Embedded Files
The Intergalactic Pie and Walleye Run
Recently, I embarked on a trip to fish. Luckily, remaining among the permitted activities allowed is fishing under consent of the King/Governor, whatever. I wish there was an acronym for that which would stick… I went with the almost famous but never contagious Muddy Waters. (Seriously, he’s a hermit who has been prescribed hydroxyquinoline by the VA before it was cool). To mark the occasion, we dubbed the trip “The Intergalactic Pie and Walleye Run” mostly because we like Pie and Walleye. The intergalactic moniker is from a private joke that they don’t pay me enough to share.
The trip started in its usual mundane fashion with the traditional breaking of my best rod’s tip. Each year, I put off buying a rubber net and each year a lure gets caught in the old rope nets. Then, whilst I fight to free it, I managed to break the rod tip down to the second eye-lit. I know I should cut the line first but that would take away the challenge and tradition. Once I had the essentials packed in the truck, beer, ice, beer, chips, beer, and bourbon with my gear it was on the highway.
The trip was hosted by a nearly warm sunny day that evoked a great feeling of euphoria that lasted the entire ride. Drunken by sun and speed, temporarily, I even thought about getting a CDL and driving for a living. Luckily, I sobered up long enough, while passing under a small cloud, to remember that a CDL would leave little time for fishing, shooting, and I might have to backup into an alley and around a dumpster in Brooklyn, NY. I managed to keep my mind focused on the proper navigational beacons enough to pull safely into Muddy’s driveway over the moat, through the gate and past the security in time to prep gear and drink a beer.
Of course, my guide had told me that he had the boat and gear ready to go before I got there, this year. He almost did! There were a few glitches to work out yet. Like getting the boat out, under power, cleaned off and geared up, trailer lights and tire fixed; that’s all. We got to it and were done with plenty of time to spare. All the while my wise sage of fishing regaled me with the advantages of the virus age. Who would realize the benefits of things like wearing masks will defeat facial recognition software? A great thought that came somewhere after, “What does a mollusk do if it gets a sore foot?”
In the morning of the big first day, as we loaded up I mentioned that one of my two rods was broken, again. He said, as he loaded three of his own rods, “No, problem. I’ll use your other one.” So, at least that was settled. We had a relatively easy drive to the lake, where we only got lost three or four times (twice more than last year!), went through two red lights (no facial recognition), fought a goose and lost.
Then we managed to get on the lake where we proceeded to catch walleye! For years we have been “should’ve been here last week” anglers. Meaning that whenever we go out someone takes pity on our poor catch and says, “Should have been here last week.” We finally made a “last week”. For two days in a row (the second day we only got lost once going back to the same place and missed one red light). Muddy did pretty well using my best rod and I can’t complain about my short rod’s production. My partner did start to mention that he may have out fished me until I reminded him that my rods caught every fish.
On the second day, I managed to get into a personal record walleye that fought for a long time with several hairy runs and dives. Muddy, saved my honor, pride and sanity by netting the 28” 7lb jack hog at the last second just as my stinger hook broke free!
Sometimes on a fishing adventure a mishap can hit you in the strangest places. Back home that night, I took my celebratory shower. You can’t go around smelling like huge walleye and anise forever, you know. It may be surprising to learn that although I can read walleye water and land them with a broken rod, I can’t read bottles in the shower.
Muddy hermits up with a lot of pets which, I’d never really thought about but they are very clean. There in the shower with one burning eye closed, I used my other far sighted eye to read a shampoo bottle. I’ve mentioned before the crime of shampoo bottles looking like conditioner bottles but this time, I thought I was safe. I saw a bottle that’s label looked something like this, through one eye, “#%@%&# #@#%%@ @#$POO”. Obviously, I managed to find the shampoo! I poured a puddle in my hand and rubbed it into my scalp. It didn’t take long to notice that the thick motor oil grade “shampoo” was sticking to my scalp and hair and not foaming at all.
I rubbed and rubbed. To make matters worse, I’ve got a lot of hair so the stuff wasn’t really moving or spreading out. I reached for another bottle of shampoo and saw a horse on it. That stuff acted weird and I was able to make out, “Horse and Mane”. Trying not to panic, suddenly yearning for sugar cubes and carrots; I grabbed another bottle with my oily hands and that one burned! Wiping my eyes, which wasn’t easy with oily hands it read, “Flea and Tick Killer”. Now instead of getting clean I was looking like I had just swum through an oil slick of a sinking ship. I grabbed another bottle and then another not knowing what they were; it no longer mattered. I was stumbling around the tub, knocking over bottles and dead fleas. Then I think I heard Muddy yell, “Watch out for the Morocco Oil in there, it’ll ruin your day!” “Right!” I managed back after muffling a couple curses. Finally, I got something that bubbled. I scrubbed and scrubbed and managed to look half as good as a duck that got stuck in the Exxon Valdeze spill. Drying out and grabbing my glasses I took the bottle that started the whole thing and read it. It wasn’t $#^*POO at all. It was, “Arapa Oil of Morrocco”. I’m not sure what Arapa Oil does but I’ve been hit on by three cats and proposed to by at least four dogs.
Before leaving for home, Muddy and I assessed the damage for the trip. Three cases of beer, one bottle of bourbon, one black eye, one broken rod, some great flea free hair, a goose with greatly improved self-esteem, four love sick dogs with three cats, well over 400” of walleye and no tickets, yet! With that total we awarded ourselves fifth place out of zero entries in our Intergalactic competition, amateur division with three asterisks, pending settlement of the lawsuits.
CALL ME ISHMAEL
“Call me Ishmael.” “For there is no folly of the beast of the earth which isn’t infinitely outdone by the madness of Man.” Herman Medville, Moby Dick 1851
Recently, I celebrated one of my favorite six-day weekends of the year, “Euchre Camp”. Euchre is an old card game, traditionally played in the North Woods by hunters and anglers at camps to pass time.
Annually, I happen to host a dozen esteemed colleagues who are cordially invited to hunt, fish, and play cards. In our case, we have evolved or devolved into euchre players who hunt and fish to pass time. Friday night, was our first official night in camp and the kick off of our spring formal and Fe’te. After rush and then happy hours, our survivors adjourned to the bourbon room (porch) for cigars and bull crap. We hold the main euchre tournament complete with a trophy for the winning team on the second night of the event. It is a big deal for us. The rest of the time we barbecue, hunt turkey, fish, destroy each other’s confidence, dig leeks, hunt morels, apply first aid to each other and whatever else is deemed necessary.
This year, one member was concerned about a text from the planning committee using auto-(in)correct. He thought it was suggested that we have “morals” this year at camp. I assured him that we were not going to have morals; we were hunting morels. As per our gentlemen’s code, all ethics matters are submitted by field staff, reviewed by the boss of you, completely changed by several sub-committees and passed to the minister of big hats who, after a three-fifths majority thumbs up by senior staff, is endorsed by the Rush Chairman; who then blames field staff for any complaints. We refrain from such distasteful acts as fishing with snelled hooks and without live bait, using plastic turkey calls and we only use real maple syrup on our pancakes. He was relieved to learn that we could continue to look down our noses at other camps that were using Aunt Jemima syrup and dry flies.
As per tradition, the guys straggled into camp in a disorderly fashion. The guests that said they’d be late were early and the two guys who were supposed to be early, were late. Some got caught up in a tour of bars along Scenic Route Six. Those wayfaring flotsams were nice enough to send pictures from beer caves with amused strangers along the Grand Army of the Republic Highway. I think they are even going to get a concert style T-shirt made up. (The navigation committee supported the notion, I mean motion).
Come daylight Saturday, we passed the time between Euchre games by attempting fishing. Frankly, fishing terrifies me. I am a fishing lure aficionado and as such, a cast is only a chance to risk offering up a beautiful lure to the whims of fish and fates of snags. I had a new favorite this year and lost it. What happened next has passed into lore and become the stuff of laughing, I mean legend…
After some effort and one threat to democracy, we finally went fishing. Arguably, I had cast a perfect throw along a drop off of a sand bar in some slack water. Apparently, the fish wanted to argue that it was a perfect spot and let my lure pass un-molested. Countering their opinions, I tried to repeat the cast. However, that wasn’t a perfect cast and got too close to the sand bar for comfort. There was an acute risk to snag the lure there. As I tried to carefully retrieve the trebled and troubled piece of art; the line went taut and stopped dead. Whether or not I got snagged there is a point of debate. We are waiting on a determination to be made by the committee on tall tales. In principle, we agree that the line could not be reeled in anymore. I assumed it was snagged because of the poor cast, pulled and felt the tightened line to see if a fish was on the end. After feeling the line, it seemed as if it was anchored on an inanimate object.
I wasn’t going to break off a beloved lure on any old snag. I had to get it. So, I turned my rod over to field staff and worked my way into the river, following the line. At the sand bar, I couldn’t see the brightly colored lure, a beloved Kinchu Minnow (Hawaiian rainbow). Grabbing the line this time but the line tugged back! The tug turned into a splash fight as a huge fish was on it. When I saw the lure, it was firmly affixed in a huge musky’s mouth! The big fish got near the surface and for a second, we made eye contact then he shook his huge head and rolled. My line snapped and he slid back down in the murk, taking my beloved $9.00 lure with him. I splashed after him but his head and tail slipped between my palms…gone. Obviously, it was the field staff’s fault.
Back at camp, as we got wide open, it was theorized that the line got caught leaving the minnow drifting in the current behind the snag. When I pulled the line, the musky clamped down on the minnow. Of course, I claimed that the “snag” was an advanced technique that was executed on purpose. However, shortly into our after-action review, I went beyond scientific analysis of the situation and became embroiled in a more spiritual version of the event. I recounted the story, to many eye rolls, of how when an angler hand lines a musky there is an endowment of supernatural leviathan powers which occur over a Narnian like amount of time. I got my $9.00 worth of stories, ending by being wrapped to the fish in eight-pound test line while stabbing at the beast with a broken mast spar, just to get my hand carved minnow back. While it may not have been as dramatic as I recounted…the last one hundred times, something did happen in those few close seconds being so close to such a king of the stream. Speaking of, if you run into a musky offering to sell you a lure cheap; it’s hot.
Afterward: This event occurred during Euchre Camp of 2016. Our committees are still pondering a ruling. It has been referred to a sub-subcommittee.
See you along the stream
The Last Paper Boy
“The paperboy occupies a prominent place in the popular memory of many countries.
The duties of a paperboy usually included counting and separating papers, rolling papers and inserting them into newspaper bags during inclement weather, and collecting payments from customers (sic). The number of paperboys has experienced a major decline. This is due partly to employment laws, and growing concerns for the safety of un-escorted children.” Wikipedia
For four dollars and thirty-five cents a week; before shaking down a few late payers and a mobster every fourth Sunday to score nearly eight bucks and $24.40 month. I woke up every morning, seven days a week, rain, snow, sun, sleet or hail, 363 days a year (off for Christmas and Easter) at five am. I didn’t need an alarm because just as I was at my warmest and coziest and the best part of a dream under a quilt that grandma made me, the wind would rattle the window pane and open my eye. No matter how hard I tried to keep it closed, it would open. It was time to throw off the warm quilt and jump, hop and run across the un-heated second floor of the house to the heated, just enough to keep the pipes from freezing, bathroom. “At least you don’t have to run out to an outhouse”, I would remind myself. That is how I started every day of the year, save two, from the time I was thirteen until sixteen and it was great.
Sure, there were sunny days and days without school when we (my brother and I each had our own routes) could start a little later but people expect their news early. We’d check the weather and put the papers into plastic sleeves if it was wet out, so the worse weather, the earlier the rise. For the Sunday edition we had to put the papers together. We’d start on Saturday nights when the insides would come then finish by wrapping the Daily section on Sunday morning before delivery. Daily goes on the outside, then business, lifestyle, sports, classifieds then advertisements and coupons adding up to about a pound per paper on Sunday. These days people might not like the term “paperboy” and maybe rightfully so although it was an all-male troupe even though the opportunity was open to all. But they would have to go with the gender-neutral term “husky child” to describe the person which could run the routes and fight off dogs. We each had about fifty Sunday editions in three bags. One full bag strapped on our right, another on our left and the third would overlap and hang behind our left side so we could still throw them. After all the deliveries were done, we’d run home in time to make it to school on weekdays and Church on Sunday but we had time on Saturdays. My Dad encouraged us to expand our five-mile routes.
We did the marketing, kept the books on a cash business and installed and maintained the paper boxes (they were nice because with a box we didn’t have to run to the porch). One Sunday a month we had to go shake down the customers that didn’t pay weekly. The paper didn’t give loans and they always got their share; we had to buy the papers to sell. So, Sunday afternoon I’d make my rounds visiting customers behind on payment; I met all kinds of people. Two of them, I remember vividly, other than a few nice ladies with cookies. The first was the Varsity football coach who soon became my coach. He’d invite me in and have me sit down then yell for his wife, Rose. “Rose, the boy is here! Do we have any change?! How much is it anyway?” I’d look at my notes, “Three weeks, full delivery coach. Looks like, $1.75.” “Holy crow, Son! What kind of operation are they running over there? They’re lucky I like you or I’d get the other paper. Jeez, Rose, he needs a dollar seventy-five!” Then he’d start the old projector clicking away and through a heavy cigar haze would wave and say, “Check this out, we play these guys, you gotta see their offense” and we’d watch the film on that 8mm which was set on a coffee table shining onto a wall where a T.V. ought to be, until his wife called out when she found the $1.75. That projector, as far as I know, was set up there and ran 363 days a year.
Later, on the other side of the neighborhood, it was a slightly different business transaction. A heavy set, very distinguished Italian man with combed back hair, nice suit or robe, heavy accent, with alert, piercing eyes and big cigar sticking out from his square jaw would also be interrupted from whatever he was doing by a knock on his door. He may or may not have shaken down businesses and put people in cement shoes for a living. If he didn’t, he could play the part in Hollywood. He would come to the door and look down at a nervous but hungry thirteen-year-old boy who squeaked, “Mr. Italianagiganticanao (not his real name. You think I’ll use that?) You owe ME, $1.75.” He would squint hard and ask, “You sure about that?” With him, I didn’t check my notes, “Yes, Sir.” He’d glare then say, “I think I paid you last week.” I’d try and hold my gaze, “You said that last month, Sir.” He’d rub his chin, “Right, right. Okay, you little blood sucker, wait here.” He’d eventually come back saying he only had $1.50 and he’d catch up next month. After a while, sadly, his paper would be late and fell out of its rain proof sleeve, occasionally. He finally decided to just put the full amount owed in the envelope I provided, on time and become a weekly payer. He seemed comfortable with that arrangement. Would have been a real shame, too; cut my profits by at least $0.21 cents a week, which was 5% of my total take. My Dad’s advice was to pick up two new subscribers to replace a good paying customer.
That nice, reformed, gentleman was at the end of my route, the last paper delivered and it was right by the wood line. The way back to my house was the best part of the day and made the $4.35 worth it. Except on exceptionally wet and cold days. I remember feeling bad for my dairy farmer friends because they had to work in a barn, 365 days a year and couldn’t run before school. I was envious that they got to operate a lot of equipment though. On the way was often full of adventures. There was a trail through a chunk of woods to check traps or fish, see owls, jump deer, and flush birds (mostly just doves there) or, occasionally, put an M80 in a certain, very jumpy, Italian guy’s mailbox.
It was an experience which started a life-long trend of doing a lot of hard work for little money. It also provided fun and appreciation for a piece of woods. I finally left that part of the newspaper business before the start of my junior year in high school. (Just as I got a driver’s license. I mean, who’d want to drive five miles to carry papers?) I left to take a job at a dairy supply store for $4.00 an hour after school along with baling hay in the summer to pay for gas, which just hit an outrageous $0.75 cents a gallon.
The experiences and lessons I learned went a long way to future successes in the world. I can set a mail box, count change up to eight bucks, whip a newspaper onto a porch from the street and appreciate a blustery, cold rattle on a dark window. It turned out that my brother and I were the last youth morning carriers for that newspaper. We were replaced by adults who successfully expanded our routes. Adults with cars could do a lot more houses much quicker than a boy on foot or even a bike on nice days. They couldn’t do everything a boy could do though. For example, I heard they didn’t manage to keep Mr. Italianagiganticanao to stay on as a subscriber.
See you along the stream
Google Sites
Report abuse