even shellfish, sweet and ordinary potatoes mixed, additional savory spices, etc.  The recipe above should serve 4/6 people.  If salad and sides are served it will be more than enough, as the pie is quite rich.

That is the recipe as I got it.  Now to try it out on some friends!  And here’s how it went. 

       My first victi,…. guinea p,…. dinner guests,… to try the new dish out on, were our good friends, Don and Tomi Jo.  Kathy and I have shared many meals together with Don and Tomi at one another’s homes over the last several years, and I knew I could count on them to be both gracious and honest in their assessment of the results of this experiment, as we have with a few of theirs. 

       As it turned out, the date we chose for the panfish pie feast developed into a very busy day for my sweetheart with her job at the community college.  An early afternoon call home let me know that she wouldn’t be home until right around the time we had told our guests that dinner would be served, 6:30 p.m.  I would be on my own in getting everything ready and on the table.  So be it!

       I had all the ingredients on hand and ready, and at 4:30 the prep work began.  Tater’s chopped and in the pot to boil.  Add the eggs and boil some more.  Steam that spinach.  Remove and chop drained spinach.  Take eggs and potatoes off the heat.  Chop and fry onion and carrot.  Add cream, mustard and lemon juice.  Butter dish and lay in fish.  Cover with creamed onion/carrot.  Hardboiled egg slices.  Lots of cheese.  Cover with potato. – DRAT! – I forgot the spinach!  To late now – toss spinach in the garbage.  Cover potatoes with a little more cheese and wait until six to pop it in the oven.  Whew!

       Kathy got home just about five minutes before the timer went off.  Tomi Jo and Don were soon there and ready to eat.  Grace is said and we dig in.

Comments and assessments:

ready for the table

       “Not too bad.”

       “Better than I thought it would be.”

       “The cream sauce in it really works.”

       “Good job, Mark.”

       “Would be better with the spinach in there, though.”

       “Yeah, I know.  That was my mistake.  Next time.”

       “Could use more spices too.”

       “All I put in was the dry mustard the recipe called for.  Some salt and pepper would help, wouldn’t it?”

       “Yeah, but I was thinking more like some Thyme.”

       “Or some Dill Weed.”

       “That’s it!  It needs Dill Weed!”

       “What about some curry powder or Cajun spice?”

       “For and English dish?  No way!  Dill weed is what it needs.”

       “That or a little Thyme,…. or both.”

       “Is it worth making again,… for Tracy, Nate and the kids,.. would they eat it?”

       “Oh, sure!... I think.”

       “Ok,”

       “I still like my pan-fried panfish better.”

       “Me too.”

      

Something to take home in your creel:

       It’s good to try new things.  And this really was a pretty good meal, if I do say so myself. Heated up leftovers for lunch the next day were even better.  English Panfish Pie will be made again in the Jarvie kitchen, and served to our guests who have expressed a desire to eat my catch in something other than a pan-fried condition.  As for Kathy and I,…. well,… we aren’t throwing out any boxes of McCormick’s Cracker Meal just yet! 

Heaven Is Like….

Something from the tackle box:

       Jesus then told them this story:  The kingdom of heaven is like what happened when a farmer scattered good seed in a field.  But while everyone was sleeping, an enemy came and scattered weed seeds in the field then left.

       When the plants came up and began to ripen, the farmer’s servants could see the weeds.  The servants came and asked, “Sir, didn’t you scatter good seed in your field?  Where did these weeds come from?” 

       “An enemy did this,” he replied. 

       His servants then asked, “Do you want us to go out and pull up the weeds?”

       “No!” he answered.  “You might also pull up the wheat.  Leave the weeds alone until harvest time.  Then I’ll tell my workers to gather the weeds and tie them up and burn them.  But I’ll have them store the wheat in my barn.” (Matthew 13:24-30 CEV)

       There once was an old trout fisherman named Mack.  A regular trout bum, actually.  Old Mac had spent a good portion of his life exploring the many trout stream and ponds in his neck of the woods, and he had enjoyed that habit more than he enjoyed anything else in his whole life, a life in which he had been blessed with many good things besides his opportunities for trout fishing. 

       But Mack was old now, lying in a hospice bed, hanging on through the last days of a long battle with congestive heart failure.  It was hard to breath.  It was hard to do anything.  Even just lying there and waiting for the end was hard.  Mack wished that the stream of friends and family, all there to make their last farewells, would stop.  He hated having to focus his attention on anything, or anyone, other than the one thing that gave him any peace at all, the mental image of a trout at the end of a tight line, flashing through the ripples of a rocky stream.  He had known no pleasure greater than this in his whole life, and saw no good reason to let go of it now for other, lesser, consolations.  

       If Mack had any regrets about life, the only one he could think of was the fact that he never gotten out West for a guided tour of the high country trout streams, to fish for the big rainbows like he saw the happy fishermen on the covers of the fly fishing magazines holding.  That trip had been his dream.  But other parts of life had made demands on his time and resources that had kept him from that apex of existence.  ‘Oh well,’ he thought to himself, ‘maybe there would be some recompense for that injustice in the afterlife.’  And that was just about the last thought to pass through old Mack’s mind before he drifted off into his final mortal slumber. 

       Old Mack woke up and opened his eyes to a bright blue sunlight filled sky.  The few clouds he saw were of the little puffy, cotton-ball, variety.  The kind of clouds that only serve to remind you how generally wonderful the weather is whenever they blot out the sun for a brief few seconds, every once in a while, just long enough so that you notice and don’t take the sunshine for granted. 

       Mack sat up when he noticed the sound of running water coming to his consciousness.  Bringing his line of vision down from straight up, the first thing he saw was the range of mountaintops, stretching out across the horizon in front of him, as far as he could see in either direction.  The second thing he saw was the beautiful high country stream, rolling and bubbling around a rock-strewn bend, right at his feet.  The banks of the stream held some spruce and poplar, here and there, but there was plenty of room to work a fly rod if just a little bit of care was taken for where the backside of your cast was going.  The birds were singing, the wildflowers were blooming, it was Mack’s idea of heaven on earth. 

       Mack stood up when he heard the rustling sound of someone, or something, approaching.  Coming towards him, down a footpath that paralleled the bend in the stream running before him, Mack saw a tall, slender, “rugged outdoorsman” looking type.  The man’s Bean boots, Levi jeans, Carhartt jacket, and wide-brimmed Filson hat all looked sharp, broken in, but clean and well cared for, just like the man.  In his right hand the man carried what looked to be a classic split-bamboo fly rod, all rigged up with line and leader wound on an elegant looking click-and-paw reel, the kind of tackle old Mack would have given his eyeteeth for, that is if money hadn’t been a more convenient option in his life. 

       When the man stopped before him Mack could see there was embroidery above the left breast pocket on the man’s jacket, a bright yellow star logo.  Above the star it read; Highest Country Guide Service.  Below the star, in smaller letters; guiding where you never thought you’d get to.

       Mack looked up into the man’s face and was struck with the thought that it might be about the handsomest man he’d ever seen, a man that seemed neither young nor old, but perfectly mature.  The nose, straight and perfectly proportioned.  The eyes, bright steel gray, full of sparkle.  The mouth, as it smiled at Mack, showed brilliant white teeth, perfectly aligned.  The man’s whole continence seemed to glow with competency and a sure confidence in his calling. 

       The man spoke, “You must be Mack.  I’ve been sent here for you.  My name is…. Well, my friends just call me, ‘Bub,’ ….. so I guess you can too.”

       Mack’s heart glowed with warmth at the revelation that this fellow,… guide,… or angel,… or… whatever,… that ‘Bub’ was here for him.

       “Here.  This is for you,” continued the guide, as he handed Mack the rig he’d been carrying.  “Special made, just for you.  It should serve you well for what we’ve got planned for you.” 

       “Well.  What can I say?” replied Mack, as he accepted the tackle and tested its flex.  “My, this is as nice as any rod I’ve ever owned.  Maybe even nicer!”

       “We know.”

       “Thank you very much.”

       “You are very welcome.  Now,… let me explain how all this is going to work.  There are,… I’m afraid,… some very strict conditions attached to your sojourn with us here in Highest country… You see,… there was some debate as to just where we ought to take you when we got your resume.… To be quite honest,… some of the guides in my line of work thought you should get something,… well,…. a bit less comfortable than what you see here.  But, being a kindred soul to your former lifestyle, I prevailed upon the Service to let me bring you here… to this wonderful place…. on provision… that you follow my guidance to the letter.  Should you fail to do so, you will be immediately transferred to that other place my colleagues had in mind.  A place… much, much hotter than the perfect spring weather this place provides,… if you know what I mean.”

       “Oh yes!  I can imagine it’s no fun at all to catch trout that are already overcooked before you even hook them,… eh!” replied Mack, as he chuckled knowingly.... and smiled nervously.  “You can be assured that I will do just as you say until proven worthy.” 

       “Good!  Now here’s how it works.  MY responsibility is to look for rising trout in the stream winding off before us.  Whenever I spot one, I will point it out to you.  Then,… YOUR responsibility will be to make a cast to that rise, each and every time that I point one out… The trout will take care of the rest on their own… That’s it.  Every rise I spot for you… you MUST cast to,… OR this leg of your expedition will be over… and you will not like the next river you will be escorted to… at all… Lava makes for such poor fishing in comparison to what we have here…. Understood?” 

       “Absolutely.  You call ‘em and I try to catch ‘em, each and every time.  No problem!”

       “Good.  Then let’s get started, shall we?”

       Mack followed his guide through the low grasses and wildflowers down to the bank of the mountain stream where they positioned themselves, Bub standing just off to Mack’s left, giving him plenty of room to work his fly rod.  It was only seconds before the angelic guide spotted his first rising fish.

       “Look there!  Just under that spruce bough overhanging the opposite bank by that large rock.  There he is again!  Make a cast to him.”

       It was a bit further than Mack thought he was capable of making a cast but, fearing to violate the agreement before he had even started, he pulled line off the reel, rolled it out, made a couple of false casts to get it all in the air, then shot it across the stream in a perfect cast to a spot just upstream of the rock and overhanging spruce bough.  The little dry fly landed gently on the water and started its short drift right towards the spot where the fish had been rising.  The instant it came beneath the branch the fly disappeared in a splash.  Mack set the hook.  The fish dashed to the left six feet and made a nice jump.  It then tore off to the right, for about twelve feet, and made another jump.  It then fought its way back to the rock and bough, where it gave up and let Mack haul him in without further resistance.

       The guide stepped into the stream, unhooked the fish and picked it up for his charge to admire.  “Nice catch, Mack.  Looks like this rainbow runs right about thirteen inches, I’d say.”  He laid the fish gently back in the water and it immediately took off upstream in search of more peaceful feeding conditions. 

       “WOW!  That was fun!  This is more than I could have ever hoped for!  And to think, all I have to do is keep catching the fish you spot.  This is wonderful.”

       “I’m glad you think so, Mack.  I do work hard for living, but it’s as much a joy to me as it is to you.  Oh look!  Same spot as before!  Right underneath that spruce branch!  Get ‘em!”

       Mack looked and saw the rise for himself.  Just as he had the first time, he made a perfect cast to a spot just upstream of the rise.  He watched as the fly took the course it had before, right underneath the tree, where it was taken just as before.  Again, the fish dashed to the left and jumped, ran off to the right and jumped, fought back to its hole beneath the spruce, where it surrendered and was brought in.

       “Nice fish, Mack.  Looks like this rainbow runs right about thirteen inches, I’d say…. Oh look!  Same spot as before!  Right underneath that spruce branch!  Get ‘em!”

        Once again, the scene played out just as it had the first two times, and then again, and then again.  Each fish hooked beneath the branch.  Each hooked fish making a dash to the left and then jumping.  Each fish running off to the right and jumping once more.  Each fish fighting its way back to the rock, where each fish petered out and let itself be hauled in, just as each fish had done before. 

       After the thirteenth time Mack had listened to his guide say, “Nice catch, Mack.  Looks like this rainbow runs right about thirteen inches, I’d say,” he interrupted before the next rise could be spotted beneath the spruce bough by the big rock.

       “Say, Bub,… I am glad that I’m here with you.  Especially so, considering how close you say I came to being sent to that other place.  I do appreciate it,… and this is nice and all,… lots of fish,… but I really had imagined that the fishing… here in heaven… would be,… well,… how do I put it,…. would be more… interesting… Not quite so predictable, and,.. to be quite frank,… not quite so monotonously boring. 

       The angelic guide put the thirteenth trout back in the water, pulled a cigarette out of his jacket pocket and placed it between his lips.  He walked over to Mack, lit his smoke with a flame that shot out of the tip of his index finger, looked him in the eyes and said, “Now,… who in hell said anything… about this being heaven?” 

Something to take home in your creel:

       As a preacher, I’ve always liked stories about what the experience of dying and going to heaven, or even that other place, might be like.  Whether they are short jokes about stumping St. Peter with unexpected answers to his questions at the Pearly Gate, or longer allegorical stories, expressing deeper theological notions than getting a laugh from the notion of a new arrival who thinks that God’s name is ‘Andy.’ (“and he walks with me and he talks with me.”  Get it.)  I like them all, and many a good sermon illustration has come from the vast number of afterlife stories that are out there.  Silly or serious, pure imagination or scripture based, slightly heretical or ultra-orthodox, there are insights and lessons that can be gleaned from almost all of them, if one puts a thoughtful mind to the task. 

       The Christian tradition of telling allegorical stories about what getting into and experiencing the kingdom of heaven (or the agonies of hell) can be like, began with Jesus himself.  The Gospels contain a good number of them.  The Apostles set down more eternal life destination insights in several of the epistles and the book of Revelation.  In later centuries Bunyan would give us his ‘Pilgrim’s Progress,’ an allegory on getting there, and Dante his ‘Divine Comedy,’ an allegory about being there once you do get to wherever it is that you’re getting to.  One of my favorite books of the more recent past is C.S. Lewis’ ‘The Great Divorce.’  If you haven’t read it, you should.  As St. Paul writes, ‘If our hope in Christ is good only for this life, we are worse off than anyone else …… (1Corinthians 15:19 CEV)

       This little story of Mack and his guide, which I have offered you, is not my own.  It is merely my embellishment on an old chestnut of a tale, as story that has its roots sunk deep in storytelling history.  Versions of this story can be found which have used almost every human pursuit that can be loved more than God and neighbor, as the vehicle for its telling.  The version most often heard today tells of some poor fellow, pushed on by a fiendish caddy, doomed to the hell of hitting a hole-in-one on every link of a golf course that stretches on forever and ever. 

       Whatever version of the story is told, the lessons are always the same; Seek first the kingdom of God. Adopt His loving righteousness as your own standard of love.  Love the Lord with all your being.  Love your friends, family and neighbors, and even your enemies, as you love yourself.  Love them all even more than you love yourself when empowered by the Spirit of God to perform that miracle.  Do these things and you will be blessed by God with all the rest you could ever want, all given in due time, and all poured out in full measure, heaped up and overflowing.  For loving with that kind of love is just what the everlasting Kingdom of God consists of. 

Not So’s Ya’d Notice!

Something from the tackle box:

       I command you to preach God’s message.  Do it willingly, even if it isn’t the popular thing to do.  You must correct people and point out their sins.  But also cheer them up, and when you instruct them, always be patient.  The time is coming when people won’t listen to good teaching.  Instead, they will look for teachers who will please them by telling them only what they are itching to hear.  They will turn from the truth and eagerly listen to senseless stories.  (2 Timothy 4:1b-4 CEV)

       I love to fish.  Sometimes I fish from shore, sometimes off a dock, or sometimes out of a boat.  But what I like to do best, wherever the lake or stream bottom is firm enough to allow for it, is to wade right out into the water while I fish.  To my way of thinking, it’s extra special to be at one with the water that you’re fishing by getting right into it.  It’s a spiritual thing with me.

a good spot to fish jordan lake

       One of my favorite places to wade and fish is just a short half-mile trip from the parsonage where I live, the Veteran’s Park and Chapel on Jordan Lake, right where the M-50 highway enters the village of Lake Odessa and makes a gentle curve around the northeast shoreline of the lake before heading on west through town.  It’s a good place to fish, at least before the algae blooms take over in the heat of late summer.  I fish there a lot every spring and fall, as I can go on a whim and be there in just a minute or two.  Lots of folks I know will honk and wave as they drive into town from the east and see me fishing down there. 

       It’s sort of known as being my spot.  (If you need to see pastor Mark, and he isn’t in the church office, you might try the Veteran’s Chapel Park down on the lake.  He’ll be the one in the old straw hat, out in the water a ways, working a buggy whip.  Just holler out to him and he’ll wade on in – if it’s important.)  Although I fish the Park more than any other person I know, I’m often not alone down there.  The Veteran’s Chapel Park is a pretty popular place for folks who don’t have a boat, or any private property access to the lake, to do some fishing.  There’s really only a couple of other place to fish from shore on Jordan Lake without landowner permission, and the fishing isn’t often good at them, so fishing folks know about the Veteran’s Park, and they use it.  I get to meet some interesting people there sometimes. 

       A few years back I went down to the Chapel on an early spring evening, before the water had gotten warm enough for me to be comfortable wading without boots or waders to keep my feet and legs from getting wet, which I don’t bother with once the water warms up a bit.  I was wearing a pair of knee-high boots that day, because I figured that I would just work the sandbar for an hour or so before going home to a late supper.  You see, there’s a big sandbar that starts at the large drain culvert, just down-shore from the Chapel, and runs out into the lake in a long crescent shape curving south and east for quite a ways.  It’s not a very wide sandbar, but if you know where it is, and the water is not to rough or high, a tall man like me can wade out on it for a good thirty yards or more before the water will even get up over your knees.  So that was my plan. 

       Anyway, when I get down to the Park there’s only on other fisherman there, a little boy, who I’d say was about nine or ten years old at the most.  He’s standing on top of one of the picnic tables that he had pulled right up to the water’s edge.  From this makeshift platform the lad is casting some kind of crank-bait out as far as he can, and then slowly reeling it back in, trolling for bass.  Which is not a bad tactic for the site as the bass do come to feed on the smaller fish that make their home in the shallows there.  I could see that the youngster was doing a pretty good job of it, too.  He could get that lure out there quite a ways for a little kid, and he knew how to work it back in with some herky-jerky-twitching action on his retrieve.  I marked the kid down as a genuine fisherman in my book. 

a makeshift fishing platform

       Now, I always like to hob-knob with other serious fishermen when we meet on the water, just for a minute or two, before settling down to my own fishing.  So, before I got in the water myself, I walked over to his picnic table platform and said, “Hey there young man.  Ya gettin’ any action here tonight?” 

       Well, he gets this cloudy looking scowl on his face, thinks for a minute, and then gruffly blurts out, - “Not so’s ya’d notice!” 

       So I just said, “Well, - keep at it. – Ya never know when they’ll come cruisin’ through here.”  Then I walked on down the shoreline to where the culvert marked the end of my sandbar, got in, waded out about twenty yards from shore to where the water was pretty close to the top of my boots, and started working some of the deeper waters around me with a rubber worm for some bluegills.

       I’d only made three or four casts from this spot when I hear this splashing in the water behind me.  I turn around, and here comes the kid.  He’s got his shoes off, his jeans rolled up just as far as he can get them rolled up, and he’s working his way down the sandbar towards me.  He comes up right beside me, makes a cast with his spinning gear, right parallel with my fly-line, looks up at me and says, “So, - Ya gettin’ any action out here tonight?”

        All I could think of to say in reply was, - “Well, - - not so’s ya’d notice!”

       To which he confidently replied, “Well, - keep at it. – Ya never know when they’ll come cruisin’ through here.” 

       I looked at him hard for a minute, as he concentrated on his next cast and retrieve.  Then I just said, “Yup,” and kept on fishing right next to him. 

       If the boy hadn’t been called in for supper by a mother’s voice, emanating from a rental cabin just down-shore a ways from the Park, we might have gone on like that for quite some time.  Apparently, the boy thought that I was as good of a fisherman as I though that he was.  Or at least that I knew enough about what I was doing out on that sandbar, that keeping my company would be worthwhile.  Who knows?  I’m sort of glad he got called in for supper before he could discover otherwise. 

       I never ran into that boy at the Veteran’s Chapel Park again.  Maybe he was just an out-of-town kid on vacation for a week at the lake with his family and never would come back.  But I keep and eye open for him whenever I go down there now, just to see if he’s working that sandbar again, because, from time to time, you can do pretty well fishing off that spot.  I know, because I have, and I told him so. 

last night's catch off the sandbar

 

Something to take home in your creel:

       We all learn about pretty much everything from someone or something else!  And the true value of what we learn depends, to a very great degree, on just who or what we learn it from.  What we ultimately gain out of our learning depends on the verifiable veracity of what those “else’s” in our life really know, can teach, and so pass on to us.  Choose your own teachers and resources wisely.  Teach your children to choose their teachers and resources wisely.  Don’t take just any old “else’s” word for anything, though it may sound ever so good to you, without looking into it a bit deeper. Listen to and take heed of those who actually have gone there before you, and have then put some time into thinking about where they’ve been.  Then listen to and take heed of contrary opinions, from others who have done the same, even if you don’t like what they have to say.  Weigh all of it together, before putting on your boots, or rolling up your jeans, and wading in.  Otherwise, you might just find yourself following someone or something else – out to fish in deep water – just to get stuck and sink in a mucky bottom that they told you would be good footing. 

A Cribbage Club Fish Story

Something from the tackle box:

       You wonder why the Lord pays no attention when you go without eating and act humble.  But on those same days that you give up eating, you think only of yourselves and abuse your workers.  You even get angry and ready to fight.  No wonder God won’t listen to your prayers!  (Isaiah 58:3-4 CEV)

       Not every fishing story I get comes from my own recollection, (whether that recollection of mine is based on my own experience, my imagination, or a combination of both, is beside the point here).  Sometimes a good story comes to me totally second-hand.  I’ve told a few stories that I’ve gotten from other folks over the years, and while I haven’t claimed them to be my own stories, about me, I have usually told them in a way that might lead one to presume that I could have at least been a witness to the tale being told, if not an actual participant.  It’s an old literary device.  Homer certainly did not sail with his heroes to Troy and back, yet who can dive into the Iliad or Odyssey without feeling that the poet is recounting from more than mere “hearsay” knowledge of the adventure. 

       In any event, I’m going to break with that old writing tactic today and relate a story that I heard, not as if I’m placing you at the scene of the story, but as if I’m letting you hear the story along with me, as I’m hearing it for the first time.  I’m not sure if this is going to work, but here goes!

       This is a story that I heard a few weeks ago at my Monday afternoon cribbage gathering, which meets in the basement fellowship hall of the church I work at, which is why it’s called the Church Basement Cribbage Club.  The members of this group are not an overly competitive bunch of card players.  Some of them are pretty good, myself included, but mostly we just play for the opportunity to socialize.  We don’t even keep track of who beats who, or how many games someone wins on a day that we play.  It really is all about just having a good time playing cribbage together.  A Monday without wining a single card game is a minor annoyance.  A Monday without a good laugh is a total disaster.  So you can know that the conversation is every bit as important as the cards at the CBCC, and probably even more so, if the truth be told. 

The church basement cribbage club

       We will generally have about eight to a dozen people show up to play every Monday.  Most of the people who show up to play are either members of the church we meet at or another local congregation, but a few of them are not, and that’s fine.  While we do not allow any swearing, cursing, or otherwise gratuitously vulgar language to be used at our gatherings, nor any derogatory expressions towards any race, creed, ethnicity, or group identity other than our own, be they couched as attempts at humor or not, - still, - not every story told at Cribbage Club can be classified as overtly genteel.  This is one such story. 

       Now, you should know that our conversations aren’t just ‘one on one’ chatter with the person sitting across the board from you.  The train of quips , jokes, and good natured jabs, can run side to side, up and down the long table filled with cribbage boards and card players, and quite often does. 

       To set this up, I was sitting at the far left hand end of the long table, with the row of games and players running off to my right, across from me sat my opponent, Roger, a nice man, about my age, who, due to an accident early in life deals with some health issues that require him to employ an assistant to drive and help with other tasks that facilitate his active lifestyle.  Next to me, on my right, sat Heather, Roger’s assistant on Monday afternoons, and a pretty good cribbage player, too.  Heather is probably the youngest player at our club, still having children of her own living at home, whereas most of the rest of us are into grandchildren, if not great-grands.  It is Heather who is going to be telling the story you will be listening in on.  Across the table from Heather sat Marcia, at the age of eighty something, a lifelong member of my congregation.  Don’t let Marcia’s age fool you though, she’s pretty sharp, and likes to tell or hear a good story as much as anybody.  On Heather’s right sat my church organist, Linda, playing a game against her husband Jim, a couple who would rather laugh at a good story than do just about anything else in life. 

       So, the six of us are clumped together at one end of the row of card games, chatting away as usual, and the conversation was about the warm winter we’d just come through, and the ice going out of the local lakes so early, when Jim says to me, “You like to ice-fish, don’t you pastor?  Were you able to get any ice-fishing in at all this winter?”

       “Well, I do a little ice-fishing, now and then,” I replied.  “Some folks were out on Jordan Lake for a couple of weeks back in January, but I didn’t get out one single time this year.  Mostly because I’m a chicken and don’t go out on the ice unless it’s a good eight inches thick, which I don’t think it ever came close to this year.  And I don’t think it’s going to freeze over again before spring is really here, so, no.  No ice fishing for me this year at all.” 

       Heather then adds, “Well, my uncle Joe was just out ice-fishing on the Flint River just a few weeks ago.  Didn’t get anything though.”

       Marcia looked puzzled and said, “That’s not all that far north of here, I’m surprised they had enough ice to go out on.”

       “Oh, they had enough ice,” Said Heather.

       “I never go ice fishing on a river,” I added.  “Even in a cold winter, those currents running underneath the ice can wear it pretty thin.  And if you do go through, that same current will take you downstream with no hole to come up through.”

       “Lots of folks ice-fish on the Flint River. – But my uncle Joe won’t be fishing it again – not for a while. – Or, at least not until he gets some new line on his ice-fishing rod.”

       At this comment, I’m feeling a little puzzled too.  Why would new line be a big issue?  I look across at Roger, then over at Marcia, and down at Jim, who are all looking at Heather for some additional enlightenment. 

       Heather just continued looking at her cards, deciding which two to toss to Marcia’s crib.  So I asked, “Was his line getting old and brittle?  Did a fish break it off too easily?  Or did a big one run it all out on him?” 

       “No, - nothing like that,” she replied.  Then, looking up from her cards and noticing our attention, she continued, “OK, - so my uncle Joe goes out ice fishing.  He parks his truck at the boat landing, walks out on the ice, and he’s the only one out there fishing that morning.  So, he walks out to his spot, drills a hole, and starts fishing.  Well, in a little while, another truck pull up and parks.  This other guy walks out, drills another hole, not six feet away from my uncle’s hole, and he sits down and starts fishing right there too!”  

       Now, you don’t even have to be an experienced fisherman to guess that this is not good fishing etiquette.  Fishermen, of both ice and open-water varieties, may congregate in an area where the fish are known to be hanging out, and it’s allowable to walk or paddle up to another angler just to pass a few pleasantries before you drop your own line, but you should always move off, a good thirty yards or more, before drilling a hole or making a cast, unless you’re invited to stay closer.  It’s just good manners. 

       “Well, - that was pretty rude!”  I said.

       “Yeah, it sure was!  What did your uncle Joe say to the guy?”  added Jim. 

       Heather thought for a minute before continuing.  “Well, - he didn’t say anything.”

       “He didn’t say anything!”

       “Nope. – He just got up, - walked over to the guy, - unzipped his coveralls, - and peed in the guy’s fishing hole.” 

       At this point, I look over at Roger.  He’s staring at Heather with his jaw dropped.  I look at Marcia, and she’s staring at Heather with her jaw dropped too.  I look over at Jim and Linda, and they’re looking at each other, each biting their bottom lip trying not to start giggling. 

       “Oh my lands!” Marcia finally broke the trance.  “What did that guy say to your uncle Joe when he did that?!” 

       “He didn’t say anything either. – He just stood up – and socked my uncle Joe right in the face.” 

       I looked at the others in turn again.  Same expressions, only the dropped jaws are a little lower, and Jim and Linda are biting their lips even harder.

       “You mean they got into a fist-fight, - right there on the ice!” I chimed in.

       “Oh, there was no fight!  That guy knocked my uncle Joe out cold with that one punch, and then he just let him lay there on the ice.”

       “You mean to tell me that he just took off – and left your uncle stretched out on the ice, unconscious, in the freezing cold?”

       “Oh, he didn’t take off anywhere, – he just sat back down – and started fishing again. – When my uncle finally came to, he looked around, and there the guy sat, fishing away like nothing had happened.” 

       I looked at all the faces around me again.  Now there were four people trying not to bust out laughing. 

       “So, what happened next?  What did your uncle do, once he came to?”

       “Well, he decided he’d had enough for one day, - I guess.  So he got up, picked up all his tackle, and headed back for his truck.”

       “And neither of them ever said one word to the other?”

       “Nope. – Not a word.”

       Well, now I’m totally befuddled, so I ask, “So, - what’s that got to do with your uncle Joe needing new fishing line before he goes out fishing again?” 

       Heather looks at me with this exasperated look on her face.  She rolls her eyes and continues, “Well, when my uncle grabbed his tackle box and rod, tossed them in his bucket and walked off the ice, he didn’t realize that the bail was open on his reel.  So his hook, bait and bobber stayed in the hole, and his line played out as he walked back to the boat landing.  Once he got there, he just tossed all of it in the bed of his pickup and took off, with the line running off his rig as he drove away.  He didn’t notice until it hit the knot at the end and slammed all his gear into the tailgate and flipped his rod out into the ditch about a quarter of a mile down the road.  At that point he didn’t want to try and reel it all back in, so he just stopped, broke the line off, tossed his empty rod back in the truck and took off again.  Just left his line there stretched out to the river.  Can you imagine?!  That’s why he can’t go ice-fishing again until he gets new line on his rod.”

       I look around now, and not only are lips being bitten, but eyes are squeezed shut on faces that are turning red.

       Heather plays her next card, “Fifteen for two. - - Honestly, - - my uncle Joe can be such a jerk sometimes.”

       And that’s when the laughter volcano erupted. 

Something to take home in your creel:

       My mother always told me, “Two wrongs don’t make a right,” to which I’ve added, “and three wrongs can make for a fight!”  It’s probably just as well that Heather’s uncle Joe walked off the ice without pushing things any further that day, even if it did cost him hook, line and sinker to do it.  I don’t think that other guy was in the mood to be taught good manners that morning.  And, even if he was, I don’t think uncle Joe was overly qualified to be the one to teach them to him. 

       I’m guessing that a few honestly spoke words of wisdom would have probably sufficed to settle the whole problem without any rancor at all.  Both men could have fished all day, at a polite distance, and even exchanged pleasantries walking off the ice together, each carrying a bucket full of fish.  But that didn’t happen. 

       Wisdom is in short supply these days, as it always has been, I guess.  I’m pretty sure that we could all do with more of it.  I’m hopeful that at least uncle Joe might have gained a little.  Who knows?  In any event, if he had found wisdom earlier in life – I probably wouldn’t have gotten to hear this story – and that would have been a shame.