Intoxication of Simplicity

It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon on the Salmon River.  The afternoon sun had just started to cast the golden yellow light of late afternoon, illuminating the stale green and slightly red tinged maple and sycamore leaves of the surrounding forest. Losing the reflective sheen of overhead light, the water became transparent, and for the first time an angler could make out slippery freestone bottom and the submarine like salmon alternately dashing and resting as they relentlessly migrated upstream.  I'm generally aware of all of this as I sit down among the tall fragrant weeds of early fall, and push open my fly box. Just a few steps back from the water you realize how loud the stream is when you are standing in it all day, like the din of city traffic, you notice it most when it’s absent. Din is the wrong word, streams babble or thunder, din just isn’t organic enough. I had just landed and released a King Salmon, the umpteenth of the day, and I sat down to re rig the pole and replace the fly destroyed by the fish as it fought.

As a child you fish to catch fish, it’s about filling the stringer and the taste of the fillet. For some people that’s all that fishing ever becomes, a race to bragging rights or a full freezer. I’m not judging, and to be fair, to an extent that never really disappears. The men who I fish with keep an informal score, comments reserved for a subtle jab over lunch, fish stories over beer, maybe a small side bet, but the score is never serious enough to keep a good fish from being complimented or a rod cast aside to help with netting.  For us, fishing isn't about limits, it’s about the experience, and the process. Fishing is about forgetting.

All fishing has a rhythm,  I find this to be especially true of salmon fishing.  The trick is to find a seam in the water where the fish regularly run, then settle into the rhythm of cast to 11 o'clock, follow the drift to 4 o’clock, real, repeat, repeat, repeat…..  Discussion is brief, and generally frowned on, we are not on the water to chat, we are there to fish, forgetting whatever else in life.  Polite conversation between friends can have drastic consequences. “So Jack, how is your family?” Boom! Rhythm wrecked as the man now refocuses on reality; it’s like ending a massage with a surprise balloon popping. Rhythmic, Hypnotic, Intoxication of simplicity. There is nothing left to do but focus on the line, the fish, and the ripples on the water.  As close to Zen as middle aged, family riddled, type A personalities, who eat meat ad drink beer can get.  There is no Hummus in Pulaski.

The fly box that began the trip as a well-organized but tightly packed collection of feather and hook now resembled the discount rack at Marshals.  Tattered, bent, destroyed flies haphazardly stuck into the foam with bits of line and knotted leader still attached, evidenced the success of the previous 4 days of fishing.  By now the jitters and excitement have worked themselves out and the fishing is again second nature, the mechanics are just muscle memory.  As I sat and marveled and the disarray in the fly box, I found I had only one suitable fly left. One pink Mr. Mabou streamer in a size 4…..

In and of itself there is nothing special about the pink Mr. Mabou, except that 4 days ago he had 47 untattered friends in the fly box….and today he was alone. The realization that I had fished through the fly box wasn't all that transcendental, but it broke the mental silence.

The sun was warm but gentle on my face and I could clearly watch my companions as they alternately thrashed the water, broken now and again a low liquid rumble as a fish realized it was hooked. The fish I just released did the same.  He rumbled and the water boiled, then fell silent and sulked in a hole in the current.  Holding the rod higher and backward pulled him slowly out into the current and he  jumped clear of the water, landing head first, he bounded downstream. Pulling line from the real and forcing me to give chase. I had to turn the fish before he made it to the downstream riffle.  Placing my hand on the spool the buzzing of the drag stopped, and I pulled the 12 foot rod in a tight arc, parallel to the water. The taught line sings and whines like and old TV.  I can feel the rod flexing under the cork handle. Above it all the rod quivers with each stroke of his tail. Forced to turn, the fish makes two more leaps, low and long like an Olympic  long jumper, he arcs back to where he started.  As he jumps I can see the bright pink of the fly anchored in the corner of his mouth, and the brown gold color of the fresh king Salmon.

The fish is tired and but not beat.  Slowly raising the rod, and reeling down, again and again, I manage to pull the fish within 6 feet of the net; twice, and twice with a splash he returns to the current. It’s a test now of the fishes will power against the fiber of the rod and the strength of the 10 pound leader.  Eventually exhausted, the fish slowly works himself closer to shore, and is netted.  The hook tight in the corner of his mouth is almost straight from the 20 minute battle the once clear fluorocarbon leader is frayed and stretched to the point of looking like used dental floss.

An excellent fish, over 25 pounds with great beaked nosed mouth, toothless except for two lower upward pointing fangs.  He was released to complete the gauntlet of other fishermen, rapids, exhaustion and spawning.

When I caught the fish, I didn't know it would be the last, but if I had, nothing would have changed.  Watching the water but not really seeing it, the smoke drawn from my pipe lingers in the tall grass, I know that I’m done fishing.  I have caught my last Salmon for the trip. I was done, satisfied in every sense of the word, happy and relaxed. Mission accomplished, it was time to go home.

I sat there for a while more, lulled into bliss with a fine draw of the pipe and sips from the flask. The pink Mr. Mabou, size 4, was returned to the company of his mangled brethren and I slowly disassembled my rod, unwound the line from the reel and packed my bag for the 2 mile walk back to the car. My companions watched in disbelief, wondering why I was ending the day before the sun went down. Maybe when they read this they will understand.  It was not about how many, but about the process, the mindless rhythm, the perfect fish; this is as good as it gets. 

Festering at Fall Fairs

Tiss the season to fest and fair! Apple fest, Fall fest, Garlic Fest, Pumpkin Fest, Cider fest, Beer fest, Harvest Fest, October Fest….Stroudsburg had a Sausage fest (distinctly different than those experienced during your collegiate career) Bloomsburg had a Fair, so did the “West End” and countless other organizations. Lets not forget the Renaissance fair, which is in a class of hell all onto itself, but with charming accents.  I have a distinct love hate hate relationship with all and any of the above, and their brethren worldwide. 

Some new lexicon:

If one who parties is a partier, and similarly one who swims is a swimmer, then by extension one who Fests, is a Fester.  This is not a definition according to Dictionary.com but it should be.  In fact it’s close to my experiences…..I fester at the Fair, which is some nice alliteration.

The following is the text from the definition, with my comments in the ()

fes·ter: verb (used without object)

1.         To form pus; generate purulent matter; suppurate. (Zits caused by the grease saturated Air, or maybe the surprisingly tasty deep fried Oreo’s covered in chocolate sauce.)

2.         To cause ulceration, as a foreign body in the flesh. (Ulcers due to the increase stress and bile production caused by the frustration of being part of a sea of humanity suffering from the general lowering of IQ of any massed group of people.)

3.         To putrefy or rot. (This is what happens as you wait in line, to buy tickets, which give you the right to wait in line for food, to be consumed while in line to see an “attraction”, which is part of the wait you must endure for the restroom, prior to waiting in line for the tram to take you back through the parking lot, allowing you to get into your car to enter the cue waiting in line to leave.)

4.         To rankle, as a feeling of resentment. (The general emotion I feel towards people who take me to Fests and Fairs, as in “I am rankled by the act of festering”

I like the idea of festivals; music, food, a bit of culture.  But the execution always fails me.  Part of it is the amount of people, slowly meandering about, aimlessly looking the various booths of un necessary items, constantly in my way.  And part of it is paying for the right to wait in line….. After thinking about it, festival enjoyment is inversely proportional to the number of people in your party, factored by the number of children under drinking age. 

  

So follow this:

Wine Festival:   You and your spouse walk hand in hand, sampling wine and enjoying some good music, no hurry or agenda….this is ideal.

Garlic Fest:       You and your spouse walk holding the hand of the kids, fighting through vendors, trying to escape with your life…..less than ideal.

Apple Fest:       You and your spouse hold the kids hands, while wading through the masses, realize the other couples are behind you waiting in line for a pretzel, forcing you to wait nearby for them…..once the pretzel is purchased they catch up and after a brief discussion, the other couple heads off for ice cream, so you continue to wait….the kids stage a full blown rebellion and you spend 85 dollars on two root beer floats to quell the revolution. By the time you make it to the music venue the fun band is over and the local high school garage band is tuning up, poorly. The kids are sugared up and there is no place to sit.  In the hopes containing the kids you leave them at the venue to wait in line for more food, which is fried and cold by the time you are able to return only to find the group has already determined it was time to leave because they missed the fun band……

BOOM! Brain explosion!

So the fest is full of festering festers, who fester in line….that's a lot of pus. Enough said.

Appenzell Redemption

“Long ago as a kid, my grandfather taught me to fish in this same water.  He took me out for a day and taught me to read the water, and then stepped back to let me learn what he couldn’t teach. “

I heard and felt the spittle from the slash at almost the same moment.  “Monster” looked up at me with a bit of pain and fear in his eyes. His fishing rod, still in his hand, was braced on a rock under the water. “You alright?” I called.  I could see him wince a bit as he stood up and shake it off, “It hurts, but I’m ok.” I was pleased.

I grew up on a trout stream forgotten by the followers Whitman and Grey, missed in the great trout awakening of the late 1800’s and early 1900’s.  The stream that joins the famed McMichaels and eventually the Broadhead, has largely been forgotten.  All  the better for me. I have fished “my” stretch of it for the past 30 years and know each hole and riffle like the curls of my wife's hair. This part of the stream is mine, and on this day I shared it for the first time, with my oldest son.

The stream flows from the west, and in the early evening the sun was just reaching the top of the neighboring hills, beginning to cast its shadows on the branches and brambles that enclose the water.  Shaded in the mid-day, the water reflects the long yellow fingers of evening sunlight that slide sideways under the foliage.  Gurgling clean and clear, jumping through the freestone channel, the water is beautifully right.

Monster fell in the water just as we started upstream.  I had hoped he would, and chose a path that would almost guarantee it.  I wanted him to get the feel for wading and the jitters out before we got to the fish holding water.  I also wanted him to learn that falling in, when the stream is only 12 inches deep, wasn’t a big deal. We worked our way west, upstream, into the sunset, stopping along the way to make a few casts. The stream lit yellow and white flashes, by the setting sun, as the overhanging trees blocked the deepening blue of the overhead sky.

Fishing has it mechanics and its technique, but it also has art. Monster knew the mechanics, some technique, today was his first lesson in art.  You know you can’t teach art. It has to be felt more than learned, experience turns technique and mechanics into the beginning of art, passion and love do the rest. So I used the time to teach him a bit about the water, how to read it, where I knew the fish liked to sit. You can read a stream, the wave and ripples tell the story like the face of an withered old man. Each  line distinct, each eddy a nuance. It will take Monster a lifetime to master the text of the stream, to perfect the art.  I gave my son the basic tools, a brief lesson, I found some bait while he made the casts. Satisfied he had worked through all the jitters, we moved upstream.

Low to the water, crouched, hemlock leaflets falling in our ears (very Shakespeare) we approached the hole from the lower riffle and made our way to the bank.  A large boulder sits half in the stream like a crashed Volkswagen and under it, a depression carved by the current. A small smooth gloss lives just  beyond the depression,  just before the rapids at the end of the pool.  Overhead more hemlock and river birch keep you and your casts low. 

This is commando fishing at its finest. 

Crouched beside me, Monster has his knees in the water, I whisper “There are always fish here, but you have to make the right cast. I want you to cast across the current toward that tree and let it drift down.” “What tree Daddy?” The babble of the stream makes it hard to hear a whisper. “That birch, but watch out for the overhang.” “What?” “Ok, watch me, cast like this.” With that, I sidearm a cast just where I wanted it, and let the bait drift into the trout lair….”See how I let it drift, with the bail off and the rod tip…..” I never got to finish the sentence. The fish hit like a train.  This wasn’t supposed to be my fish, it was his, that cast wasn’t supposed to catch a fish! I tried to let the fish take line, but Monster saw the hit, he knew he hadn’t hooked it when I handed him the rod. 

True to its nature, the trout swallowed the hook and Monster landed it readily.  Despite holding a 12 inch trout on his stringer, I could see the look of disappointment on his face.  I was shattered, and felt like a giant ass.  It is not my job to catch the fish, it’s my job to teach him how….damn!

The last spot on “my” reach of the stream is one of the more complicated fishing holes I have ever experienced, but it was my last chance.  With a gentile curve, the upstream riffle pushes on the far shale bank.  Stone so steep and loose that every now and again bits of rock summersault down the face into the water.  The pool is smooth bottomed and has little cover, save a river birch defiantly growing through the fractured shale, leaning out over the pool.  This lone tree guards the fish and has over the years collected tackle and line one cast at a time.  The near bank is grown in with thicket, branches resting in the water, the slightest twitch sends the resident school of suckers into fits. It is impossible to sneak through, if the suckers get spooked they rocket back and forth in the stream scaring the trout off the bite. 

The only way to fish this place is to skulk up the middle making long casts ahead to upstream facing trout.

I pulled Monster off the water and filled him in.  This was a hard hole to fish, but he was going to do it.  I told him where the fish would be and let him know I would be there to help, but the rod was his.  As I checked the knots on his line and gave him some fresh bait, I scanned for a good place to leave my rod….I wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice.

Monster lead, as we slowly worked our way up the pool. Thanks to the glare from the setting sun the fish could not see us, the suckers remained cool.  We made it to the edge of the thicket, just downstream of the headwater riffle.  “Monster, cast long over the riffle, aim for the rock.  Then let it drift down…..careful casting upstream is tricky, the fish bite….” “Ughhhh, I know Dad! Can I just fish?!”

He was right, it was his turn, so I stepped back to get out of his back cast.  The cast was ugly, but perfectly placed right where it needed to be, and I watched the line.  Nervous, I saw the steady twitch as the bait bounced on the bottom, tick, tick, tick. Then a subtle but telling quickening of the twitch to t-tic t-tic and the line went slack. Monster turned and looked at me, I knew he had a fish, he didn’t. “Dad, I’m stuck!” “ Ah hu” is all I could muster, the trout seemingly aware of the conversation, waited for that moment to run. Surprise, shock and finally excitement washed over his face as he watched the rainbow trout hurl itself against the tension of the line, the force of its trajectory and the action of the rod carrying it out of the water where it hung long enough for me to become worried about the knots Monster tied and the strength of the leader.

I became aware that I was yelling a string of directions to the boy “Tip up, tip up! No down, ok let him run, pull reeeel, keep him in the water, pull, rod up….” Thankfully he wasn’t listening.  Monster played the fish well, and as I fumbled for the net I heard him yell with excitement.  Monster beamed with pride when I handed him the net, in it was a beautiful 15 inch rainbow.  “Can we keep it?” “He is legal, but it’s up to you, you caught him!” He knew it too.  This was not an empty win….he did it all and he was proud.

Elation!

Likely stocked a year ago, the fish made it through the winter and grew fat and colorful in the rich waters of the Appenzell. The time in the stream imparted the distinct pink color and delicate flavor, romanced by kings and literarys the world over, to the fish’s firm flesh. Oven poached with vermouth and fresh herbs, he was part of our evening meal, and never has a fish tasted so good.

In this lifetime I have caught thousands of fish, distinctly remember only a few of them. Although this isn’t my fish story to tell, I know it will remain one of my favorite memories, not so much for the fish itself but for the redemption granted by the stream, and the smile on my sons face.

Pap

Beautifully, Life on this planet continues, in and of itself, because it can. Adapting to morphological changes within its vessel, Life exerts force enough to change the very planet it inhabits.    The aggregation is unfathomable in its power; each small life begins and ends, replaced in part by the next bit of life. Not necessary equal in our eyes, but equally important throughout the millennia. The cycle is innate, death happens, and is as much a part of our existence as birth. For the world as a whole, each birth and death is a ripple on a frothy ocean. The death of someone close to you is the same global ripple contained in a fragile shot glass, each drop precious, the mental walls infinitely thin and sintered.

It was a Friday, as the sun came up the phone rang, and things changed forever.  It wasn’t sudden, I knew he was weak; I had visited the hospital and saw the concerned family. I spoke with nurses who expertly blended the truth (he’s dying) with the right mix of fact (he is conscious and comfortable) and pragmatism (the medicine helps, but the technology can’t be used forever). None the less, the call is never expected, never easy, never welcome.

Driving to work after the call; it was the same commute, the same cars around me, same trees….”Didn’t the world know? Do my fellow commuters know something is different? Do they care?” Happily no, the world didn’t stop, the ripple was too small. Not famous or infamous, nor conqueror or captain of industry, my family lives on, peacefully and self-righteous. While our loss is tangible, we don’t have to share the memories or defend his actions, it is as he would have preferred it.

Memories are what we have now.

The man in his prime was powerful, hardened by hard work and tempered by experience. Making a point, tenable or not, he had the insatiable fortitude to stand his ground, challenging anyone for whatever reason; with brown gleaming eyes, and a raspy pitched voice. His massive hands, ambidextrous, paw like, scarred, mangled, ready and able to extend his point. People respected this man because they had to, because he was a force to be reckoned with. 

He respected you, if you held your own, stood your ground, and worked hard.  Failing was ok, laziness inexcusable, temerity, tenacity, audacity paramount.

As a child, spending time with him was a gift.  His larger than life frame and personality cast a shadow of security that was undeniable.  On more than one occasion I felt his strong palm against my chest, pushing me backwards, his frame installed between me and whatever concerned him, shoulders squared, broad chin out. Protective almost to a fault, crossing this man was hazardous well into his 70’s.

His personality was large and he moved through this world like a freighter, carrying his loved ones in dry safety while the prow pushed and rolled over the unknown masses, rarely looking back to see the boiling wake of his passing. 

He taught me how to fish.

  

His eyes used to twinkle when he entered a church, as if the effort to contain his personality and “behave” was too much strain.  It was great to be there next to him then, when the twinkle gave way to an offhand comment or ridiculous remark….a cough and a wink. When the audience turned, knowing who the culprit was, he would quizzically feign a shocked look and then grin; mission accomplished. As I sat next to him for the last time, I half expected to have the service interrupted similarly, because he couldn’t stand the pomp any longer. The realization it wasn’t going to happen still hurts my heart.

He loved one woman without question, or limit. 

Disappointing her was the only thing he ever feared.

In the early morning hours of July 27th, 2012, a life ended and a legacy began.  

Begin the Beguine

The other day in Texas, a strange thing happened to me…..(this could be the beginning of a million bad stories)

Ok,  Scratch that. Mulligan......

Sitting at a table in San Antonio, in a room full of people, and the music started.  I could see the music, no not like in a Dr. Sues book with pink and blue balloon notes, but real notes on a staff.  A few Quarter notes and a Eighth note, and in the Bass Clef the chord or two, but it was enough.  I was hearing music and reading it as well, it gave me goose bumps and a tingle in the base of my spine.  I could feel this music, and for the first time in 15 years was reading it; feeling it, like I was in the orchestra.  Then the guy at the podium began speaking , which of course makes sense since the music was on a PowerPoint presentation, but nonetheless wrecked any whisp of transcendental emotion available.  In retrospect it’s a bit odd to become transfixed by the theme to the Connecticut tourism commission, but again this was Texas so anything without a steal guitar was a blessing.

A week goes by, I’m languishing in a conference room in Iowa, listening to a presentation for the umpteenth time, watching a PowerPoint get tweaked literally hours before the presentation…..and again the music starts.  It had been a long day so when I heard Artie Shaw’s version of “Begin the Beguine” I had to stop myself from proclaiming “I love this song!” since it became obvious after the first few opening bars that no one else heard it.  But I heard it….ba da bump, Da  dot da dot daaaa dot, and then the clarinet picks off the melody and floats through the brass and guitar chords……perfection. You owe it to yourself to follow this link and hear this song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ps05TaQuYvc. Cole Porter wrote this tune, Artie Shaw made it famous, and it’s an amazing 108 measures long.  There is no bridge, no coda, no repetition, each phrase is unique, the song begins, moves and ends on its own, when it wants, and it sits!

I used to play his song in a semi pro jazz band, and when it was right, just right, you could feel the weight of the melody as it left the room. A few beats would go by and the band leader would yell “sit down!!!!” And we would play the song again, with an extra lazy swing, tight and heavy, “sittin on the swing” with nowhere to go, until the band was just shy of fashionably late.  This song defines a genre. It is swing.

If you had to choose a melody to define your life, could you? It’s been done and clichéd to death. 

(Especially in movies with soul searching interludes after the big conflict scene complete with close ups of the actors staring blankly out a window, and dejectedly eating dinner, here the director uses music to cut out one sided dialog and save money on rewrites)  

We all thought we had the song of our lives with  “Stair way to Heaven” at the 7^th grade dance, or “Shine on You Crazy Diamond” in a the freshmen dorm…..maybe Green Days, When September ends or Will Smiths Summertime….Anything Jimmy Buffet….I Got it, Bob Marley’s “No Woman, No Cry!” whatever…..it’s your song you get to pick it.  However for anthem status you need to keep it, 30 years in, Slim Shady, or Wonderwall (what the hell is a Champaign Supernova anyway?) don’t cut it. The song needs legs and it has to be patient…..Begin the Beguine fits the bill for me.

The beauty here is the song doesn’t repeat.  The melody holds true, and is instantly recognizable but there is no hook…..no repeats.  You are not memorizing the chord progression and fudging your way through this song. Cole Porter and Artie themselves famously proclaimed it was impossible to know the whole song, they had to read it when they performed, which means each time, each bar was a surprise. The parallels to life are there, go find them yourself.

Fairly sure I can chalk up the music in Iowa to dehydration and a bad case of flat ass syndrome, and in Texas to the Connecticut Tourism representative, so insanity for the time being is out.  However I’m pleased that my life has a sound track and it’s a bit more profound the most of the music in my collection.  I like to think I know the whole song, but of course I don’t, none of us do.  We wont know the whole song until it ends, and there will be not repeats, no coda….we have got  to sit down and enjoy the melody while it swings and marvel at it, as it leaves the room, gone but not forgotten.

Happiness at Third Base

After enjoying the gastronomical beauty created within the Dutch Oven I promptly proclaimed it “the Red Pot of Goodness” and proudly completed a digital chest pounding and notified the world via Facebook. Yes, there is good in this world and I possess at least a small portion of it in within the confines of the iron and enamel pot.  Now that I have definitive proof of goodness, (punt alert), the Proof is in the Pot, I’m forced to reckon with evil.  Good Evil, Yin Yang, Gravity and Lift, each elemental force has an equal opposite. Newton had it right and like a good scientist I need to follow the theory until something better comes along. 

Tonight, a few bourbons under my belt it occurs to me that good and evil form two of the Kingdoms’ of being, and like the tree of life, within those Kingdoms’ further classification is possible….

Phylum of Evil

True Evil…..Darth Vader, History Term Papers, 3^rd Grade English Class, 7^th Grade Formal Dances, People who microwave fish at work, (Insert Favorite/Least Favorite, anti deity here)

Pervasive Evil: The high pitched whining sound made by my rental car for my latest 300 mile drive, Mariah Carry Singles, Uncompromising politicians, Artificial Strawberry Scent.

Transient Evil: Stuff the Networks uses for “slow” news days, my most recent favorite Nutella…Who knew that chocolate, milk, fat, and whatever else mixed into a spread is just the same as a candy bar? Duh! Gasp! Shocker! (There is future blog fodder in this for sure). Evil today, and good tomorrow.  Eggs suffered this fate, Teflon pans will, gonna go out on a limb and say teeth bleaching is next on the “Evil for a Day” rotation. Oddly sensational news which is perhaps the most evil of the transient evils will never report on itself.  Yes you Barbara Walter’s and the well timed tear, or you Weather Channel guy standing in the storm surge. Ted Koppel? Don’t get me started…..

Resident Evil: Yes it was good, and who doesn’t like Mila, but really, it’s starting to get old.

The evils in life surround us, especially those of us who fall just shy of “crazy” on the Skepticism /Paranoia continuum.  Evil is easy to find, and since we all have a bit of self preservation lurking in our primal beings we all or a bit more keen on finding Evil than finding good.  This is why the 10PM news is full of felons and fire rather than births and graduations…..Evil keeps us stuck to our seat and sells air time……which is how I know that Barbara Walters well timed tear is evil.

Recently I found good on my sons Little league ball field, specifically at the third base coach position.  The game is “coach pitch” and its great food for the soul. This is not a team competition, it’s a competition within each kid, they want to hit the ball, run fast, catch the ball, and make it through the three innings until the snack is provided.  From third base you can see it all, the joy and surprise when the bat hits the ball, the sheer determination as the kids run full out to first base, pride beaming as they High 5 the 1^st base coach and eye up the run to second.  At second base they relax and enjoy life, chew on a finger, or make weird kid noises…..But on the run to third base they light up, home is just around the corner and the pressure is off.  It is here where the kids display their artistic gymnastic abilities.  They skip, hop, bounce, ninja kick, sashay, wander, spin, and roll to third base.  I love it.  Sure it’s not “real” baseball, but it’s not supposed to be, the kids don’t care.  From the Third Base Coach perspective, it’s a cute parade of bobble headed kids grooving to a beat only they can hear.  Evil doesn’t have a chance in this arena. 

The point here is when you find good grab it, enjoy it.  I believe we are all born with an ability to seek good, we can see it in our children’s face, they know how much fun mud is, we just see the laundry or the stains on the carpet. We are trained to be cautious, jaded by life and bad drivers which keeps us alive but missing out on life……keep your eyes open, you will be surprised with what you find. 

Meanwhile anyone else have a Evil Phylum to add?

Losing a Bit of Yourself, and Liking It!

Have you ever lost something which formed a bit of your inner being?  No, I’m not talking hair or a special ring, or even a limb, I’m referring to something both intangible and invisible but integral to who you are.  The first parallels that come to mind are religion and virginity, and then reluctantly Love. Recently I have been feeling a bit of my persona slipping away. The transition has been slow, and fluid, much more akin to a loss of ones religion than the immediate losses enjoyed in the back seat of the Buick.  It hasn’t been a painful transition, rather, I have experienced a fairly tasty and subtitle digestion. Room has been made for another course…..I have slowly but surely been losing my taste for Tequila.

Gasp! You say!

Some History for the uninformed:

Like all good college students I began drinking too soon and well before the fine Commonwealth of Pennsylvania thought appropriate. Since I matriculated in Central PA, the fluid of choice was Yuengling Lager. “Lager” in the local vernacular because let’s face it, Yuengling is hard to say sober, and damn near impossible to say from the losing side of the pong table. Early forays into the hard liquor world were influenced by a few critical concerns, chief among those was volume of booze for the buck. So the booze was clear, cheap, and in a plastic bottle; mixed with something full of sugar and consumed quickly…..Resulting in hangovers which required more than a few cheeseburgers to cure and the freshmen 25-50 which I still carry with me today.

One evening the door to my dorm room flung open, and in it stood a seriously intoxicated friend who in one hand had his pledge bottle, and in the other a pizza procured though dubious means.  He handed me the pizza and then thrust the bottle at me, “Have a drink.” The bottle was Monte Alban Mezcal, yes the yellow stuff that has the worm in it, and while not Tequila it was the beginning of a long friendship with the Agave based beverages.

Over time I acquired and reveled in a taste for good Reposado Tequila, served neat.  Not a shot, or a shooter, but a good two fingers of Mexico’s finest in a glass unadorned with either salt or lime.  For me Tequila was a sippin drink and  a margarita is something you make when you have booze to cheap to drink straight.  Me and tequila got along just fine. 

Ordering Tequila neat was always a crap shoot.  First you would have to explain, “No not Cuervo, Yes that bottle over there, the one that says Tequila but does have the word Cuervo on it.” You would be amazed how many bar tenders got it wrong. They would shake it with ice, or instinctively pour it into a shot glass and serve it with another glass holding the lime.  

My companions would look at me cautiously, and quiver as they pondered their last Tequila experience.  “Is that Tequila?” “Yep” “Really, you’re gonna drink it like that?” “Sure, want to try it?” “No!, the last time I drank that stuff…….I can barely stand the smell.” 

There were advantages. Never did someone who knew what I drank, ask “do you want to do some shots?” Furthermore once the bartender got it right, he would remember forever.

(Trying to numb the pain from holiday shopping I stopped in the bar at the KOP Mall, I had been there last, the year before.  The bartender looked up at me, smiled and said, “You’re the Tequila Neat guy right?” True Story.)

I find myself reaching for the bottle of Basil Hayden far more often than the Milagro, and Bourbon has its own rewards.  Its smooth and sweetish to Tequila’s smoky spice and yet they both have the a vanilla aftertaste that I enjoy the most.  You can find a few good bourbons to choose from in most bars, which is not a luxury enjoyed by Tequila.  While I still drink Tequila it’s no longer safe to describe me as the big guy who drinks Tequila neat…..frankly I miss it.  It’s fun to be distinctive, to have a drink that while simple is distinctively yours.  There are other people on this planet who drink Tequila like I used too, but for every agave sipper there is a million vodka martini drinkers.

What I cant figure out is how to handle this transition.  Should it be embraced, like the experiences in the Buick, or dreaded? Those of you who have found and lost love, know that you find it again…..just not in exactly the same place or formula, and while it’s initially painful life works out for the best.  My guess is losing a religion is a bit more shattering.  

All of which really begs the question: Is Tequila a love or a Religion…..I think I have said enough, I’m thirsty. 

Understanding NASCAR

The other day we hit the road a bit later than we should have and made our way to Ringing Rocks Park.  The drive was tedious in that it has a million lights and on this Sunday collected every last driver lulled into lackadaisical driving by the complexities of communion wine and heavy scripture.  We made it, but were forced to dip into the picnic lunch rather than risk mutiny for the 90 minute drive.  This place is a boys dream.  It’s a boulder field filled with rocks generally about the size of a large suitcase….. larger rocks formed island like features, smaller ones kind of fill in the nooks and crannies. You can’t see the soil underneath the rocks at all.  As soon as you leave your seat you can see rocks with hemispherical divots carved out of them…products of countless visitors hitting the rock looking for a ring.  You have a short walk from the parking lot to the field, you know you’ re getting close as the ringing gets louder….the divots on each stone mark the trail.

It’s not often a boy is given a hammer and told to hit whatever he likes.  My sons eyes gleamed, and they tentatively tapped rocks and lumbered across the field.  You could tell the good ringers from the bad, the good ones had the larger divot.  The boulders are a type of diabase granite with high iron and tin content so when you hit them they give off a distinctly pleasing “ding”. Depending on the bounder’s size and how it lies, each bounder has a different tone.

The best way to navigate a field like this is speed….you kind of walk quickly across the tops of the bounders rather than climb up over and down each one.  Think Qubert or maybe Mario brothers.  The faster you go the more stable you are and the less likely it is for a stone to turn under you. Its counter intuitive until you see it done…..so it makes sense that the boys were slow and thorough under their mothers gaze ….tap tap, ring ring and a slow scramble.  I however, knew better and bounced out to mid field, gracefully hitting the tops of the rocks. My wife did the same and joined me.  My sons were shocked, mom and dad running on rocks!?! The boys realized that they were the slow ones, which to a boy is unacceptable,  so they tried to emulate our rock bouncing. 

Here is where it gets interesting.  In moments we watched the boys evolve from slow safe rock scramblers, to rock bouncing hammer wielding daredevils. I was pleased until I recognized that my wife wasn’t nearly as content as I expected….watching her precious boys run over rocks with little concern for how little spring diabase has when impacted by a head wasn’t quite what she bargained for….. And then it happened. 

“Mom watch me jump!” Horror to a moms ears, no mom really wants to watch this, turning her head she saw the boy leap a good 5 feet from one the “island” boulders onto the next” island” bounder.  He made it, no blood or snapping of bone.  If you have sons you know what happened next, each boy vying for our attention as they attempted jump after jump.  We watched….and watched, eventually they tired of jumping and we heard, “Ok I’ll race you to mom and Dad” and it was on.  Two boys running over the tops of bounders, hammers in hand, bouncing, leaping into each other…..for no good reason except they were boys and the boulders were there.  They were loving life.  For the parents, it was a moment of pridefull terror. For the boys, few large bruises and a scrape or two but nothing severe enough to stop the subsequent races.

If the challenge is there, and there is some way to make it a competition, boys will do it.  Like it or not it’s gonna happen…. so now finally I understand NASCAR.

When All Else Fails, Fish

11PM on a Tuesday finds me reposed on the love seat staring intermittently at the screen and the fish tank.  The tank needs a bit of work.  The pH is off a bit, and the filter outflow is falling into the water making that tinkle sounds which cause bladder failure….there are diatoms on the glass, and a bit of chewed plant leaves floating in the corner.  But on the whole it looks better than what you see at the dentist’s office.  I have started and stopped a dozen blog entries, none are sticking.  Runners hit the wall. For me the first two paragraphs are work, then once the crest of the hill is achieved, it’s gravity, the idea is there and the words just form themselves. Tonight someone turned off the gravity. 

Typically the fish don’t provide guidance, they just do their thing in their world and in return for food swim to the side of the tank when they see me.    It occurs to me that the fish have a universe defined by glass, perched in my living room. 

Yeah I know not exactly deep original thought here.  This is the mental sawdust from what was heavy thinking in a smoky dorm room best exemplified by Delta House pledge Tom Hulce in Animal House or maybe by the entirety of Douglas Adams trippy Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.  None the less I’m stretching for material here…..I just can’t resist.

I have created a replica world for these fish. Fish several hundred generations removed from the parents who were plucked from the jungle river.  It’s not easy. Turns out a slice of River from South America isn’t easy to replicate in a suburban living room this far from the equator.  Iron enriched gravel for the plants indigenous to South America. Lights with specific spectrum on timers to control the intensity and duration of light.  The water is passed thought the filter 6 times an hour, were bacteria eat the ammonium and nitrite and produce nitrate for the plants to eat.  In the filter, peat to soften the water and add the tannic acid found in streams in the Amazon Basin, and specially designed porous ceramic to trap particulates. The water is then pumped through a UV filter, destroying the reproduction cycle of evil microbes and snails, and finally the water is heated to 79 degrees before returning to the tank.  (The water in the tank is clearer than the tap water from which it originated….Kinda Deuce Bigalow) The fish don’t know this, the fish can’t comprehend pumps and timers.  They feel that the water is right, they can see the lights and the plants….they live and die based on the world I created and maintain, but at the same time can’t comprehend it. Biblical.

It’s a fair trade.  I keep their world running and they provide the beauty and the relaxation.  Its voyeuristic but not in a naughty way. You can wrap your mind around it any way you like.  The result is the same, 30 minutes staring at a fish tank, deep in cosmic thought or not thinking at all.  Its just the same. Enjoy.

The Death of Mellow

So we made it, the holidays are behind us.  We survived.  I’m guessing we all ate too many cookies, watched some bad TV, maybe imbibed a little too aggressively, (For the record, never water down sweet booze with vodka, you will regret it, I did.) and got through essentially unscathed.  Now what?  For me I used the time to calm down a bit.  I made a concerted effort to reduce stress and allow the world to slow down.

After the holiday break I resolved myself to the long dark months ahead.  I settled into my office chair, turned on Handel’s Water Music and began working….it was good to be productive again, it was really good to not be thinking about the next week, or the next months, it was just the work, it was a Tuesday.  I managed to stay focused, just began to feel like I had the “now” fully in my grasp and found the rhythm, January was moving by, but it wasn’t flying.  I had little on the Radar and life was percolating nicely.  The world was mellow.

Then, the phone rang.  

The call was short, to the point, and devastating.
 “Hello”
 “Butchy, It’s on!”

I have alluded to this in the past; I’m a person of many nicknames. Butchy is used by those I fish with, some of whom don’t know my first name.  So those three words, “Butchy, It’s on!” told me all I needed to know to completely wreck my peaceful resignation to winter.  I knew with those words a fishing trip was in the works, I was invited, and I would spend the next months consumed with anticipation like a kid with a toy catalog.

The internet abounds with cute phrases, and quotes on the idea of “living in the now” and in the past I have completely disregarded them, or rather chuckled at the naivety.  Really, how can you enjoy the now, if you didn’t plan properly 2 months ago?  Makes sense to me. However, recently I realized that this is a life consuming proposition. You never really get to enjoy the now because there is always something further out to plan, and if there isn’t anything to plan, that’s a whole other worry. This wasn’t really an epiphany, in fact I fought it.  I fought the notion hard, and lost.  Who wants to change a lifetime of perspective?  Can you even begin to change a life time without the crash and burn of rock bottom?

Rock bottom isn’t an option; I’m not riding this ship to visit Davie Jones.  After a taste of the freedom those few days in January allowed, I’m torn between the excitement of anticipation and planning and the mellow resolve of day by day living.  Kids seem to have this figured out.  They have short range Radar that allows them to anticipate ice cream for dessert but the thought of it doesn’t consume their day.  Kids make and lose plans willynilly, fail, cry, and move on.  Adults eat the ice cream and worry about fitting into a bathing suit in three months.  I think about what ice cream flavor to serve 6 months in advance.

There is a balance in there somewhere, just got to find it.

February is almost over.   I can see the idea of Spring lurking around. First we must weather March, with its wind, Green Beer, Ides and all.  Then Birthdays, Trout Season, Hikes, Tie Shirts, 4^th of July, Vacation, Bugs, Sunburn, Poison ivy, Back to School Shopping………..

Still looking for that Balance obviously.

And Then I Remembered this Blog…..Hypocrisy Averted

Lately life has been simple and relatively sans stress.  The kids are healthy, wife still tolerates me, work is moving along, and my 1999 Dodge Dakota continues to defy the grim reaper and stack up miles….good news right?  I thought so too, until I realized that stress forms the kernel of annoyance, and from that annoyance springs inspiration for this Blog. So no stress equals no Blog, but the Blog reduces stress, so no Blog equals more stress.  

This is not quit a complete circle of thought, more like a spiral. Head on it looks complete circle, add a little skew and you can see it degrades forever.  It took me some time and several failed Blog entries to grapple with this enigma but eventually I found inspiration in something positive. Then, “it” happened, and poof the stress monkey returned, and with it, annoyance and inspiration. Welcome to the Crazy Train Thought Spiral….please keep your appendages within the car at all times, and seat belts secure!

Sitting down to write I fired up the TV for background noise.  It landed on channel 23 which due to my ghetto cable is the documentary channel.  Not National Geographic, but gritty college student, art deco, trust fund documentaries.  Sometimes they are really compelling, other times infuriating. On screen was an attractive girl of college years walking in a throng of people, I looked up just as the off screen camera man called out to her and asked for an interview.  The girl smiled and said “sure.”  The antagonist, still off-screen, then began a series of questions which trapped this poor girl, it went something like this….

“Are you a Christian?” “Yeah” She smiles unaware the trap is already closing. “So why are you here tonight?” “To party with friends, and have some fun” Camera zooms out a bit, “Why did you dress like that?” She had on a tank top and blue jeans, nothing scandalous. “I look good. You have to look good around here, gotta see and be seen, giggle giggle” “Do you ever look lustfully at others?” “What?” She says perplexed. “Do you ever look at other people with lustful thoughts in your mind?” The girl lights up, beams a smile. “Hell yeah, I look at my boyfriend, he’s hot, I look at him! Have you seen him!” and she tries to pull him on camera.  The trap is sprung. “The bible says it’s a mortal sin to have lustful thoughts, you are committing adultery looking at others!” She kind of wrinkles her brow at the camera, and is about to say something when…”Do you think you will meet Jesus when you die?” Timidly, “Yeah.” “What makes you think that?” “Because I have a good heart. I’m a good person, I have morals and values and I was raised right.” Bam! You can almost hear the snap of the trap doors, the click in the antagonists head, Got her….He quotes some verses and says, “That’s pride, the bible says no one is good enough, you can always be better.  You have just admitted to two mortal sins, still think you’re a good Christian?” “You better change your ways! If you want to enter heaven!”

By this point I’m raging, screaming at the TV for the boyfriend to crunch the antagonist, or for the girl to walk away….nope, she looked devastated, so I turned it off.  I imagine the antagonist to be a kid, good looking enough to engage the girl in conversation, but too ugly for TV….I can see him now, dressed in Khakis and a blue button down, with a pin of some sort on his lapel. Completely socially awkward outside of the cloistered home schooled upbringing and marathon Sunday mega-church services where they have break out sessions to discuss the devil in Disney movies and how “Will and Grace” wrecked the American values system. I have seen this guy at airports.  He was on a mission to save the heathens, but started with ruining this random young woman’s evening….

Still seething but determined to write my positive blog, I notice a few emails. Like a double tap to the solar plexus after a head shot, the emails are religious based forwards, one starts out with a scripture quote, the other is a sappy something good happened after I prayed story.  I didn’t ask for this.  You can block unwanted spam, but an email from someone you know is another story.

The positive Blog is now dead; I have a mission….it’s time to get even!

My plan was to gather the non-Christian equivalent of the emails I received, hit reply to all, and laugh maniacally while wringing my hands.  Two can play at this game! 

Nope! Fail! Cue the crashing airplane sound.

It seems that there is a huge dearth (Is “Huge Dearth” an oxymoron?) in Googleable material that replicates what I received, built upon other religions.  Especially those that are non Judeo Christian…..Initially undaunted, I turned to the atheists.  While I found atheist literature, I ran headlong into the atheist conundrum…..If you write a book about what to believe, and use it to tell/ convince/ educate others, you are practicing a religion, which is kinda against what the atheist are standing for.

Boom, impact….no parachute.  The plan was doomed.

I then set out to write a scathing rebuke….insisting that while I believe religion is an excellent framework for discussing culture and society, and that I think a free give and take of ideas is essential….what I have experienced is not a free give and take.  People are not broadcasting their opinions, waiting for the response, jealously excited to digest those of other religions.  They are preaching, evangelicalizing, they have made up their minds and their hearts, ears, and eyes are closed to others.  I wanted to rave on about how I don’t broadcast my ideas unsolicited, and pry into their inbox. I had a great closing about how the world would be a better place if you had your beliefs and I had mine, and we could talk about them (when asked, over a bottle) without trying to force a dogma on each other…..just think of the lives that would be saved. I had this all worked out.

And then I remembered this Blog…..

Propagated on your page without you asking for it, the Blog is a billboard. Some stop to read it, others skip it, but you kinda end up reading it anyway as you speed along. The full weight of my hypocrisy was teetering over my head, I could see it there like Wile E. Coyote in the Looney Tunes.  If I hit send they had me.

So here we are…..rather than use email, I’m using the Blog, I would rather tease my adversaries on the same playing field than get squashed by my own apparently boundless hypocrisy.

Oddly it feels good to be bound up in the spiral….it gives me something to vent about. The Venturi Effect definitely applies to stress venting, and it helps one little blog exhaust more than the weight of the words alone.  Remember if you insist on proselytizing your opinions and beliefs you should in the least be willing to tolerate others when they return the favor, I have learned the lesson, you have been warned.

This concludes your ride on the Crazy Train Thought Spiral, please embark on the rest of your journey. 

K.I.S.S.

 “Is not a kiss the very autograph of love?” (Henry Finck) 

Sorry this isn’t that kind of Blog.  So emphatically, no, not now. I’m not gonna get all Prime Time FBI super smart Jeffersonian Bone Doctor on you. No denying that kind of kiss exists briefly in fleeting moments throughout life, and forever in Sandra Bullock movies. But today, right now, while you’re reading this, KISS is an acronym.  Keep It Simple ____. The beauty of this acronym is its scalability, a spectrum…..Keep It Simple (Sir, Silly, Stupid, Sh_thead) you get to pick your last S, the idea is the same the impact varies.  KISS is my new mantra.

Thirty minutes before we left from our 6^th and last family holiday overindulgence fest, the kids spotted snow.  Flakes sped through the flood light cast onto the garden and were magnified in size and impact as they slowly and steadily coated the summer picnic table.  The boys stood still for the first time all day and took it all in, waiting, anticipating, until it was too much.  With a half of an inch of snow on the ground, they erupted into a frantic wave of hands and feet, coats and gloves, floundering to be the first into enough clothing to escape the grandparents’ grasp and get into the snow.

It was astonishing to see kids who regularly take 10 minutes to tie a shoe, speed dress into extra layers and gladly don hats, without so much as a parental whimper.  Usually that kind of speed requires liberal use of the verbal cattle prod.  Not tonight, they flew out the door, ran into the spotlight, and stopped.  Transfixed by the light?  Nope.  Mouth open, Head inclined, Tongue out they chased the flakes trying to catch one as it fell.  It was comical to watch, because the same light that allowed them to see the flakes hurt their eyes causing them to squint exaggeratedly, while waving and bobbing their heads.  They looked like they were trying to do a Stevie Wonder impersonation, sans piano of course.

They saw me watching them and called through half frozen lips “Da oo gotaa ca oughide. Is nooo! (Dad you gotta come outside! It’s Snow!) Really, I was just as excited and for a few moments forgot the snowy 2 hour drive ahead of me, forgot about the unpacking of the car, the added cookie weight on my midriff, the pain in my back, forgot about life in general and spent time doing my own Stevie Wonder impersonation. (Catch that visual!) Snow has a distinct taste when you catch it directly, slightly bitter with just a hint of metallic overtones; you can almost taste the coal.  Life was good.

This is truly one of life’s simple pleasures.  The polar opposite of the first walk in the grass with bare feet come spring. When it comes to pleasure, simple is good. Problem is, simple is hard to attain.  Holidays do their best to wheedle us out of the simple plan into monumental “Plantzilla” like events that require matching ribbons, special plates and boisterous hellos. As parents and children all, we want our kids to have special memories, to enjoy their childhood, and I think we all fall into the “Plantzilla” trap, each event; each year has to be a step up from the previous.

Does it? 

Stop for a moment and think about your favorite childhood memories. Ok, were they complicated? Do you remember your 7^th birthday party because the plates matched the napkins and the cake, and your mom had M+M’s with your picture on them?  Or because you had a waterfight with ice water?  For me all my favorite memories are simple, hot dogs on a stick, snow fights, swimming in the creek.  You get my point.

2011 was a long year, and while we have things to look forward to in 2012, work, vacation, stuff to complicate.  I remain determined to Keep It Simple and remind myself it’s not so much how fancy the time is, but how much time you have.  Interestingly, the less time you spend making things complicated, the less stress you have and the more time you have to enjoy it.  Which is a bit of a worm turner to say the least. So while I currently rate myself at the far right of the keep it simple spectrum (see the list at the top of the page) my goal is to end the year someplace between Stupid and Silly.  

(Not sure if I intended the Right to be Sh_thead and the Left to be Sir, but now that I read it, and ponder the double political entendre, seems like a bit of a Freudian slip.)

Since you have to know I have no idea who Henry Finck is or was. I have to admit to digging up the quote online, which was kinda interesting journey in its own right. As gift dear readers, below are a few of the more interesting KISS quotes I found.  Thought you might find useful considering Valentine’s Day is around the corner.  Feel free to use them on a loved one….might help with another simple pleasure.

A kiss is a lovely trick designed by nature to stop speech when words become superfluous.  ~Ingrid Bergman

A kiss that speaks volumes is seldom a first edition.  ~Clare Whiting

 I am in favor of preserving the French habit of kissing ladies' hands - after all, one must start somewhere.  ~Sacha Guitry

I kissed my first girl and smoked my first cigarette on the same day.  I haven't had time for tobacco since.  ~Arturo Toscanini

http://www.quotegarden.com/kisses.html