The Digs

I had a friend back in high school who rented an apartment near a busy railroad station shortly after graduation. His friends all thought that he had it made in the shade (pardon that 70’s expression please). Here was a guy who had just turned eighteen and he had his own place already. Wow! We – the posse – were not only chartreuse with envy, but everyone also knew that from that day forward we’d forever (or at least until he got evicted) have a place to P-A-R-T-Y!

Can I get a “Hell Yeah!” Y’all know what I’m talkin’ ’bout, right?

To say his place was a little small would be like saying Texas is a little warm in the summer. The roaches had to work in shifts. And the mice had to commute, because there was no place for them to sleep.

Speaking of commute…

Did you ever hear a commuter train traveling down the tracks at about seventy miles per hour? Let’s just say you can feel it coming long before the sound gets to your ears. And when that happens, look out below!

Take a peek out the front window of your home right now and imagine three sets of railroad tracks about where the street is located. On average, roughly twenty-five feet away. That’s how close the tracks were to party central. The first time I was on hand for this mind-crushing event, I thought I was in an explosion.

All day long commuter trains would rumble-by. First they would head into the city during morning rush, then they’d bring ’em all back in the afternoon and evening.

It really got interesting after dark – around 10PM – when all the weary travelers were safe at home and tucked into their beds. That’s when the freight trains would roll. And roll they did, until morning, when the whole ritual would start all over again.

Did he get a break on Saturday and Sunday, you ask? Nope. Weekends were simply less folks and more commerce. My head hurts just thinking about it.

He had it made alright.

I also had my share of interesting dwelling places in my lifetime. Not the least impressive (but it was close) was my eighth floor apartment on Pratt Avenue in Chicago. The exclusive North Shore. But this was a little slice of heaven that was as far from upscale as you can get without being on some sort of government aid program.

Not fit for man nor beast, this place had a wonderful view of Lake Michigan out the bedroom window and a potentially profitable view over the left field wall of Wrigley Field – home of those lovable losers the Chicago Cubs. I say “profit” based on the highly unlikely event the team could stop losing just for one season, so I could charge folks money for my great view of the game. I wasn’t holding my breath!

Sounds pretty tasty doesn’t it? Hmmm?

First of all, this was an “artists’ community” that featured futon stores, over-priced bistros, wine caterers, and head shops – call them “smoke shops” if you want to, but I know what folks were smokin’ in those “hookah pipes” (read: bongs) and it wasn’t crab grass.

We had two movie theaters that the neighborhood aristocrats and visiting jet setters called “fine arts” centers. Centers? Heck, I went there to watch movies. Don’t know what y’all were lookin’ at?

Every Friday and Saturday night, at midnight, for as long as I lived in that neighborhood, one of the so-called fine arts centers played the Rocky Horror Picture Show. The other rotated the Star Wars trilogy. Movie goers came in full costume – every weekend – for both films.

It was not uncommon to take a late night stroll only to spot several Rocky Horror cross-dressing movie buffs (wearing Fredrick’s of Hollywood leather and lace attire), Chubaka, and R2D2 on the same street corner. Oh, wait, that could have been three hookers with a homeless guy standing by a city of Chicago garage can? I used to drink a lot back in the day.

Then, in the dog days of summer, when the Cubs were in town, the beer flow was like a frothy river of sudsy fun. After all, if you’re a Cubs’ fan, you’re also a hefty drinker. What else is there to do when you’re watching them blow another pennant?

There was a bar about every other doorway on Sheridan Road – the main drag. (Sorry, poor word choice there.) Loyola University provided much of the clientele that wasn’t part of the fine arts masquerade party.

Since when was Meatloaf (the singer, not the dinner) promoted to art? Did I miss something? Sorry, I digress.

Speaking of dining adventures in the area…

A greasy spoon that served a very tasty breakfast 24/7 was really the highlight around Pratt Beach, but only if you ignore the little adult book store and sex toy shop as being off the grading curve. (Editor’s Note: wear old shoes if you ever go – the floor’s a little sticky. In the restaurant, I mean.)

The apartment itself was a little charmer. Flush a toilet six blocks away and the water pressure would dip to a dribble. And if that flush came whilst you were taking a shower, you’d better bail out of the tub in a hurry unless you like being scorched by a scalding drizzle from a low-flow shower head. Ouch!

Not a single window in the place actually fit into the opening it had originally been designed to fit. It was not unusual to see one-half-inch of space between the window and the frame. Now imagine a forty mile per hour wind blowing at minus seven degrees.

Yeah. Brrr! Y’all got that right.

Fortunately, the building had those old steam heaters, which were always hot enough to bring a pot of water to boil if you had occasion to put one on top of the heater itself – like if you forgot to pay the electric bill and the stove didn’t work. Not that that ever happened to me.

Moving right along…

When the decision was finally made that a move was needed, haste was the order of the day. You see, maintenance had “taken care” of a “bug problem” on the main floor. Only problem with that was the “bug problem” moved up about eight floors.

I was lying in bed watching TV when a dog ran across my set. I’m sure you’ve all seen the TV commercial for Orkin where the roach runs across the screen, but not really. I hit my TV with a hammer the first time I saw that one. I lived it! My visitor was real – big too. It was like the film Joe’s Apartment, only not nearly as funny.

So many places, too many to talk about here, that provided the road map of my life.

I lived in St. Louis for almost one year. The Central West End was another artists’ haven that in no way resembled my horror show on Pratt Avenue in the Windy City. This classy setting of thriving night life was actually a fun area to live. Could’ve been that I could see a Hooter’s neon sign from my window though? Relax! I only went there because I like chicken wings.

(pause for groans and eye rolling)

When I moved to Texas back in 1996, I had to learn the hard way what they actually mean when they say, “location, location, location.” I moved into an area to be close to work, but that also put me pretty doggone close to the ghetto. Well, as ghetto as Fort Worth gets anyway. I was used to Cabrini Green and the Robert Taylor Homes – I assure you, Texans would not allow these two places.

To be fair, it took eight years of Texas living before I got robbed at gunpoint. Thirty-five years in the gun crime epicenter of the Universe – Chicago – and I had to move to Texas to be the guest of honor at a stick-up. Who knew?

During the last month of my East Side of Fort Worth stay, I counted four home invasions that happened at night when folks were at home asleep. That’s pretty brave if you ask me. Most folks have guns in Texas – this ain’t Illinois where the politicians disarm honest folks to make it easy on the crooks. Only reason that I didn’t get robbed in Chi-town was because I knew all the crooks and where to go get my stuff back.

Brings to mind a local police chase near Ennis, TX some years ago that featured several municipalities, state troopers, and even some Texas Rangers. The crooks took law enforcement on a whirlwind shootout tour of a number of towns southeast of Dallas. When the dust settled and the bad guys were behind bars, they pulled over one-hundred slugs out of the suspects’ vehicle and could only attribute half of them to police. The rest came from civilian guns.

Don’t mess with Texas! Y’all got that right too.

I just moved – again. I’m still in Fort Worth, but on the fashionable West Side. I don’t suppose I’ll be going anywhere else any time soon. I like it here. And I found a new place in a neighborhood I had been drooling over ever since I came to the Lone Star State sixteen years ago. It’s no bigger than the train stop dwelling my school chum rented. No trains (or critters) here though.

I call it my Man Cave and I dig the new digs. I’m snug as a bug in a rug. If you’ll pardon the expression?

Waterloo (and another epic surrender)

An ad on Ebay recently touted the sale of vintage French infantry weapons thusly:

“For Sale: French Muskets… like new, hardly used, only dropped twice.”

Of course, this is an old joke. But it does segue nicely into today’s topic for discussion.

Last time I blathered about the world according to me, I was ready to tackle a second round of heart surgery in less than a month. Obviously, since I am writing this blog and you are reading it, I survived. So, with that news flash out-of-the-way, I think I’ll take it from here in a little less predictable direction. If you don’t mind?

No. Good! Let’s proceed.

I chose “surrender” as my theme, because Monday is June 18th – the 197th Anniversary of the Battle of Waterloo. Why is that so doggone important, you ask? Well, let me tell you. But first… Here’s a little history lesson for you:

The Battle of Waterloo was fought on Sunday, 18 June 1815 near Waterloo in present-day Belgium, then part of the United Kingdom of the Netherlands. AnImperial French army under the command of Emperor Napoleon was defeated by combined armies of the Seventh Coalition, an Anglo-Allied army under the command of the Duke of Wellington combined with a Prussian army under the command of Gebhard von Blücher. It was the culminating battle of theWaterloo Campaign and Napoleon’s last. The defeat at Waterloo ended his rule as Emperor of the French, marking the end of his Hundred Days return from exile. (source: Wikipedia)

Don’t worry. These things do have a way of coming together in the end. There’s no use worrying that a beaten Emperor Napoleon standing in front of the Duke of Wellington 197 years ago with his hands reaching for the sky has precisely zero connection to heart surgery performed in Fort Worth, Texas in 2012. It’s a funny image, but it’s nonetheless a disconnect. Or is it?

I arrived at the hospital on time – 7:30AM sharp – just like they told me to. I had no coffee in me, so the fact that I was standing up at all and not sleeping on a waiting room sofa was a miracle in and of itself.

The receptionist greeted me with a cheery smile too bright for that time of day and noted that everything was “all systems go” for surgery. That was going happen at 10:30AM.

(So, why did I have to get here at this hour again?)

The prep staff performed like clockwork – I was whisked to a “pre-screening” room where they surgically removed $150-bucks from my wallet to cover the hospital co-pay and then a very nice lady in a business suit entered all of my personal insurance information, living will, emergency contacts, and shoe size into the data base.

I was only kidding about the shoe size… wanted to see if you were still paying attention.

But that was only the beginning…

From there – the pre-screening room – they took me straight to pre-op. Now the only thing I know about pre-op I learned from watching the hit TV show M*A*S*H. Not much, I guess? I was stripped naked and in a hospital gown faster than Napoleon said, “I surrender!” (Cheap shot, I know.)

That’s another thing… the hospital gown.

When I had my heart attack less than a month ago, it took two – count ’em two – gowns to cover my big pale keester. I wore one forward and one (thank God) backwards too. This time they gave me one and it wrapped around me four times. I know I’ve lost some weight, but I looked like someone the mob planned to dump into the river after a hit. Sorry, got my Chicago showing. But man… this thing could have covered a wagon.

(Seriously! Do I have to wear this? And how’s the surgeon gonna find my heart in here?)

Well, he found it alright – I spent the next twelve hours wrapped in a king sized bed sheet and was hangin’ out all over the place, because it kept falling off. Thanks a lot y’all!

Anyway, I was thinking about all the jokes I cracked about the Cardiologist the last time I was lying around in the hospital waiting for him to visit:

“The Doctor is running a little behind schedule today, sir.” The nurse told me in a bright but ever so apologetic voice.

I snarked back, “Bet he has to finish the back nine first, huh?”

(Oh, God. Please don’t let the nurse tell him I said that – he’ll pull the plug on me for sure. He’ll put tiny flags on all eighteen holes he drills into my heart. She’s probably texting him right now: “You’re not gonna believe what your wise guy patient said about you, Doctor? No! No! Let him lie here a while, he’ll be fine. It’s forty-degrees in the O-R right now. And he’s wearing a sheet! Ha! Ha!” I sure hope he gets a hole-in-one today. Ugh!)

It was raining out and no golf was going to be played. Well, the Doctor surely was going to play through a few holes in me. He walked into the operating room just as the team was preparing me for surgery.

(No golf jokes today – I promise!)

He shook my hand and said, “Are you ready for this?”

I don’t know if you ever had surgery, but this is all very new to me. Last time I went “under the knife” (Do they even say that anymore?) they did some kind of a ceremonial dance around a camp fire, sacrificed a live chicken, and bled me with a leech. Really, it was a long, long time ago – I was about five years old.

I liked all the high-tech stuff, but did it have to be so cold? I think I saw a side of beef hanging in the corner? Oh, maybe that was the Anesthetist? They had begun sending drugs my way and I was beginning to get a bit fuzzy.

Doc excused himself to “go scrub” and one of the nurses said, “Okay, get his music going.”

(Music? I like music. Can they play music and still operate? Won’t they get distracted? Oh, who cares. I feel pretty darn good right now and… Ah!!!)

Then they cranked it with some solid bass reflex to shake me awake for just a few seconds more.

(Waterloo? They’re playing… ABBA. Noooooooooo!)

I told you it’d all come together.

Then I belted out uncontrollably, “The Doctor likes ABBA?! Bah ha!”

He can’t be serious?

My shrill couldn’t have been any more condescending if I wanted it to be. The Anesthetist leaned over and said, “ABBA calms Doctor down when he operates and we want Doctor to be calm today, right?”

Well, since you put it that way. As a matter of fact, yes I do.

All’s well that ends well, I guess? Unless you’re Napoleon.

Speaking of surrender…

Our will as human beings can be something we cling to with tight fists and a closed heart. I know that I have always been “strong-willed” as it were. But unless we turn our lives over to God we can’t get away from the shackles of this life. And there are many things that bind us, whether we chose to admit it, or not.

I spent a long time insisting my own way. I thought I could do it all. I gave God a bit part in the story that is my life and I took-off with a reckless abandon that only a drunk with no compass heading out into the wilderness in a storm could have had. I was lost and in big trouble in no time at all – didn’t know it either. Duh!

God has roped me in. He has addressed every corner of my life, on His time, with His amazing Grace, and for His good. He told us all that He would.

For a long time I knew I had it right. Boy, was I wrong about that! I was losing the fight. Then I surrendered to God’s will and it all started to move in the right direction. The four-year metamorphosis has changed me in so many ways. And all I did was give it to God.

Some of you might think that all this sounds hokey, or sentimental, or “too religious” for you. I did surrender my will to God though and He has changed me completely.

Four years ago I lost my job, I lost my health insurance, I lost my dignity, I lost friends… I suffered great financial losses too, duked it out with the IRS, fell into debt, and had to search for work – a fifty year old man – during arguably the worst economic times since The Great Depression.

I knew that I suffered from out of control type II diabetes and yet I let it slide. What I did not know was the surprise my heart had in store, slowly creeping-up on me. It knocked me down last month with a force I had never experienced in my whole life.

I thrive today in a brand new career, with good health care, and the debt monkeys are off my back. I can’t imagine life without my students, my church family, and some of the new friends I’ve met along the way. I also have renewed relationships that began years ago, when I was a different guy. Today I can see those relationships more clearly and eternally.

I thank God for it all. To surrender to His will for my life was the best choice I ever made. It was a forever choice. I am forever grateful for what He has done and what He continues to do for me. I am blessed.

How’s that for the bright side?

I know it’s normal to be depressed after going through what I’ve gone through. Even the doctors and nurses at the hospital told me this. Buy hey, they also listen to ABBA.

A Dark, Cold Night (an argument in favor of catch & release)

Suddenly, I felt a chill and caught a glimpse of cold steel. A flash, then it penetrated – the burn of a razor-sharp instrument tearing through skin, flesh, and bone.

I was hurt – bleeding.

My attackers grabbed at my flesh and pulled me into their vessel. They dropped me to the metal floor and watched as I thrashed about in pain. I fought for my life; they did nothing.

I couldn’t breath.

My heart was about to burst. I was weak – helpless – submitting to the brutes.

The burley strangers pinned me to the floor.

I was terrified.

My wounds ached and leaked blood. I knew, if they didn’t release me soon, I would certainly die.

Did you ever wonder what “the fight” is like – from the perspective of the fish you catch?

I just used a little dramatic action to make a point. We anglers love our sport. We also like to think that we respect the species we chase enough to treat them right after the fight. But a lot goes into the art of catch and release. From hook-set to the deep breath we take after the fish swims away; there are many potentially life-threatening hazards to the fish and dangers to the angler, as well.

Mike Ponder correctly holding a Dryberry monster muskie.

Every Esox Hunter obsesses over these great toothy beasts, like an NFL star would the Lombardi Trophy, or an NHL’er Lord Stanley’s Cup. The coveted prize in this sport is the mighty Esox. The real “trophy” of any Esox Hunter’s heart is to hold a behemoth in a photograph shared, touted, and yes, even boasted about for years to come. A photograph that represents much blood, sweat, and tears through hours-and-hours of planning, fruitless outings, sleepless nights, and relentless casting.

It is certainly true that Esox Hunters do dwell on the object of their affection probably more than most. But after all, it is because the rewards are so great – if not, so rare.

Take muskie hunting, for example. The promotion of catch and release has transformed the “fish of ten-thousand casts” from a mythical creature that only a select few learned scholars and river rats can catch with any kind of regularity, to a rewarding adventure on the water for even a relatively inexperienced angler. When a little homework and then some heavy lifting are applied, you’ll have success. I’m sure of it!

But after all that is said and done, with as many big fish fifty-inches and more that folks allegedly have caught and released over the years, these encounters are still far less common than all the braggin’ boards on internet chat sites would lead one to believe. It’s not as easy as it appears to be, or as the pros would lead you to believe. I’m sure of this too!

Pat Elza performing a proper release technique.

That being said, we can all agree that it is truly a special occasion to be holding a monster at the bow of the boat, while your partner snaps pictures – just you and that big fish with the golden sunset as the perfect backdrop. The scene never gets old!

Often overlooked in the relentless struggle to catch an Esox is proper release technique. I have caught enough fish over fifty-inches to know that if the best part of Esox fishing is the strike, the second best part is feeling the tail tense-up in your hand and then watching a healthy fish kick out of sight. That’s what it’s all about!

Reports of severely mishandled big Esox over my decades-long career in the sport have made it clear that it’s never too late (or too soon, or too often) for a refresher course on proper handling of Esox – from hook-up to release and everything in between.

So, let’s have at it, shall we? I’ll start with…

THE NET

Before you even think about starting the motor and heading out, assume you will catch the biggest Esox of your life today (go ahead, it’s good to always begin with a positive attitude), then ask one question: do you have everything you need to perform a release safely with minimum stress on the fish and risk of injury to you? You wouldn’t leave the launch without life jackets. There are other items you should also never leave without.

The only thing better than watching a healthy fish swim away is the strike itself.

Skipping past hand landing (or water release) for obvious reasons – no one in their right mind intentionally grabs a four-foot long fish with razor-sharp teeth knowing full well there is a lure with three 5.0 treble hooks embedded in the jaw.

For this scenario, only one bit of advice will do: know where the nearest medical attention can be found. A typical water release is performed first by playing a fish out to total exhaustion – not recommended. Throughout twenty-five years of experience, I have had occasion to actually pop hooks with long pliers at boatside, foregoing pictures (and without ever actually touching the fish), for the sake of the fish.

But then there’s reality…

After the enormous strike and fierce battle with jumps and power dives and the occasional awesome tail-walk, you’re going to need a solid (muskie) net with a coated bag. Each fight is unique and it takes experience to know when a big fish is ready to be bagged. Always expect the unexpected and be prepared for that last power dive to throw the lure – you don’t want it stuck in your forehead.

Looks like the author is playing his guitar! This is a correct alternate hold to the hand under the belly style.

Beckman makes one of the best nets on the market, with a tough treated hookless bag that won’t leave you with a tangled mess if the fish decides to do a barrel roll. And it has a handle tough enough to lift the weight of a big Esox. The stiff bag easily serves as a “pen” that you can use to corral the fish in order to LEAVE IT IN THE WATER while you remove the hooks and get your camera ready. Time out of the water is the key to survival and it cannot be over-emphasized: keep the fish in the water as much as possible while you work.

Frabill also makes quality products. My colleagues and I have used them and certainly stand by their tough, big fish capability. A net that can stand-up to a 50, 53, 55, 57-inch muskie is an essential part of the arsenal. Do not skimp, or cut costs here. Trust me, you won’t regret the decision to go with the best. The Esox will benefit too!

A Cradle will also work, as it supports the weight of the fish in the water. And when closed around the fish, a Cradle will immobilize your catch for the duration. A Cradle has a very soft Esox-friendly mesh that won’t remove the protective slime coating on the skin.

Be advised: a Cradle may not be as effective as the aforementioned products for bigger fish 48-inches, or larger. I’ve had big fish escape and a couple that didn’t fit, because the Cradle wouldn’t close around them. Not that I’d brag!

HOOK-OUTS & BOLT CUTTERS

Simply put, you cannot hunt Esox without certain tools. If you do, the probability you will be hurt, or that injury/death to the fish will result, increases dramatically. There are four tools you should never leave the dock without:

1.) Hook-out


2.) Small bolt cutters


3.) Jaw spreader


4.) Heavy duty long-nose pliers

, and/or channel locks

Of course, it is ideal to simply “pop” the hooks with hook-outs or pliers, but every year lures get bigger, hooks get stronger, and it gets harder to remove them without more stress to the fish. That’s where bolt cutters earn their place in the box – if hooks are hard to reach, or in a vital place, cut ‘em. Replacement hooks are cheap.

LIGHTS – CAMERA – ACTION!!!

Revive a fish in shallow water, so your catch has a better chance to rest before fighting current, or having to swim a long distance.

Before you remove a fish from your net, make sure your camera is ready to go and your partner knows how to use it. It’s always a good idea to have a camera training session before you ever hit the water – if everyone learns all the camera gear in advance, it’ll save valuable time on the water and will most likely improve the quality of your shots.

This is a critical time when most mistakes are made and the greatest danger to the captured fish occurs. NEVER LIFT THE FISH INTO THE BOAT WITH THE NET!!! Removing the fish from its environment and placing it on the bottom of the boat (in or out of the net) will remove the protective layer of slime from the skin that prevents bacterial infections.

A fish placed at the bottom of the boat will most likely begin to thrash and there’s a good chance injury will occur when the fish gets tangled in all the lures and gear in your boat.

Once hooks are removed and the fish has calmed down in the pen, it’s easy to place your thumb underneath the strong jaw bone – point thumb towards the head of the fish – then carefully slip four remaining fingers up under the gill plate taking care not to damage any of the vital organs.

Author holding a nice Dryberry muskie the RIGHT way.

ALWAYS SUPPORT YOUR FISH UNDERNEATH THE BELLY with your other hand when removing it from the water. A strong grip on the jaw bone should immobilize your catch and will give you a better leverage grip just in case, but cradling the belly lends support and will further freeze your subject for the photo. Take a couple of quick snaps of the shutter and then get that Esox back in the water.

A good alternative grip would be to grab the tail and then slip your other hand under the belly. This works well with smaller fish, but if you have substantial weight and length to control, a slippery fat tail isn’t the best place to grab. One thrash and you have an angry toothy beast at the bottom of your boat.

A MEASURE OF TIME

By now plenty of stress has been placed upon the fish and it should be top priority to set it free. Dropping, or tossing, an Esox overboard is not the right way to treat a creature that has just given you the thrill of a lifetime and then was gracious enough to stick around and pose for photographs. I have seen anglers do this with my own eyes and it’s all I can do to not board their vessel and release them the same way.

Carefully return your fish to the water by keeping your grip and supporting the belly all the time. Once the fish is in the water upright she will let you know if further attention is necessary. If she kicks and swims away, then it’s good for you. Many times the trauma of the fight leaves excess air in the swim bladder. She may turn on her side or flip upside down. You can hold her upright and “burp” her by gently rubbing her belly from the rear fin forward.

Author gripping tail to revive a muskie before release.

Once she is upright in the water, hold a firm grip on her tail while slowly rocking her side-to-side in a swimming motion. Gently push her forward (never backwards) to get water flowing over her gills. This often gets the fins moving and the gills flaring again. Keep rocking and you’ll feel the tail muscles tighten and try to kick. A gentle push usually does the trick from there and she’ll be off for the weeds to rest. Stick close to the area for a while just in case she surfaces – you may have to recapture and repeat this process a number of times.

Measurements are often taken during this revival time and a floating tape measure will serve well obtaining length and girth. Weight can be determined by formula and it is unnecessary to place the fish under additional stress using a scale, as Esox hunters brag by inches (not pounds) anyway.

If you really want to get a ballpark on the weight use this formula:

(girth x girth x length)/800



Example:


LENGTH = 45.0”


GIRTH = 21.5”


21.5X21.5X45.0/800 = 26 POUNDS

ALWAYS BE PREPARED

Your partner screaming, “Fish On!” isn’t the time to wonder if you remembered the bolt cutters… the camera… where you stuck the net. If you grab the net and thirty-seven lures are tangled in it and the soft cooler with today’s lunch is at the bottom of the bag – well, then you’ve got problems. Not the least of which will be a very angry partner if the fish gets away while you’re trying to undo the damage.

There are Esox hunters who have got their act together – tools in one pre-determined compartment, camera in dry storage, and lures away except for maybe a half-dozen in use and well away from the net. The net will be situated for quick release and easy one-step assembly.

Then there are those Esox hunters who leave for a day on the water with more tackle boxes full of lures and unnecessary gear than five people could use in a month. By lunch they have a treble hook nightmare as far as the eye can see – hooks in the net, stuck in the deck carpet, and hanging from the sides of the boat. They have rain gear and gloves and coolers stacked on top of things they might need – like the net, or the dry store hatch.

Where’s the camera again?

Be a boy scout (or a girl scout, as the case may be).

Always be prepared. Never take what you don’t need. If you have been Esox hunting for any length of time, you own enough gear to sink the Titanic. You don’t have to bring it all along every time you go fishing. Try to stick to the eighty pound weight limit that many fly in camps require for a week-long stay. It’ll lighten your load and leave behind gear you probably won’t use anyway.

Keep it simple.

Okay! One last pose, then it's bye, bye.

The sure way to make everyone think you are “in the know” is to be organized and keep a tidy deck out on the water. If you don’t have it narrowed to a three lure attack by day five, you are having a bad week anyway.

A FINAL WORD

Remember that the second best part of Esox hunting is the release – running a very close second to the strike. Esox hunters owe it to the species that occupies so much of their lives to make a conscious effort to carry the proper tools, equipment, and knowledge necessary for the preservation of our sport.

Learn how to handle these fish with care. They are big, nasty, and the true top predators of fresh water. Esox greatest ally is also ironically their greatest potential enemy. It is up to Esox hunters everywhere to catch and release, if we are to continue to grow the sport.

With every new generation of Esox hunters to come, let us live for the fight and treat ‘em right.

Always Catch & Release!

(Reporting for ESOXHUNT Magazine. April 2012.)

God Speaks; I’m Listening.

When I first opened my eyes Monday morning I knew that it would be a day unlike most. For one thing, it was the day I’d be saying goodbye to a dear friend who died one week before – unexpectedly. Cora was a special soul and my church family was set to gather for her memorial service in the afternoon. But I still had to go through the motions of a half-day at work, even though my heart really wasn’t into it.

Just then, the snooze alarm woke me up – again – ten minutes later, telling me to, “Wake up slacker!” Okay! I got it.

Off then to work, gazing at a gloomy morning through a dirty bus window in mourning for a dear friend and walking through the proverbial “to do list” in my mind. I wanted to turn it all over to the substitute a smooth-running flawless learning machine. (By the way, I’m a special education school teacher.)

I got the kids off the busses at 9:05 am and we headed to breakfast.

On the way I was still thinking, “Attendance: check! Lesson plans: check-a-rooney! Note to sub explaining the afternoon’s activities in great detail: check again! Wow! I wish I could have it all together like this when I’m here all day… If only!”

At 9:20 am the first period bell sounded. That’s usually the signal for us to gobble-up the rest of the vittles and then head to our room for “morning meeting.”

For my kids, morning meetings consist of enthusiastically welcoming the new school day by posting the daily calendar, running through the days of the week, months of the year, counting to whatever day it happens to be. Monday was the 19th of March – considerably more ground to cover than way back when it was March 3rd, but time does fly. Counting all the way to the 31st will be a bumpy ride indeed.

I’m usually in my room during our morning meetings, and for all the daily activities, so when general ed students occasionally approach me to say, “You have so much fun in your class!” I generally agree, but I never really understood what an objective outside-my-classroom observer meant by that – until Monday.

I had to excuse myself temporarily and left my assistant in charge. Five minutes later I came out of the main office door (a considerable distance – and around a corner – from my classroom) and heard our typical “morning meeting” already in progress echoing through the vacant school halls. And I must say, boy was it swingin’!!!

I could hear the days of the week, counting to 19 (a great accomplishment, as I have already pointed out), months of the year, identification of pictures associated with the calendar holidays, and most of all, I heard the loud and proud cheers of encouragement that my students have learned to share with one another from day one, in order that they all should feel good about every accomplishment they make – and recognize one another for those accomplishments.

I stood and listened for five minutes in total amazement at what I have been a part of every day for seven months, but never really heard from an outsider’s perspective.

And are you wondering why this audio image hit me so hard? Well, it could have been the fact that, out of nine students who started the school year in my classroom, way back in August, only three could speak recognizable words – only these same three offered to make any real sound at all. The others were silent, except for occasional brief unrelated-to-anything-else sounds, or crying tantrums.

That was back in August.

The reality that eight out of nine of my students use words regularly now (and the ninth uses sounds in a more purposeful way – i.e. to get something, or communicate wants and needs and emotions), was not lost on one of those people who have been working very diligently to get the voices singing. No, it wasn’t lost on me at all.

In fact, to say that God was speaking to me through my kids’ voices on a morning I needed so badly to hear from Him, just goes to show how in tune He really is with us all – every second of every day.

How is this possible? Because He’s God, that’s the only explanation I have.

Cora’s passing left a hole in the world – a hole in my world too. Through my kids, God let me know that my work here is important – that I need to carry on until I am called home. I have a purpose greater than self and that is my hole to fill. He let me know, even though I had to say goodbye to Cora, everything is going to be okay, because He’s in control.

It’s comforting to know that, considering I still feel like crying about every thirty seconds. It’s a bitter pill, but through my kids God said, “Tomorrow will be a better day and the day after will be better still.”

God Speaks; I’m listening.

So, there I was, sitting in the choir risers, high upon the chancel with about sixty others, overlooking the sanctuary filled with about six-hundred guests, ready to sing Cora’s farewell.

We all wore white robes with beautiful silky white stoles around our necks. I couldn’t believe how heavy it was – the robe – not made of a flimsy material at all. I felt elegant, angelic almost. But then I got hot and started to sweat as I am known to do in any situation where the temperature rises above fifty-five degrees.

I’m a Chicago boy. What can I tell you? Collar and sleeves are not an option usually, even where snow is a concern, but I was wrapped to the wrists and tripped up the stairs from the choir room to the chancel on the long train like I was wearing a prom gown and high heels for the very first time.

I was very nervous sitting there waiting to sing, which didn’t help the blast furnace I had going on under my robe any. I am not a member of either choir, but was invited to join in the voices anyway. I was thrilled and wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

I don’t sing. I play bass in the praise band and the running joke (at least I think it’s a joke) is that the Music Director won’t let me have a microphone. She was seated straight across from me and I tried hard not to catch her eye out of fear she’d come over and tell me to, “Just move your lips, Bob… no one will know you aren’t making a sound.”

We all stood to sing Cora’s anthem and it was wonderful. From my place I could see the family, but I tried not to look there too much. I found comfort in the baptism candle, which stood tall next to the baptism font only a few yards in front of me. Lit only for baptisms, Easter, and funerals, the candle made me feel Cora’s presence. I’m sure she was pleased to see me there within the ranks of not one, but two really good choirs. She’d probably say that it took real “chutzpah” to pull it off. Yeah, I think she’d use a word like that to describe it?

I looked around the big sanctuary. It was full of my church family mostly. Yeah, it could have been broken-down into individual family units, but it wasn’t like that for me. I’m an only child from a family that could never have been considered close. No, that’s not the word I’d use anyway.

So, when I looked out there it was all family to me. And although most of them will never know how much they mean to me, the fact that we were all there together to say goodbye to Cora made them even more important in my eyes – infinitely more important.

...all the time. And all the time, God is good.

I heard God speaking again during the service. He said, “Come to me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.”

His grace resonated in the hymns, in the scriptures read, in the enormous sound of the pipe organ, and in the Pastor’s voice. I heard Him comforting us, cleansing us, telling us to move forward, even though we felt so much pain on that day. I heard Him say that everything was going to be alright.

I know one thing’s for sure… I believe every word.

2011 in review

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2011 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 1,600 times in 2011. If it were a cable car, it would take about 27 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

Happy New Year!

“Of all tyrannies, a tyranny sincerely exercised for the good of its victims may be the most oppressive. It would be better to live under robber barons than under omnipotent moral busybodies. The robber baron’s cruelty may sometimes sleep, his cupidity may at some point be satiated; but those who torment us for our own good will torment us without end for they do so with the approval of their own conscience.”

C.S. Lewis