"Eric the Red" (Cabin Tales #23)
A couple cabins to the west of us lived—and lives— another family from “the cities,” about 150 miles to the south. Bob, the patriarch, bought the cabin in 1947, shortly after the end of World War II. His wife, Virginia, contracted polio when young, but this didn’t stop her from getting around. She had crutches and leg braces…and an indomitable spirit. She still drove into town and went shopping on her own. She still visited the neighbors, played cards and swam in the lake. She loved sitting in the water near shore and tanning at the same time.
“The Tool-shed” (Cabin Tales #22)
"Astronomy Isn't Pretty": Adventures In Exploration (Cabin Tales #21)
My eldest brother and I used to occasionally look through his powerful telescope at the night sky. This would occur when we both happened to be “up north” at the cabin. We would drag the largish instrument down to our expansive sugar-sand beach once the sky became inky black. Rob was thoroughly fascinated by astronomy for a ten or 15-year period, during which time he became quite versed on the subject. He went to observatories and purchased guidebooks and charts of the heavens. As such, he was my mentor in our endeavors. Also, he liked his beer. As did I. Stargazing and alcohol are a perfect match, each bringing out the best in the other…up to a point. There is something magical and mystical in pondering the impossible vastness and beauty of the cosmos, particularly when you have a little buzz (light year?) going. We have examined nebulas and globular clusters, supernovas and distant galaxies, concurrently looking into infinity and back to the beginning of time, wondering if that is even possible. We have been witness to the wonders of M-31, the Andromeda Galaxy, the galaxy nearest our own, a mere 15 trillion miles away.
The Tree House Candle Shop And By-The-Way Gardens (Cabin Tales #20)
When I was a youth, I was blessed to spend the summers at the family cabin “up north.” Among the many things that made the area unique was the presence of several one-of-a-kind gift shops within walking distance of our little slice of Heaven. It may seem unusual that a young boy, especially one enthralled with contact sports, fishing, and the outdoors, would be smitten with “gift shops,” but if you’ll read on, perhaps you will come to understand.
"Harry" (Cabin Tales #19)
The Crab Caper (Cabin Tales #18)
One cool, misty day when I was 12-years-old, I was fishing off our neighbor’s dock, as I was wont to do. I usually caught perch, bluegills, and rock bass, but occasionally landed a large-mouth bass, as well. On very rare occasions, if I was particularly blessed, I would hook into a northern pike or a walleye, not a common occurrence out of only five feet of water. I even caught a sucker or two over the years, though that isn’t much to brag about.
Duke (Part II-- Cabin Tales #17)
Duke was a German Shepherd who lived across the street from my family’s cabin when I was a young lad. Duke thought highly of himself. And of a Siberian Husky named Kita who lived across the lake. He’d frequently visit Kita via a lengthy land route that he’d discovered. (In those days, Duke was allowed to run free and was usually outside from mid-morning until supper time). His owner, knowing where to find Duke if he hadn’t been spotted in the neighborhood for a few hours, would often go and pick him up in his classic old wooden Century runabout. On the way back, Duke would sit proudly erect in the boat's front passenger seat. He carried himself with an air that clearly showed he thought the occasions of his amphibious arrival, even though they occurred with some frequency, compared favorably to General Douglas Macarthur returning to the Philippines during World War II. (“As you good people can see, I have returned.”).
The Fishing Tournament (Cabin Tales #16)
I love to fish. Always have. Back in the halcyon days of my youth, one of my brothers, a good friend of ours, and yours truly entered a fishing contest on a whim. (Which was pretty much how we did most things). The multi-species tournament was sponsored by a local radio station, and was open to any lake in the area, highly unusual for a fishing contest of any type. This was the first such event any of us had ever entered, and, given the unconventional parameters, we had no idea if there would be dozens, hundreds, or thousands of contestants.
When I was younger, we had neighbors across the road from our cabin, who, unlike us, were permanent residents. Back then that was a rarity. When I was a very young lad, they were in late middle age, so by the time I was in my twenties they were elderly. And they were characters. As were their four offspring. And their dog, Duke.
A Peacock In The Northwoods? (Cabin Tales #12)
The BTL Fishing Tournament Chronicles (Cabin Tales #11)
A group of my high school friends and I used to hold (nearly) annual fishing tournaments at differing venues around central and northern Minnesota. We would enjoy zesty pre-tournament hi-jinks on Friday nights and then slither out for the first fishing session early Saturday morning. (These tournaments were comprised of three sessions of fishing: Saturday morning, Saturday evening and Sunday morning). Each year’s winner would receive a nice Champion’s Trophy for his efforts. In later years, we added the equally prestigious “Golden Outhouse Award” to the contestant who was the biggest ‘disruption/buffoon/incompetent mess’ of that year’s tourney. (These trophies would appear to be mutually exclusive, although, oddly enough, “Spank” or “Swilligan” if you will, almost pulled that remarkable feat off one year. Had he done so, he should have automatically been put on the cover of Sports’ Illustrated’s “Sportsman of the Year” issue).
The "Incident" (Cabin Tales #10)
The Opener (Cabin Tales #9)
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2/24/2015 "Elkie" (Cabin Tales #8)
A couple cabins to the west of us lived—and lives— another family from “the cities,” about 150 miles to the south. Bob, the patriarch, bought the cabin in 1947, shortly after the end of World War II. His wife, Virginia, contracted polio when young, but this didn’t stop her from getting around. She had crutches and leg braces…and an indomitable spirit. She still drove into town and went shopping on her own. She still visited the neighbors, played cards and swam in the lake. She loved sitting in the water near shore and tanning at the same time.
Bob
often puttered in his yard, mowing and raking, etc., and also liked to be on
the beach or the dock. When I was a young lad, I would often walk down to my
own family’s dock to go fishing. Nearly as often, it seemed, Bob would see me
and jauntily yell out: “Eric the Red! How’s Eric the Red today?” I doubt he
ever knew how much I enjoyed his buoyant recognition and greeting.
After
concluding their morning duties, Virginia and several other neighborhood
ladies, including my mother, would often gather-- weather permitting- at the
beach. They would be clad in one-piece swimming suits and floppy hats, their
sunscreen and cigarettes accompanying them.
Bob’s
son Greg celebrates his birthday on July 3rd. This often led to a
birthday bash on the beach during the busy July Fourth vacation week. In days
of yore, guests would show up freshly scrubbed, wearing party dresses, Mary
Janes and clean plaid shirts. Party hats, cake and refreshments were provided.
Bob was
friends with “Doc,” a dentist whose home was just across the road from his
cabin. In the early days, both Bob and Doc lived and worked in “the cities”
during the week and drove up to the lake on Friday evenings. These excursions
often proved eventful. Bob had a history of possessing less than fancy
vehicles. Once, while making the usual Friday trip “up north,” Bob was pulled
over by a state trooper. This was years ago, and the officer asked him if he
could step out of his vehicle. Bob had to truthfully answer, “I can’t. The door
is wired shut.” The officer proceeded to ask Bob if he knew why he was pulled
over, to which he replied in the negative. The officer stated he was speeding.
Bob answered, “I couldn’t have been. The car doesn’t go that fast.”
Occasionally, Bob and Doc drove together up to the cabin. These jaunts often
included a stop for refreshments, as it were. On one of these occasions, upon
arrival at the lake, they noticed that Doc’s formerly pristine white dress
shirt was covered in dirt. Turns out, the floor of Bob’s car had a nice-sized
hole in it, and Doc’s garment suffered the repercussions.
Bob had
another good lake buddy, Howard, who lived two cabins west of his own. Bob and
Howard shared many activities, including golf, but their true love was walleye
fishing. They would come back from an outing and proudly display their
stringers of the tasty fish. Bob was a schoolteacher and football coach, who
somehow supported his wife and numerous children, and had no money to spare.
Howard was a successful Oklahoma oilman, who won his property in a high-stakes
poker game. One summer Howard came over and asked Bob if he’d like to come with
him on a fly-in fishing trip to Canada, the fishing trip of a lifetime. Bob
allowed as to how that would be wonderful…but…he just couldn’t swing it
financially. Howard told Bob that he would enjoy having him along and didn’t expect
him to pay. The generous oilman with the southern charm treated Bob to the
trip.
Virginia
was one of my mom’s best friends. Bob and my dad were friendly, too.
Ironically, my dad once owned a car in such bad shape that, when Bob first saw
it, he couldn’t believe it survived the trip from the cities…and dubbed
it “The Prize,” assuming that dad must have got it for free.
Bob
once drove up to the cabin in a driving rainstorm. Things got so bad that flood
warnings were issued. It was more dangerous, however, to pull off to the side
of the road than to just go slow and steady in the direction one was
travelling. A little more than halfway to the cabin, the road just a few yards
in back of Bob’s car gave way, washed out by a rushing, raging torrent of water.
Bob, always as tough as his bride, admitted that this was one time he was a bit
nervous.
Bob died far too early. Yet I will
forever be able to see him, standing on his beloved lakeshore, smiling and
calling out: “Eric the Red.” His name now graces the football stadium of a
major suburban high school. If you find yourself driving down a highway in the
upper Midwest someday, and see a stadium to your north, Bob’s name just might
be on it.
It’s almost as big, stout-hearted and
welcoming as he was.
“The Tool-shed” (Cabin Tales #22)
Our
cabin was built in the early 1920s. It had an outbuilding that featured a
carport, a bathroom and a tool-shed, all connected. The carport had one full
wall on the east side, plus a roof, two open ends and a half wall with an
enclosure for the storage of firewood on the west side. The bathroom was
originally an outhouse, but very soon had a toilet and (cold) running water,
making it the pride of the neighborhood. It stayed this way for roughly 60
years until we added hot water. (By that time, it was no longer the pride of
the neighborhood). The “tool-shed” was a small, rectangular enclosure, about six
feet wide by twelve feet long, with a cut-out in the ceiling which gave access
to storage over the carport. In days of yore, my grandfather kept it well organized.
There were small glass jars with metal lids nailed to the ceiling, a couple of
which are still there. These were/are perfect for the storage of nuts, bolts,
screws, nails, and the like. Everything was properly sorted.
I have
many childhood memories of the tool-shed. I will never forget the unique—and to
me—pleasant smell it possessed, a sublime mixture of wood, metal, and concrete
aromas blended with fresh pine scent from the outdoors, the smell of new and
old fishing tackle…and just a hint of charcoal, oil, and other scents added to
the intoxicating mix. It is a blend I’ve never experienced before and never
will again elsewhere.
At the
outset of the 21st century, my brothers and I rebuilt the cabin,
replete with indoor bathroom. The local planning and zoning commission made us
remove the fixtures from the outdoor biffy, for the perfectly logical reason
that two bathrooms would be an
embarrassment of riches in an area rife with multi-million-dollar vacation
homes. We did not, however, rebuild the
carport-tool-shed structure, utilizing the now empty old bathroom for more
storage. Though it can be difficult to park a modern vehicle in the carport,
especially in the winter, and the vehicle isn’t afforded much protection from
the elements if you do, I am glad we didn’t rebuild or renovate the tool-shed.
No matter what gets spilled on the shed’s shelves or floor, the same historic,
delightful, ubiquitous smell returns to it in a matter of days.
When I
was young, we spent a lot of time in “The Shed” on rainy days. Rock painting
was an ongoing activity. Big or small, round or flat, my friends and I would
paint rocks for hours on end. We would try to find rocks that looked just like
a quarter, a slice of pizza, a baseball, a heart, a potato, a wiener, or whatever…and
paint it to match. We also painted much larger rocks a solid color to match the
cabins and used them to border flower gardens and the like.
Another
favorite shed pastime was sawing open golf balls that we retrieved from the
local course’s water hole. It was astounding to us what was inside. Different
balls had quite different innards. Yet, nearly all of them had a staggering
length of rubber-band-like material wrapped around their cores. We loved
pulling this off and seeing how long it was and what we could make of it.
Usually this only amounted to things like “wigs” or “bird’s nests.” But, hey.
Some of the golf balls had perfectly smooth, round metal balls at their core.
This delighted us as much as finding a pearl in an oyster. I used to bounce golf
balls off the concrete sidewalk in front of the tool-shed and catch them with my
baseball glove when they came down. We also cleaned up and resold the balls
that were nearly new and in good condition. Painted some of them fluorescent
orange, too, for better visibility.
When I
was in my teens a couple of my friends and I collected beer cans. We would go
to old dumps behind resorts and find rare old cans from around the country that
vacationers had brought with them. Some of them were quite valuable, if they
were in good condition. Most of them weren’t. Which is why we purchased Oxalic
Acid from the local pharmacy. We would dump a bunch into a metal pail filled
with hot water, drop in the beer cans, and wait for a few hours. It really did
a good job taking the rust off of the cans! Unfortunately, it was highly
poisonous, which we were mostly unaware of at the time. I can remember bending
over the pails and taking in the smell of the oxalic acid doing its job. I
liked it. That may explain some things.
My grandfather
stored some old wooden decoys and cone-top beer cans in the shed, which were
there long after he passed away. My parents left them in there until the early
1970s when they suddenly decided to clean the shed out and threw away the
decoys and cans. That were worth several thousand dollars total. Just before I
started collecting cans and knew about old wooden decoy values. Oh, well. You
lose a few.
We also had some wonderful old
antique tools in the tool-shed, including a hand-powered hand-drill with wooden
grips. And two manual metal grass trimmers that consisted of a shears held
about an inch off the ground by two wheels, connected via a three-foot tall
handle ending in a pistol-grip that you’d squeeze to close the shears and cut
the wayward weeds or strands of grass. For some reason, I was particularly fond
of them. One was blue and one was green. They have been lost to history. I have
no idea what happened to them.
Many a
story has been told in the tool-shed on rainy days and many a fishing trip got
its start in the delightfully dilapidated room. The sense of history adds to
the memorable aroma.
There
has been one recurring problem with the shed over the years. For some reason,
toads are inordinately fond of wedging themselves under the structure’s door.
Perhaps it is cool and shady between the bottom rail and the cement sill underneath.
Or maybe they feel safely hidden there. Turns out, they are hidden but not
safe. Once or twice every summer I try to push open that door and find it hard
to do so. It always puzzles me for a second or two and I try to force it open.
This works, but sadly results in an ex-toad. Happily, there are many toads and
tree frogs around. Virtually every buggy summer night, one or more tree frogs
climb up the outside wall of the tool-shed and lurk below the exterior light
fixture, a smorgasbord of insects swirling just above them. One particular tree
frog curls up in the metal loop on top of the fixture, tongue darting out
periodically to snatch a winged morsel.
Our
neighbors a couple of doors down also have a tool-shed, somewhat larger than
ours and a bit sturdier. For years they sang karaoke in it, accompanied by
copious quantities of beer and alcohol. It drew friends, family and nearby neighbors
to it, especially on weekends. They called it “Club Shed.” It was a more
worldly edifice than ours, mostly used to celebrate celebrating, and there is
certainly nothing wrong with that.
Both
sheds are still in existence today, I am happy to report. My kids have by now
experienced the oddly special aroma and atmosphere of our small old tool-shed,
the fourth generation to do so. And are aware of some of its history, as they
have added to it. God willing, their kids will come to know it as well.
Many
years ago, shortly after my dad passed away, I was less than giddy about moving
forward with my life. I went into the tool-shed, opened a folding lawn chair and
sat down to think. I felt the spirit of my father and my grandfather. I breathed
in the air and looked around at the tools and the fishing equipment, the water
toys and a bag of painted rocks on the shelf. And a couple of small jars, lids
nailed to the ceiling. Eventually a strange but welcome feeling came over me. A
little over an hour later, I left the shed, with a renewed sense of contentment
and purpose.
I
believe, though I am not certain, that the original wooden sign touting my
grandfather as the owner of our cabin property lies in storage above the
tool-shed. The next warm summer evening I will listen to the frog chorus, gently
push the shed’s door open and climb up to the storage area. If I find the sign,
I will restore it to its rightful place. Maybe I can even find a wooden decoy
to place atop it.
Sometimes
you have to go back to the future.
Again.
*************************
"Astronomy Isn't Pretty": Adventures In Exploration (Cabin Tales #21)
My eldest brother and I used to occasionally look through his powerful telescope at the night sky. This would occur when we both happened to be “up north” at the cabin. We would drag the largish instrument down to our expansive sugar-sand beach once the sky became inky black. Rob was thoroughly fascinated by astronomy for a ten or 15-year period, during which time he became quite versed on the subject. He went to observatories and purchased guidebooks and charts of the heavens. As such, he was my mentor in our endeavors. Also, he liked his beer. As did I. Stargazing and alcohol are a perfect match, each bringing out the best in the other…up to a point. There is something magical and mystical in pondering the impossible vastness and beauty of the cosmos, particularly when you have a little buzz (light year?) going. We have examined nebulas and globular clusters, supernovas and distant galaxies, concurrently looking into infinity and back to the beginning of time, wondering if that is even possible. We have been witness to the wonders of M-31, the Andromeda Galaxy, the galaxy nearest our own, a mere 15 trillion miles away.
We
called our adventures in deep-space exploration “peering.” It is a bit like
voyeurism. Or, as Rob explained to me one moonlit night when he trained the
telescope on a bikini-clad girl on a dock a few hundred yards away from us,
“Remember, astronomy is the study of heavenly bodies.”
However,
too much imbibing can adversely affect one’s sky-watching. One night, after we
split a case of beer or so, Rob, swaying back and forth like a sapling in a
windstorm, was attempting to find a new object when he tipped over and landed
face first in the sand. To his everlasting credit, he managed to get up, dusted
himself off…… and nearly keeled over again. We were done for the night, but
intrepidly made plans to get right back at it the following evening.
Keen to
unlock the secrets of the universe, and unable to restrain my enthusiasm, I
preceded Rob to the beach that night. A few minutes later, he strode
confidently down to the beach, wearing a snow-block maker on his head, whilst
sporting water-wings and kneepads. And a twelve-pack of beer. He looked
solemnly at me and uttered the immortal words: “Astronomy isn’t pretty.”
He
himself was a vision.
And we were ready for another
brutal night of astrological observation.
The Tree House Candle Shop And By-The-Way Gardens (Cabin Tales #20)
When I was a youth, I was blessed to spend the summers at the family cabin “up north.” Among the many things that made the area unique was the presence of several one-of-a-kind gift shops within walking distance of our little slice of Heaven. It may seem unusual that a young boy, especially one enthralled with contact sports, fishing, and the outdoors, would be smitten with “gift shops,” but if you’ll read on, perhaps you will come to understand.
The
Tree House Candle Shop was just that. Located down a paved road about a
half-mile from our cabin, this was a retail store in a massive tree-top. Really.
To enter this boutique, one had to climb up a couple of flights of stairs
connected to the ground and the trunk of the giant oak. The emporium itself was
roughly fifteen feet square, complete with an ancient cash register and shelves
filled with every type and size of candle imaginable. The floor and walls were
made of thick, sturdy wood, buttressed by large branches, which was comforting
when I was inside the shop with five or six others at the same time.
(Amazingly, to my knowledge, the store never received severe storm or wind
damage).
I found it exciting enough just to be in an actual store in a tree, but some of its wares were
truly remarkable. The shop was not just an outlet, it was a virtual wax museum.
It sold candles of every color and size, individual candles and sets, from
candles to adorn a birthday cake to giant candles suitable as stand-alone
centerpieces for a large dining table. On one visit, the shop had a number of
huge, multi-colored candles that the proprietor said were made underwater.
These candles were circular, about 10 inches in diameter, with one-foot high
wax walls topped by five or six wax spires reaching even higher, and had a
hollow center where another candle could be placed and lit. The walls had
openings through which the light would pour out. My family purchased two of
them and had them for decades thereafter. As with my youth, I wish I still possessed
them.
Another memorable gift shop was
By-the-Way-Gardens. As you may have guessed, this shop was surrounded by lush
gardens. The owner, an older, cherubic, silver-haired angel named Ann Fisk,
made sure that her store was enveloped in a riot of color throughout the warm
months. Something pleasantly aromatic was always in bloom on every side of her
store. Inside, there was no end to the knick-Knacks, bric-a-brac, collectibles,
cards, scented flowers, giftware and…toys. Toys! Her shelves were so full,
there was something unique and amusing behind every other thing.
This shop, too, was roughly a
half-mile walk away from our summer home, though in a different direction. Many
was the evening my mom, and her best friend Pat, would stop in at By-the-Way
Gardens on their daily walk. At least once a week, I myself would walk or bike
there to peruse the merchandise or just sit on the bench out back overlooking
the large wishing well. The grounds were so beautiful and magical, I wouldn’t
have been surprised to see unicorns frolicking where one often spotted deer.
"Harry" (Cabin Tales #19)
Harry was a heron. Might still be. A great blue heron. And
he was also a thief. And, if he still is,
he still is…of that I am sure.
I first
encountered the long, lanky bird from afar. One day, several years ago, I was
pondering how it was that nice-sized crappies had been escaping from my fish
pen recently, something that hadn’t happened in the past. A couple of my
neighbors had mentioned that they, too, had experienced the same phenomenon.
We all had large, sturdy pens
comprised of four stout wooden legs with chicken-wire wrapped around them,
forming four sides. Thick wooden boards formed the bottom of the pen, with
heavy gauge wire mesh stapled snugly to them, in case a board should rot or
come loose. We made spikes out of the bottoms of the legs, so they could be
driven securely into the sandy lake bottom. The pens were likewise secured to
the dock, so they couldn’t come loose in wavy conditions. They had no covers,
so as to provide easy access and egress, but the top of the pens stood well
above the water, so the fish couldn’t swim—or jump—out.
One day I was looking out the front
porch of the family cabin at my fish pen about 50 yards away, enveloped in the
unusually calm waters. I slowly realized I was not, in fact, the only one
looking intently at the pen. There was a nearly four-foot-tall bird staring
down into it, standing stock-still on our dock, a mere three feet from my
Crappie Casa. He stood mesmerized…as did I…until finally his neck shot out, then
retracted and he took to the air, a foot-long crappie wedged in his lengthy
beak. Mystery solved. I’m sure Harry was a popular bird in the heron community.
(“Stick with me, baby, and you’ll eat like a queen!”).
This meant we had to crown our pens
with hinged trap doors and handles. This put an end to the thievery, at least
for a few years. Then, last year I saw “him,” or a reasonable facsimile
thereof, from our deck at the front of the cabin. He was sauntering down our
dock, from shore towards the lake. He got to the “H” section, hung a sharp
right, walked 10 feet until the dock turned left, executed a near-perfect
90-degree spin and strolled out to our sundeck, body leaning forward, looking
all-the-while like Groucho Marx. If he had had hands, they would’ve been
clenched behind his back as he strode forward, bent over, beak like a long,
sharp cigar protruding from his face. He exuded a studied look of insouciance
as he moved, casually looking at nothing in particular.
Until he took off, flying low to
the water and dove at the minnow bucket I had hanging off the other side of our
dock. Without hitting the water, or alighting, he somehow thrust his big beak
into the bucket, prying open its door as he did, extracted a large sucker
minnow and, in Houdini-esque fashion, escaped with his booty, scot free. The
last I saw of him, he was flying towards “the bluff,” a large hill topped by
mature trees, that rises from the earth about a half-mile to the west of our
cabin.
It was a remarkable sight, and a
truly spectacular performance, I must admit-- worthy of ESPN’s “Play of the Day.”
Now we put rocks in our minnow
buckets and sink them to the bottom of the lake.
The Crab Caper (Cabin Tales #18)
One cool, misty day when I was 12-years-old, I was fishing off our neighbor’s dock, as I was wont to do. I usually caught perch, bluegills, and rock bass, but occasionally landed a large-mouth bass, as well. On very rare occasions, if I was particularly blessed, I would hook into a northern pike or a walleye, not a common occurrence out of only five feet of water. I even caught a sucker or two over the years, though that isn’t much to brag about.
Something
would happen on this day, however, that I still can’t explain. It was weird,
oddly exciting, but more than a little traumatizing. And totally inexplicable.
I was kneeling off the end of the dock, rod and reel in hand, enticing the
panfish with part of a nightcrawler dangling off a small hook. I had caught a
few fish by this time, and now again felt a slight tug. I waited a moment and
then lifted my rod-tip, feeling a weight, but no real fight or movement. I
reeled in a foot or two of line and lifted my rod up to see what, if anything
was attached to my hook.
There,
staring me in the face with beady little eyes, was a crab. It was hanging on
with one claw. Not a crawfish, with which I’d already become very familiar, but
a nearly perfectly disc-shaped crab, quite red of body, about four inches in
diameter. It kept staring at me, I kept staring at it, both of us in shock.
There are numerous species of freshwater
crabs, but virtually all of them live in tropical or subtropical areas, not in
a lake that is covered by thick ice four months out of every year. I would have been less surprised-- though a
bit more anxious-- to have seen a polar bear strolling down the dock.
That
was forty years ago. I have never heard of another such catch, before or since,
from any lake in the region. Perhaps
someone dropped their pet into the water and the hungry crustacean just happened
to be under my offering at that fateful moment.
Pulling
a crab out of a 13,000-acre chain of lakes in northern Minnesota is akin to
finding a needle in a haystack…if the haystack were the size of Canada.
After a
full 30 seconds or more, the crab let go and fell back into the water, its life
story thereafter unknown.
I sat in silence for a long time. Then I
picked up my rod and bait and walked back to the cabin.
Duke (Part II-- Cabin Tales #17)
Duke was a German Shepherd who lived across the street from my family’s cabin when I was a young lad. Duke thought highly of himself. And of a Siberian Husky named Kita who lived across the lake. He’d frequently visit Kita via a lengthy land route that he’d discovered. (In those days, Duke was allowed to run free and was usually outside from mid-morning until supper time). His owner, knowing where to find Duke if he hadn’t been spotted in the neighborhood for a few hours, would often go and pick him up in his classic old wooden Century runabout. On the way back, Duke would sit proudly erect in the boat's front passenger seat. He carried himself with an air that clearly showed he thought the occasions of his amphibious arrival, even though they occurred with some frequency, compared favorably to General Douglas Macarthur returning to the Philippines during World War II. (“As you good people can see, I have returned.”).
He
would hop out of the boat onto the dock with the grace and power of Willie Mays
turning towards third base. Then, he would magnanimously stop and let people
pet him as he slowly strolled homeward.
Duke
was gregarious, and there wasn’t a mean bone in his body. However, he was not a
coward, had high standards of behavior in others, and seemed to be everywhere.
Once, my eldest brother Rob was walking down the beach when a strange dog came
at him snarling and baring his teeth. Startled, he looked up, quickly running
through his options. Even more suddenly, Duke came out of nowhere, a black
streak aimed directly at the dog menacing my brother. Duke caught the crazed
canine in mid-air just a few feet before it reached Rob-- and sent it
sprawling. The dog slunk away, slightly worse for wear. Rob, who was a Golden
Gloves boxer, didn’t have to put up his dukes to protect himself in this fight. A single Duke went up to
protect him, unbidden.
A
“duke” is defined as: “a male holding the highest hereditary title in the
British peerages; noble.” Duke wasn’t British, he was German. But he was all of
that…and more.
He must’ve been. People are still talking—and
writing-- about him.
The Fishing Tournament (Cabin Tales #16)
I love to fish. Always have. Back in the halcyon days of my youth, one of my brothers, a good friend of ours, and yours truly entered a fishing contest on a whim. (Which was pretty much how we did most things). The multi-species tournament was sponsored by a local radio station, and was open to any lake in the area, highly unusual for a fishing contest of any type. This was the first such event any of us had ever entered, and, given the unconventional parameters, we had no idea if there would be dozens, hundreds, or thousands of contestants.
After submitting the entrance fees, we took a
moment to strategize. The tournament was for walleyes, bass, and northern pike.
There would be $50 payouts for the biggest fish of each species weighed-in
every hour from 8 a.m. through 3 p.m. (though entrants could start fishing at 6
a.m.), and a $500 prize would be awarded to the single biggest fish in each
category legally caught during the contest. We decided we would fish for bass
on a lake we knew of that was lightly fished and harbored good-sized largemouth
bass. We would get up at 4:30 a.m., grab a quick breakfast, load the boat and
set off on the 45-minute drive to the lake. The plan was to launch the boat and
head to our first spot in time to make our first cast just after 6 a.m., right
at daybreak. We also decided if any of us caught a qualifying fish, we would
split the prize money three ways. This seemed fair, as I would act as the
guide, our friend Al provided the boat and motor, and my brother…would give us
a third lure in the water.
Needless to say, it is very important
to properly prepare for any tournament. Focusing on the challenge at hand,
developing fishing strategies, visualizing success, and getting the rest one
needs to perform at a high level are all vital aspects of pre-tournament
preparation.
I spent the night in a van with a
local gal, assuring that I was properly hydrated.
When local gal dropped me off at
4:30 a.m., in front of the cabin in which my brother and our friend Al was
staying, I was very concerned that it might prove exceptionally difficult to
wake the lads. This being nearly 40 years ago, they too were partial to a
little late-night carousing. (In fact, on one occasion, another friend and I
very nearly couldn’t wake them up, as
they had apparently passed out fallen asleep without properly shutting
off one or more of the gas burners on their stove. We grew concerned when there
was no sign of them by mid-day and went to investigate. We opened their windows
and literally shook them awake…at about 3:30 in the afternoon).
“Biggun’, is that you?” I heard
from inside just before I started to knock on the front door.
I was stunned, but pleasantly so.
That pumped me up and was the first moment I thought to myself, who knows, maybe we have a shot at it.
“It’s me, Al. Are you guys ready?”
“Well, we just have to get your
brother up.”
We eventually succeeded in doing
so, grabbed a bite, loaded up, and hit the road almost on schedule. My brother
fell back asleep almost immediately.
Arriving at the rather primitive
launch after several miles of traversing wet gravel roads red with iron ore, we
rousted brother Mark again, slid the boat off the trailer, and headed
diagonally across the lake to Spot Number One. Mark promptly lapsed back into
unconsciousness. I made a mental note to check into early-onset narcolepsy
while piloting the boat towards some flooded timber as the first rays of the
sun appeared on the horizon. After about five minutes, we arrived at a spot I
thought held great potential…a large tree sticking out of the water at a
45-degree angle, right on the edge of a steep drop-off.
We re-rousted my brother, and I
told him to cast his buzz-bait past the tree and retrieve it close to its
trunk. In a few seconds there was a slurp and a splash and the fight was on. It
was quickly apparent that he had hooked a big fish, and on our first
cast! Fully awake now, Mark did a pretty good job fighting the fish. However,
when it was most of the way to the boat, it got stuck, and he couldn’t retrieve
any more line. We all thought: Oh, crap,
that’s it…it’s gone. Slowly motoring towards where the fish was snagged, we
peered into the clear water and saw a large bush attached to the bottom of the
lake. Shortly thereafter, we saw a very big largemouth bass inches away from
the bush, shaking its head, trying to free itself from the lure, line and
shrubbery. Glad that it wasn’t already gone, but in a state of panic that it
might well get away soon, Al used the landing net- and his long arms- to chop
at the offending brush. Part of the soggy plant came loose and Al was able to
simultaneously get the net under the fish…and the fish into the boat. He
reached down, grabbed the bass, held it up and shouted, “It’s the money! It’s
the money!”
We all joined in the happy chorus,
while jumping up and down in the small green craft. Even before the first
weigh-in of the day, we knew we had a good chance to win given the nearly
6-pound bass that we had just taken hostage.
Upon leaving the lake to travel to
the official weigh-in site, Al and my now pumped-up brother were finishing up
stowing their gear when I took a cast from shore. I caught a small northern and
released it, thinking it too small to win even an hourly prize. They both told
me I should’ve kept it: “You never know,” they said, “maybe no one will
register a northern the last hour.”
The bad news? I released $50, not a
pittance 40 years ago. No one registered a northern the last hour.
The good news? We won the
tournament and split the money. Then we retired from competition. We will
forever be one-for-one, a 100% winning percentage.
As someone once wrote, “Bliss it
was in that dawn to be alive. But to be young was very heaven.”
Rattled (Cabin Tales # 15)
For years we had an outdoor bathroom at our lake property. I don’t mean an ‘outhouse’. In fact we were the first, or among the first, in our area to have running water and a flush toilet. We just plateaued at that point... for about… sixty years.
Late one sunny summer afternoon I responded to nature’s call. I entered our outdoor facility, locked the door and sat down, assuming a fully functional posture. Settled in for the duration as it were. I Grabbed a local newspaper’s sports section left nearby for just such an eventuality, and sought to make the most of my time.
After a minute or two, I warmed to the task. Unfortunately, at this point, things took an ugly turn. The medicine cabinet-attached flush to the wall-started shaking and rattling. I was keenly aware that medicine cabinets are entirely incapable of shaking and rattling of their own volition. Therein lay the problem.
We did have a military installation about forty miles away, and at times through the years live-fire excercises would cause the ground to tremble and our windows to rattle. I was fervently hoping that this was the case now. I soon realized, however, that the ground wasn’t trembling and the bathroom window wasn’t rattling. There simply weren’t many other logical possibilities that I could think of for what was happening.
I asked myself if I had accidentally ingested any hallucinogenic drugs. No. Eaten a bad plate of clams? No. I was literally questioning my own sanity. ‘Freaking out’ as we kids said then. Was it some odd, mosquito-borne illness coming over me? I was desperate for answers as the shaking and rattling grew ever more pronounced.
And then I got one.
It was not a good one. A thin, bony black wing started protruding from the back of the cabinet where it rested against the wood-paneled wall. More and more of the wing came out, stretching and flapping. I was transfixed by the sight. And unnerved. And not done with my original task. ‘Pants on the ground’ as the saying goes now.
Soon, the entire cabinet started flopping around crazily. Then a largish black bat dropped out of it and took up station about thirty-six inches away from my feet. It was hopping around lightly and opening and closing its mouth while still flapping its wings occasionally. Mighta had a little spittle around the corners of its mouth.
I was stunned. (The bat may have been somewhat non-plussed as well). I ran through what I could then see as my entire range of options. In about two seconds. I didn’t particularly care for any of them.
I hitched up my pants as quickly as I could, all the while watching the winged rodent looking back up at me. I took the two steps to the door, turned the deadbolt and threw the door open wide. I headed out of the bathroom at a dead run, my left hand still trying to hold my pants up. That was as far as my plan went.
I looked back and didn’t see anything flying out of the bathroom. We had a fence on our property line that extended directly out from the bathroom. It was about five feet from the only road serving our area of the lake. As was our bathroom. I trotted around the fence and came back towards the still open bathroom door. I leaned over the fence and craned my neck to peer inside the loo, still- and just barely- holding my pants up, left hand just under my navel.
Still rattled by the whole episode, and wanting to make sure the bat was gone from the biffy, I hadn’t properly considered appearances. The juxtaposition of my person, my pants and my appendages while staring into an open bathroom... from a roadside... in broad daylight... may have given some pause.
Well, actually it did. A car came by, slowing dramatically as it approached the scene. Then it stopped…right before me. This is when I properly considered appearances. I nodded and yelled “bat…bat in the bathroom!”
I made my way into the cottage.
I made my way into the cottage.
(In retrospect it was worth it for the story. It’s almost always- in retrospect- worth it for the story).
The Crazed Angler and the Fish (Cabin Tales #14)
One Labor Day weekend many years ago, I was fishing on a small lake with a friend of mine from Oklahoma. It was a beautiful day, partly cloudy with light breezes and temperatures in the mid 70’s. Better yet, we caught a lot of fish, some decent size bass and northern pike among them. I, for various reasons, do not use leaders when fishing. This does lead to me being ‘bitten off’ occasionally by toothy, aggressive northerns. Unfortunately, on this day I was losing ($5 apiece) ‘crankbaits’ at an alarming rate. Worse yet, I have a particular favorite ‘crankbait’ that is hard to come by, and, after catching numerous bass and northerns-and losing several of the latter- I eventually was down to the last of these ‘magic’ baits. I figured I had a fair chance of hanging on to this one , however, as we would only be fishing for another hour or two at most. So I tied it on. And made a cast.
Half- way back to the boat, a fish hit it. It soon became apparent it was another northern. I fought it for a bit and it surfaced about twelve feet from the boat. I have often seen northerns do this. They will pause to rest a moment before quickly diving down on another power run. My treasured lure- the last of its breed- was nowhere to be seen. It was entirely in the fish’s mouth. If the line broke on this upcoming dive – or a following one- my lure would be gone. I had a mere moment to process this information and make a decision on how to proceed.
I stepped on top of my (elevated) portside storage compartment, the one farthest from the northern that was glaring up at me intently from what was now effectively fifteen feet away. (Before going further let me note that I was fully clothed. I had on a cap, sunglasses, shoes and socks, a tee-shirt, and shorts with pockets containing a comb, handkerchief, keys, my asthma inhaler…and my wallet).
“Al,” I said urgently, “hand me the net!” He did. I took it, and, ignoring the four foot long handle, put a hand on each side of the circular frame and held it out in front of me.
I jumped across the boat to briefly put one foot on the starboard side storage and the other on the outside of the gunwhale. Pressing off with both I jumped up and out in an impromptu Greg Louganis imitation. I had the net in front of my head, arms outstretched so it would enter the water first and possibly entrap the befuddled pike as I entered the lake to partake of his realm.
I hit the water head down and went under. I immediately turned the net over 180 degrees just in case it somehow contained ‘my’ fish, which would surely just swim away in any case. I now realized I had to get my arms up and head facing the surface as well. If I hit the ‘piscatorial lottery’ and the fish was miraculously still in the net, this would be my only chance of keeping it there…and of allowing myself to eventually make it to the surface as well. (In retrospect, this probably shouldn’t have been the secondary consideration).
It soon became clear that I had another problem. My hands were occupied and couldn’t help me get to the surface. I started kicking even harder. Inch by inch, and I do mean inch by inch, I crept towards the surface. Fortunately, just as I was getting short on air, I felt the net break the surface. I kept my arms locked in an extended position and kept rising. I felt the net vibrate and twist. The northern was in it!
I got my head above water moments later and took a well deserved breath. I saw that by using the boat for leverage I had kicked it farther away. It was now approximately thirty feet from my point of entry. I also saw Al, with his hand over his heart, leaning over the side of the boat, incredulous.
“WHADDIDDYADOO??!” he exclaimed in a loud southern drawl. “I got him, Al!” I replied. I was able, at this point, to hold the net with one hand on the yoke and ‘sort of’ swim towards the boat and the stunned Oklahoman. The northern itself was only of ‘garden variety’ size, maybe three or four pounds. After handing the net up to Al, I was able to get back into my sixteen and a half foot aluminum fishing vessel. I eventually extricated my lucky lure from the northern’s maw and released it back into the clear water. It promptly swam away, possibly seeking counseling or a trauma center.
We kept fishing for awhile, though I’m not sure why. I believe we were slowly recovering ourselves. To this day, that remains the only time I ever truly surprised myself with my own actions. I lost my sunglasses and my hat, and my inhaler was a goner. I had to dry out some money, etc., but it was worth it to get my lure back. And for the story. (It's almost always worth it for the story).
This was also one of the very few times I wished something I did was captured on film. Nowadays, what with all the smart-phones and portable video devices, it surely would have been. (There were numerous boats on the lake and cottages and beaches teeming with people around us that holiday weekend).
I would love to have seen it on “America’s Funniest Videos”. Any accidental athleticism aside, it was just so…preposterous.
It would have been ESPN’s “Play of the Millenium”!
Doc & Pauline (Cabin Tales #13)
When I was younger, we had neighbors across the road from our cabin, who, unlike us, were permanent residents. Back then that was a rarity. When I was a very young lad, they were in late middle age, so by the time I was in my twenties they were elderly. And they were characters. As were their four offspring. And their dog, Duke.
“Doc”
and Pauline were well known in the area. (As was their dog, Duke). Doc’s real
name was Edward, but no one ever called him that. It would’ve been like calling
Babe Ruth “George,” even though I know for a fact that Doc couldn’t hit a curve
ball. Doc earned his sobriquet by way of being a dentist- and a darn good one.
Gentle, too. His wife Pauline was- or had been- a nurse. And a darn good one,
in her own right.
There
were significant benefits to living across the street from Doc and Pauline. If
you needed a tool- and nearly everyone in the neighborhood did at one time or
another- Doc had it. No matter how obscure, if an implement existed, Doc owned
at least one of them. And, since his two
expansive tool-sheds were always perfectly organized, it never took him long to
find just the one you needed. No library’s books were in more perfect order
than Doc’s beloved tools. I checked out many of his contrivances over the
years, from awls to zip-saws. Occasionally, I went over and asked for a tool
just to see his sheds- or to see if he had one, if it was a particularly
offbeat request. I was never disappointed.
Pauline
acted as a volunteer nurse for the neighborhood’s children. I sought her care
and advice more times than I can count. Once, I had a very advanced case of
poison ivy. I had scratched it and scratched it, apparently with dirty fingers
or nails, and the oozing, open sores got infected. I got concerned when I
noticed, over the course of a day or two, a red line going quite rapidly up my
leg, from the ankle where the poison ivy rash had started to nearly knee-level.
I traipsed over to see Pauline. She shook her head, cocked her one good eye at
me, and said, “Gads! We’ve got to clean that out and bring that infection down
and out.” She told me to soak the whole area in epsom salts for 30 minutes,
twice a day, among other pointers. The red line- and my sores and itching- were
gone in three days.
Another
time, when I was racing a friend on our bikes, my bike’s chain broke as I was
standing up and driving my foot down as hard as I could on the pedal. The chain
snapped, there was no resistance anymore, and my knee went into the triangular
shaped gear spikes. I wiped out, pulled the bike off my knee, and looked down
to see a gash, and a couple of whitish tendons.
To
Pauline I went.
Pauline
was an excellent nurse, but she really
believed in thoroughly cleaning a wound out. She would scrub and scrub them
directly until it almost brought tears to your eyes. I’m quite sure she
wouldn’t have been allowed to treat wounds at Gitmo. It would’ve been
considered torture. But, there were never any post-treatment infections when
she plied her craft.
Doc and
Pauline were likely both marginal, if highly functioning, alcoholics. They hid
their preferred beverages from each other. Though it’s not politically correct
to say now, it was kind of funny to an outsider like me. Doc loved to putter,
and was always maintaining or fixing something. Even into his late 70’s he’d
have a pop or two and go up on their roof to clean it off. Once, when he went
up in the winter to remove some snow and ice, Pauline tried to dissuade him
from doing so. “If you fall off, I’m not looking for you until the snow melts
come spring!” she bellowed.
Doc
liked to chop wood. He really liked to chop wood whilst enjoying a few
Kingsbury beers. The more Kingsbury he drank, the more wood he chopped. Even
into his late seventies. This was endlessly entertaining to me. He kept his axes
sharp and his beer cold.
Doc and
Pauline would often play card games with my parents and others in the
neighborhood, sometimes until very late at night, often with an abundance of
libations on hand. If Doc needed to relieve himself and the onsite bathroom was
occupied, he would sometimes go outside and “water the flowers.” On at least
one occasion, he did this outside of their own home. He yelled through the open
window at his beloved: “I’m watering your petunias, dear!” Pauline responded,
“You couldn’t find my petunias with a
map and a magnifying glass!”
Every
so often, Pauline would invite us over for dinner. Bliss was it, to be alive on
those hallowed evenings. She was a truly amazing cook. It is not hyperbole to
say that she could have made a living as a top chef.
In
today’s twisted parlance, Doc would’ve been considered a bit of a “perv.” The
adults of the “north shore” would often gather at a certain cabin where that
clan’s British-Southern matriarch would bewitch everyone with the amazing but
true tales of her life (a future Cabin Tales post, to be sure). Everyone would
be rapt, Doc no exception. However, Doc had the additional talent of being able
to appear to read a magazine while still avidly following the current tale.
What is more impressive still, he usually did this while actually looking at a Playboy magazine he had tucked into the Time
or Outdoor Life that served as his ruse extant for the night’s gathering.
One
afternoon, when I was in my late twenties- and Doc was in his eighties- I brought
a coworker up to our cabin for the first time. As we pulled up to the cottage,
I saw Doc walking down the road with a particularly large, long flat-head
screwdriver in his hand. Knowing what his response would be, I said, “That’s a
big tool you’ve got there, Doc!”
He promptly replied, “That’s what all the
ladies say!” My friend was stunned.
Doc and
Pauline are both long gone now, together again for eternity.
Here’s
to their memories.
You can bet Doc's Kingsburys are
cold, and Pauline's petunias well and properly watered.
A Peacock In The Northwoods? (Cabin Tales #12)
I got off work at about 10 pm on that hot Friday night many
years ago. I left downtown and headed north, soon escaping the metropolitan
area in my quest to reach the Northwoods, and our cabin on the lake. It was a
beautiful summer’s night, and, after a two-and-one-half hour drive, I reached
the last major intersection on the way to our cottage. Heaven was only 2 miles
away.
Please
imagine my surprise, when, stopped for a red light at this junction in northern
Minnesota, I saw what appeared to be a peacock standing- strutting- at the
northwest corner of the intersection. The peacock, or peafowl, is comprised of
three species, one of which hails from Africa, and two of which are native to
southeast Asia. None of them should have been standing at a northern Minnesota
street corner after midnight at any time of the year.
Even
more bizarrely, the one I was watching was fanning its admittedly beautiful
tail as it gradually turned around, stepping slowly and stiffly in complete
circles, as if to say, “Look at me, look at me! Can any of you possibly resist
such an erotically delectable sight as this?!” That it is possible to appear
confused and haughty at the same time, this bird proved beyond a doubt. Sad,
really, given that it was dark, and, anyway, the next nearest of its kind was
likely over 80 miles away, caged in a zoo. There could be no more fruitless, pointless endeavor.
I
questioned my sanity upon first laying eyes on this creature, hollowly and
pathetically preening at the side of the road where normally only panhandlers
ply their trade. Fortunately, the next day I read about a nearby zoo that had a
few of its animals temporarily escape just the day before, including a peacock.
All of
the critters were found and re-enlisted in the zoo’s ranks within 36 hours, I
am happy to report.
I, too,
returned to my urban cage shortly thereafter.
The BTL Fishing Tournament Chronicles (Cabin Tales #11)
A group of my high school friends and I used to hold (nearly) annual fishing tournaments at differing venues around central and northern Minnesota. We would enjoy zesty pre-tournament hi-jinks on Friday nights and then slither out for the first fishing session early Saturday morning. (These tournaments were comprised of three sessions of fishing: Saturday morning, Saturday evening and Sunday morning). Each year’s winner would receive a nice Champion’s Trophy for his efforts. In later years, we added the equally prestigious “Golden Outhouse Award” to the contestant who was the biggest ‘disruption/buffoon/incompetent mess’ of that year’s tourney. (These trophies would appear to be mutually exclusive, although, oddly enough, “Spank” or “Swilligan” if you will, almost pulled that remarkable feat off one year. Had he done so, he should have automatically been put on the cover of Sports’ Illustrated’s “Sportsman of the Year” issue).
Another
hallmark of these “official” gatherings was equipment malfunction- and destruction.
At “BTL Tournament #1,” my boat was being pulled by a teammate in his brand new
pickup truck, to another squad member’s cabin…through a rather narrow driveway
framed on each side by dense woods. Concerned that my trailer and boat might be
too wide to safely pass through, I opened the passenger side door of said truck
to peer behind me at my rig…sending said door into the trunk of a tree, putting
a shiny new dent in it. Though not especially amused, “Harley” was good enough
to keep his cool.
Which
is more than can be said for two other squad members who, after a long hot
afternoon of drinking, got into a shouting match over who sported the largest belly. This eventually led one
to bellow the immortal words, “Get the tape measure. Get the bleepin’ tape measure!”
while the rest of us fell about laughing uncontrollably. (That phrase made it
onto the next year’s official tournament tee-shirt).
Two of
the tournaments were held on my lake, the largest body of water on which the
tourney was ever held. The lake appeared to sense when one was imminent and the
wind would come up and the waves would rise to impressive heights. This
combination led to arguably the tourney’s most famous/infamous moment (which,
by-the-way, is saying a lot). “The Big Man” was paired with “Davey” for
Saturday morning’s opening session. They were to be fishing out of the former’s
14’ aluminum boat powered by a 20 horsepower outboard engine. The waves were
over two feet high as they set out across the lake in this small craft. Roughly
100 yards out, they realized that they had forgotten their life preservers,
and, since they were safety-conscious individuals, turned back towards my dock
to retrieve them. The Big Man weighed nearly 300 pounds at the time, Davey not
even half that. The Big Man was in the back of the boat, manning the
motor…along with a full tank of gas, the marine battery…and some water.
Consequently, as they turned towards shore the back of the boat was much lower
in the water than the bow. This was unfortunate, as the waves now rolled gaily
over the transom, flooding the boat, which eventually sank before reaching
shore. (This is the only instance of a boat sinking in tournament annals, and
makes for a wonderful asterisk next to that day’s box score).
Possibly
the worst part of this for the now drenched duo was that all the other boats
were already out on the lake and had no idea this was happening. They spent an
hour or so attempting to retrieve as much of their gear as they could from the
boat, lake and shoreline, laying the soaked artifacts on towels and blankets on
the ground by the cabin. The rest of the squad returned at session’s end to
find them engaged in a spirited cribbage match on a patio table near the cabin,
a couple of dozen empty “Special Export” cans adorning the area. (That same
tournament, I started out with three functional boat seats in my watercraft, and
ended up with two that could serve as dilapidated seat cushions. Large waves
and large bodies are hard on boats and accessories, and Extra Large is the
equivalent of BTL petite).
The
next contest held on my lake was also eventful. One of the boys was using a
neighbors slip and dock to moor his boat. It was windy and wavy again. Prior to
the first session, he and his partner were attempting to back away from the
dock when the bow ended up getting wedged under a dock section, lifting it up
and disconnecting it from the others. It sagged into the waves, making repairs
necessary and delaying the start of the festivities.
One
year a couple members of the team had our likenesses all put on actual baseball
cards, complete with stats, anecdotes, descriptions and the like. A good time
was had by all when they graciously distributed the cards to their respective
owners-to-be on opening night of that tournament. Then we went outside and
officially kicked off the tourney festivities with a fireworks display. The
next day saw the highest dew point ever recorded in that area and several of
the boys nearly succumbed to heat stroke/prostration after session number one.
More
recently, a couple of the team members, “Hawken Loob” and “El Gordo,” came up
with the idea that we should have sponsor shirts. Genius. These were to mimic
the shirts that the top pros wear at their contests. We had a brain-storming
session, which I was involved in, to come up with who would likely sponsor us.
Sure, there were a few requisite fishing and marine companies in the mix, but
we ended up with several perhaps less likely logos adorning the finished
product. “Cialis,” “Charmin,” “Canada Club,” “Irish Spring,” and “Speedo” made
the cut.
We
haven’t been able to have a tournament for a few years now.
Cue
Bruce Springsteen’s song, “Glory Days.”
How I
miss them.
The "Incident" (Cabin Tales #10)
Roughly
three months before we were to be married, I took my wife out for a leisurely
ride in my fishing boat. My hand on the tiller of the outboard motor, I
blithely steered us across the cobalt waters of the lake. Happily afloat under
the clear blue sky, we aimlessly cruised along for a couple of miles, absorbing
the sun’s rays, loving life.
Suddenly,
the motor sputtered and died. I was surprised- as there were no warning signs,
no clues that such a thing was possible and I knew we had plenty of gas. After
checking one or two other possible causes of the current calamity, I removed
the engine’s cowling/cover. I checked
the spark plug connections and then the sparks themselves. I looked at
the kill switch position and checked the fuel line all the way into the
carburetor. Finding nothing amiss, I put my left hand on top of the now exposed
motor and pulled the starting cord as hard and fast as I could with my right
hand. It didn’t start.
Worse,
I hadn’t paid attention to the exact positioning of said hand and was unaware that its ring finger
was in line with the heavy lead fly wheel’s “teeth.”
In an
instant, I was acutely aware that my
left ring finger, or what was left of it, had indeed been in line with the
heavy lead fly wheel’s teeth. The tip of that finger was gone, no sign of its
fingernail was to be found and blood was pouring out everywhere and quickly. I
grabbed a towel and wrapped it tightly around my finger/hand and sat back to
calm myself and think. This had now become a particularly inopportune time to
be immobile, as even I realized that I needed medical attention.
I asked
my fiancee to hand me a beer. (Next to marrying her, that was one of the better
decisions I’ve ever made). She complied. Eventually we flagged down another
boat and those good people towed us back to our dock. My mother was standing
there and saw the bloody beach towel around my hand. She, looking stricken,
asked what was wrong and I said something to the effect of, “don’t worry, just
going to the hospital to make sure this cut doesn’t get infected. Be back
soon.”
My
fiancée drove me to the hospital in Brainerd. We went to emergency. I was still
bleeding, but was told to “fill out these forms” and was behind a couple of
kids with the sniffles. Soon, however, we prevailed upon them to have a doctor
see me quickly. I was led into a large white-walled room and put in a chair
that reclined. A nurse poured some liquids into a small bowl and put my finger-
now sans towel- in it. Eventually a doctor came in. He didn’t greet me on the
way in. Instead he walked up to the bowl and grabbed my left hand and lifted it
up for an inspection.
“Tore the crap out of it!!” was the
first thing he said to me. As God is my witness. Verbatim. (And it did look
like raw ground beef at the end of the finger where the tip and nail had been).
After asking me a few questions and taking an x-ray, he started in on stitching
it up. About half way through the lengthy process, he sat back and rolled his
shoulders and literally took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. He looked
up at me and said, “this is why I don’t do jigsaw puzzles at home!”
Thanks,
Doc! What a card. He should have his own comedy act at a Motel 6 or something.
I asked
him what the prognosis was. He said that the last half inch or so of the finger
was gone as was the nail and the nail bed, so that there was no chance of
regeneration. Simply put, that finger would never sport a nail again, and would
be shorter than its right hand counterpart.
I asked
if there was any chance the finger might not be saved, as I was getting married in a few
months. He said, “well, even amputees get married!” Talk about bedside manner.
On the
way home from the hospital I told my fiancée what the doctor had said, and she
started crying. We got back to the cabin and later that night had a family
bonfire near the beach. I had several more beers and a good time was had by
all.
The
doctor had given us a regimen we needed to follow to try to heal the finger and
keep infection out. We followed his advice, and, after about two months, a nail
slowly started to appear on that finger. I thought of shark’s teeth. Other than
being about 1/3rd of an inch shorter than its counterpart, my left
hand ring finger looks normal today. It does, in fact, even sport a ring
nicely.
In
retrospect I have to say, “nice work, Doc. Thanks.”
But
keep your day job.
The Opener (Cabin Tales #9)
Fishing
Opener, or simply “The Opener” as we zealots call it, is, to us, the best time
of year. It is a day or weekend- or week for some- steeped in tradition and
memories. It is the excitement of what may yet be and the promise of a long
summer to come, on, in- or near- the water. It is the beginning, the awakening
of a new season with all its possibilities. It is the wonder and splendor of
youth, hope and growth. Truly a time of brotherly love towards all.
It is a
cold beer and playoff hockey. It is a
lazily unfolding baseball game on the radio as you make long casts into short
water for bass.
A
number of years back, it was also something quite different, although still
very memorable.
My
buddy Blacky and I were coming back (in my boat) from an exceedingly enjoyable
outing to some small, shallow channels where we had caught and released many
bass while listening to classic rock on the “boom-box,” when things took an odd
turn. As we approached my beach, we saw dozens of people standing in a neighbor’s
yard and more on their beach and dock.
There were red and blue flashing lights visible on or near the road
behind their property, as well. Even stranger, my brother came running over to
our shore as we pulled up in my boat. I shouted at him, “What’s going on?” to
which he replied by making a fist with one hand and pounding it into the other
while grimacing menacingly.
Just
then, I heard a voice command, “Hey buddy! Bring your boat over here!” I turned
towards the direction the voice came from and scanned the area. There was a
Dudley-Do-Right figure at the end of said neighbor’s dock motioning someone
over. I looked around to see who he was entreating and it became obvious he was
summoning me. I don’t yield to commands very well, but I was curious as to what
the heck was going on, so I pulled up to the dock and looked up at the officer
in question. He said, “I need your boat for a minute, please get out.” I said,
“No.”
He then
exclaimed that he needed it to apprehend someone. He said, “then let me in and
you take it to that boat over there!” He pointed towards the southeast, where I
saw a small fishing boat slowly plowing through the water, with its bow up
high, a loan man in it. Blacky got out. The officer stepped in my boat,
crunching an empty Labatt’s Blue beer can in the process. I said, “I’ve got life vests for all of us,” to which he replied, “good thing
for you!” Gospel truth.
Nothing
special, my fishing boat none-the-less quickly caught up to the boat that
Dudley was so intent on overtaking. As I pulled closer I asked the officer what
he wanted me to do and he responded that I should pull up to the boat so we
could grab on to it and he could board the other craft and apprehend its
operator. At this point, I could see why the boat was bow up and moving so
slow. It was half-filled with a pink liquid. As I carefully navigated my Tracker, inching
closer to the rogue craft, he yelled at its temporary captain, “Give me the
fillet knife! Hand me the fillet knife, now!!”
I
exclaimed, “Fillet knife? You didn’t tell me about the fillet knife!” This explained the volume of pink liquid. There was
a lot of blood mixed in with the lake water.
The
officer drew his gun and told the would-be captain to hold up his hands as he
was going to board his boat. He said, “Don’t make this any worse than it is
now.”
The man
stood down, and the officer got in his boat. Eventually they returned to my
neighbor’s dock where he took the man into custody. When I got back to my cabin
and secured my boat, the neighbors gave us the full story of what had
transpired. The man Dudley and I apprehended had been fishing with an
acquaintance from work. They weren’t friends, just knew each other from their
workplace in Rochester. At some point, roughly in front of our neighbor’s dock,
the argument that they had been having (over who-knows-what) reached the point
that the one man started hitting the other with an oar. He then took out his
fillet knife and stabbed him. Finally, he pushed him over the gunwale of the
boat. The victim, battered and bloodied as he was, managed to swim to our
neighbors beach and they called the police after he related what had happened.
As I’ve
often told my kids, “You never know what will happen when you’re fishing!
2/24/2015 "Elkie" (Cabin Tales #8)
“Elkie” was a Norwegian Elk-hound of silver, gray, ecru and
black fur and friendly demeanor. She was owned by the Fleet family who had a
cabin five places down from ours. (Howard, the patriarch of the clan, had won
the property in a high-stakes Oklahoma oilmen’s poker game in the 1950’s, but
sadly passed away only about a decade and a half later. The Fleets had been
great family friends almost since that fateful poker game).
On one
occasion, Elkie was in a car with Howard’s son, Al, my brother and a couple of
other friends. One of the friends, “Fat
Dick” as he was called in those politically-incorrect times, passed gas while
in the vehicle, leading to groans and complaints from the other occupants of
the car, as the windows were all shut and he was known for emitting a
particularly noxious methane cloud. Elkie, however, gagged and then actually vomited on the car’s floor. This was
unexpected, as perhaps her favorite pastime was rolling in the foulest-smelling
dead fish she could find on the beach. She would lie on her back and roll from
side to side atop rotting, maggot-ridden carcasses of suckers and eelpout,
northern and rock bass, all the while kicking out her paws and grunting in
ecstasy.
Fat
Dick’s gas, however, made her puke.
Elkie
once stayed at our place in the city, for reasons I’ve since forgotten. She was
terrified of storms, particularly of lightning and thunder. One day while she
was staying with us, my dad, a famously deep sleeper, was home and in bed when
a violent storm hit. Dad slumbered on blissfully, until the continually
increasing claps of thunder drove Elkie to hop onto- and then into- his bed.
Burrowing under the sheets and attempting to snuggle, her cold, wet nose
pressed against dad’s back.
Dad,
probably unconsciously cognizant that mom was not home,
yet unaware that Elkie was staying with us, woke up. It’s amazing therapy did not ensue.
The
most preposterous story involving Elkie, however, is no doubt the one in which
she “met” Paul Newman. Our cabin is near a major resort that Paul used to stay
at when he was racing at a local track of some renown. The resort tried to keep
his exact location a secret to afford him some privacy. (Though a semi-trailer
housing his race-cars that had “Old Blue Eyes” painted on the sides might have
given some a clue that he was staying nearby). At any rate, a couple of friends
and I collected beer cans at the time, a very popular hobby back in the 1970’s
I might add. We had discovered that there were often many rare cans, well
preserved, under the cabins of resorts in the area, protected by leaves, etc.
that weren’t normally removed from under the cabins. (At that time, these were only
seasonal cabins with no full foundations, sitting up off the ground on blocks).
One
evening we were banging around with rakes under a cabin at the resort. (We
would feel something solid and hear a clank and would rake leaves and cans- and
anything else- out). We were just about done with this, a very successful
outing for me, when mom and Patricia Fleet strolled by on their nightly walk
with Elkie. (There is a path leading from the road to our cabin through the
resort property to a road on the far side). Apparently the accidental banging
of our rakes on the bottom of his floor caused Paul to open the door and step
out. My friend and I were still lying prone on the ground, off to the side of
the small cabin and he didn’t see us at first. Mom, Patty and Elkie, however, were
strolling by right in front of his door. He saw them and exclaimed, “beautiful
dog, what’s the name?” Patty said, “Elkie!” in her unique English-Southern
accent.
Mr.
Newman said, “Oh, like Elke Sommers?”
Patty replied, “Yes, only with an i between the k and e.”
Author’s
notes: 1) The Paul Newman story is one that was told often- and with great joy-
in the ensuing years, but one not heard as
often recently. I did not want to see it fade away over time.
2) Presumably Ms.
Sommers didn’t roll around in dead fish.
******* *** *****************************A True Tale of a Nautical Neighbor (Cabin Tales #7)
In the 1960’s
there resided-three cabins to the west of us- an extraordinarily colorful clan.
The patriarch fancied himself something
of a mariner.
One summer day
upon returning to the cabin from parts unknown he was apparently caught
unawares of the precise juxtaposition of his watercraft and the shore.
This led moments
later to his vessel crash-landing, indeed churning many feet up the deep
beach-sand flying everywhere as the propeller continued to spin madly- until he
was finally able to subdue the engine. Picking himself up and gingerly
extricating himself from the boat, he briefly looked around and then back to his
beloved yet now battered craft and
proudly exclaimed, “BY GOD, THAT’S ONE WAY TO LAND ‘EM!!”
Onlookers, who
claimed there was a fighting chance he’d been tippling whilst out on the
waters, never-the-less claimed to be stirred and inspired by the plucky
helmsman’s spirited proclamation.
(In the
politically correct, effeminate modern world this episode is not to be
celebrated. Indeed there are many who would harshly criticize this method of
coming ashore…J).
****************************
****************************
My Brother And A Fish (Volume I-- Cabin Tales #5)
In my early years
at the cabin, my favorite thing to do was to fish off of our dock. I would wake
excitedly early in the morning, grab my fishing pole and some worms and head
down to the lake. I did this for hours on end nearly every day. Even though it
was mostly perch and bluegills I caught, it never lost its allure (no pun
intended) to me, and even then I practiced catch and release exclusively!
One morning I
caught a decent sized bluegill, and try as I might I couldn’t get it off my
hook. I refused to just “rip it out” as I didn’t want to kill the fish. With
trepidation mounting I hit on an idea. I ran the roughly 200 feet (including
the length of the dock) up to our cabin, threw open my older brother’s bedroom
door…and found him fast asleep in his bed. This should not have been a shock,
as I was 7 or 8 years old at the time,
it was around 1970, and my brother would’ve been about 18.
And it was a Saturday around 7:30 am.
In retrospect, my
guess is he didn’t turn in early the night before and may have had close
contact with a malted beverage. At any rate, I quickly weighed my options and
decided to reach down and wake him by patting his shoulder. I had not
anticipated that when I got closer and bent down to do so with my left hand, my
right hand holding my fishing pole would necessarily come with.
It did.
The fish,
dangling off of a two foot stretch of line below my rod-tip, ended up lying
across his face. Chagrined, it began flopping.
This did have the
desired affect of waking my brother. “Rob” I said, “could you take this
bluegill off my hook for me?”
Sadly, his exact
rejoinder has been lost to history. Suffice it to say that Rob, the bluegill
and I appeared equally shocked.
*********************************
*********************************
My Brother And A Fish (Volume II-- Cabin Tales #6)
Unfortunately
(for my brother anyway) that was not the only time Rob awoke to find a fish in
his face. Fortunately (for me) I had nothing to do with the other encounters.
We had a neighbor
across the road who was a friend of the family. He also had an unusual sense of
humor. He would come to our windows on occasion late at night and scratch on
our screens. This always unnerved my mother. Sometimes he would grunt as well.
But I digress.
My brother Rob
used to enjoy taking a nap on our beach on a nice sunny summer’s day. He would
often lay out a towel and lie down on his front or back, head to the side. John
(the neighbor) diagnosed this pattern over time. He took to watching for Rob on
the beach, asleep on his towel. On a number of occasions John would prowl the
shoreline looking for dead fish. These he would stealthily place about six
inches in front of the face of my sleeping brother.
John was
particularly fond of the late summer time period, as we often had many very
large, dead eelpout wash up on shore. He would steadfastly walk the shoreline
until he found the largest, rankest eelpout around. (For those of you
tragically unfamiliar with eelpout, they look like fantastically large, ugly
bullheads…paler and mottled with really long “whiskers”). He would then drag
his selected carcass back down the beach and carefully place it staring
directly at Rob’s face with its mouth open as if issuing a wake-up greeting.
Great fun was had
by all-well, at least John- when Rob awoke due to the stench or natural causes
to find himself staring into the gaping maw of a moribund ‘pout!
A Dog Named Duke: Part I (Cabin Tales #4)
When I was a boy, I was fortunate enough to spend my summers
at my parents’ cabin in northern Minnesota. At the time, across the street from
us, lived a dog named Duke. (And his family). Duke was the topic of my first
ever writing assignment… in first grade. My opening words were “Duke dog…”
Duke was a dog of
the people. And he thought he was one. Duke mastered the art of self-esteem
just before it was widely introduced in our public schools and society in
general. He was a supremely confident dog. Yet, unlike many of our youth in
recent times, he was also especially competent and intelligent.
Duke was
basically allowed to run free in those earlier halcyon days. Very social, he
would go house to house to see what was happening in the summer. In the winter
he would trot out on the ice of the lake and go ice-house to ice-house and
greet any and everyone he met.
Duke would roam
far and wide…and was beloved- and well known- everywhere he went. On occasion
you might be two or three miles across the lake and spot him. Kids there would
be saying, “Hey, Duke!”
It was
amazing…like “Norm!” from Cheers.
Duke had a
girlfriend at one point. She was a
knockout! A stunning Siberian husky named Kita. Kita had one gray eye and
one gold one. She greeted you with neck extended and a cross between a howl and
a coo. She was the only dog with total respect for others privacy that
I’ve known…before-or since. Kita took a liking to me and we would always enjoy
each others company. Many days I would fix myself a tuna sandwich and grab a
pickle and a cream soda and put it on a tray and head down to our hammock to
read a ‘Field and Stream’ magazine and relax. She’d follow me to the edge of
the cabin and then…always sit down
until I got to the hammock to find her not there. I’d look back and see her and
say, “It’s o.k., Kita, come on,
you’re not bothering me”. Then she’d happily trot down and lie under the hammock, aware she wasn’t
infringing on my personal time. Unbelievable. And the truth.
Duke enjoyed
certain pursuits. He loved to retrieve sticks and balls naturally. But he knew
that a local resort held beach dinners once or twice a week. His natural
instincts kicked in and he would lay in wait, stalking the wily t-bone steak on
a grill. At just the right moment, Duke would dart out and grab said steak off
the grill, turn and run towards home, steak flopping out of his maw in the
breeze.
The head chef for
these beach dinners was an eighty-something years old chain-smoking man in an
apron named Alonzo. He would see Duke running away and start to chase him,
tongs clapping. Again, to recap…an eighty-something chain-smoking man in an
apron…chasing a German Shepherd in his prime. He’d (Alonzo) usually stop after
six or eight steps and bend over gasping for breath. What was he thinking? I
mean, ‘Miracle On Ice’? Hell, it would be less of a surprise if Rosie O’Donnell
won 2016 Olympic high-jumping gold then if Alonzo had ‘caught’ Duke then.
My dad loved
Duke- the feeling was mutual- and used to play with him when he could. Once, he
had a rubber chew ring, maybe 8” across. I can still recall it. Was yellow. He
had Duke glom onto it in our backyard. An epic
tug-of-war ensued. Neither party would give in and the battle went on for
minutes. Finally, dad held it over his head and wrenched the ring out of Duke’s
mouth as he was way up off his paws/feet. Defeated, on the way down, Duke gave
a gentle nip to dad’s side. Dad gave him the ring and Duke flipped it jauntily
over his snout and headed across the street to his home…as dad laughed and
laughed until I thought he’d expire.
Duke and Kita.
Dog royalty. R.I.P.
****************************
****************************
An Evening To Remember (Cabin Tales #3)
On a beautiful
June evening almost nine years ago, I decided to take my son Cole out walleye
fishing for the first time. (We had
fished for them off the dock a bit, in the spring and fall, but never properly
dedicated any time to catch them in the classic Minnesota tradition of trolling
with live bait rigs). I hadn’t taken him until then, because it typically
requires great patience and feel to catch walleyes. One can troll for hours and
hours and not catch any. In fact, if a small piece of a weed is on one’s
hook/bait, e.g., “one” will never catch a walleye no matter how long “one”
tries. Such an indigo evening, however, cried out for a boat ride, and I
decided to couple that with our favorite pastime.
We hastily got
our gear together and went down to the
dock, tossed the gear in the boat and took off
across the darkening water toward “The Rock Pile”, a historic,
legendary, iconic structure about 2 miles straight out from our cabin. I
explained to Cole on the way, that-according to DNR surveys-on average it took
five and a half hours to catch a walleye in the state of Minnesota. I also
stated that since we would only be
fishing for maybe 45 minutes or an hour (mom wanted him back by then to get
ready for bed) we most likely wouldn’t catch anything, but that it would be
time well spent on the water together breathing in the best of creation and
watching the night set in.
Memories…more
precious than gold.
After a few
minutes we arrived at the Rock Pile. I watched the locator and when I was in
the spot/depth I wanted, I baited Cole’s hook…putting on a delectably large and
squirmy leech. As I was casting it out to get ready to troll I noticed the
weight (sinker) was too large for the relatively shallow depth we were in, but
figured…oh, well…we probably aren’t going to catch anything anyway and I really
don’t have enough time to re-rig. After all, this was just about sharing
time together…memories with my son.
When the bait was
far enough back, I handed the rod to my son and went back to my seat and picked
up my own rod. Fifteen seconds later, as I was baiting my hook, Cole said, “dad, I
think I might have one”. I smiled a benevolent smile, and said, “Cole, I think
I put too large a weight on your line, you are snagged on the bottom, it’s only
ten feet deep here. I’ll come and help you”. I went to the front of the boat,
took his rod from him with the intentions of freeing him from this snag and
immediately felt the throb and tug of a large walleye on the other end of his
line.
Handing his rod
back to him as quickly as I could I said, “It’s a fish son…your fish…just keep
reeling”.
Two or three
minutes later-it seemed like two or three hours to me-Cole brought the fish to
the surface a foot from the boat…where I netted it. While not a true “trophy”,
it was twenty-five inches long- a fish many dream about! His first walleye…and
it literally took fifteen seconds for him to hook it; a far cry from five and a
half hours.
Though I rarely keep fish, we put this one in the
live well. Atop the silky water, through the ebony evening, we cruised quickly back to the cabin and showed his catch off to his proud
grandmother among others.
Memories…more
precious than gold.
**********************************
Bless You, Steve (Cabin Tales #2)**********************************
Many years ago we had a friend whose extended
family owned a cabin near ours. Our
families were friends actually, parents with parents and kids with kids…
segregated roughly by age. This being back in the early 1970’s, there were some
interesting and ‘zesty’ times shared by the teenagers of our clans. One summer
day, several of these teens came to
believe that perhaps the already beautiful evening could be further enhanced by
an alcoholic beverage or two. There was one catch, however, in that none of
them were quite old enough to purchase said beverages. All of them, in fact,
were a year or two shy of being old enough to enter a liquor store and buy the
desired refreshments. Some head-scratching and deep thinking ensued. All the
usual hackneyed attempts wouldn’t work. Would take weeks to get a fake I.D.,
don’t have a fake nose and glasses, can’t grow a mustache in an hour, etc. To
make matters worse, the employees of the local liquor store knew them. What to
do?
Eventually,
Steve, one of our friends from the neighboring cabin, hit on a truly ingenious
idea. (He was very light-skinned and
fairly tall, with a slightly reddish complexion and slightly reddish hair. He
was not particularly manly looking at this point). He promptly drove 15 miles
into town and purchased a nun’s habit at a costume store. The full outfit head to toe, including
appropriate black footwear. This he donned, and, on the way back to our cabins,
he stopped at the local liquor store and was clever enough to buy a few bottles
of wine. Probably wouldn’t have look ed as authentic if he- she- came up to the counter
with several cases of Schlitz Malt Liquor.
He was
gratified to find that the person checking him out did not ask for I.D. At the
end of the transaction he issued a simple, “Bless you my son” and departed.
Unfortunately,
since then he has departed (this veil
of tears). He was a good man. I would say now what was said then…”we are not worthy.” R.I.P.
**********************************
**********************************
The ‘Blacky Files’ (Cabin Tales #1)
I have
a good friend who is- like myself- a tad eccentric during normal waking hours.
Unlike myself, however, he is really off-the-wall at night after going to
sleep. Albeit unintentionally. He is prone to talking in his sleep…and
occasionally walking in his sleep. He is also capable of combining the two on
occasion, often to great effect.
Some
years ago I had him up to my family’s cabin in northern Minnesota for a one
week vacation with myself and another friend. We were to do some fishing and
maybe ‘party’ a bit now and again. Blacky, it turns out, had for some reason
been teaching himself the German language. (I had recently completed seven
years of German in school myself, so I was relatively fluent in that language
at the time). We all went out the first night and had a few beers and a few
laughs, told some stories, and then came home to repeat the pattern. Along
about 2 a.m. we all were ready to hit the sack. Blacky had his own room and
double bed adjoining the room with two single beds that my other friend and I
were in for the duration of the vacation. The door between the two rooms was
left open for a last bit of late night banter. Soon, Blacky’s banter was no more,
my other friend was nearly asleep and I
was reading a Sports Illustrated prior to drifting off. A couple of minutes
later I heard Blacky, sound asleep, blurt out “Eins, zwei, drei,
fier…uhhhhhhhh…blaupunkt????” In German that meant “one, two, three, four…uhhhhhhhh…blue-point????”
I actually sat up in bed after he uttered “fier” and paused, hoping I could
perhaps telepathically help him get to “funf” ( five in German) as he was
obviously struggling to count in German. I was a bit confused with his use of
‘blue-point’, not knowing if he just couldn’t come up with the proper term for
‘five’ or perhaps was in need of an oyster or a stereo.
The
very next night, the same scenario was in effect, Blacky asleep and myself
reading at roughly the same time when I heard Blacky stoutly aver “Ayatollah,
you take center field, strange days are these, wow-wow-wow-wow-wow!” I must
admit to being slightly taken aback. I would’ve put the ‘Ayatollah’ (Khomeini?)
in left field.
The
next night, the eve of our taking a chartered
launch out on a large local lake to fish for walleye, provided more intrigue.
Along about the normal time, Blacky started taunting my other friend (Andy)
from his sleep. Andy sat up in bed upon hearing these words: “Andy ain’t gonna
catch no fish, Andy ain’t gonna catch no fish, no Andy ain’t gonna catch no
fish.” Andy was not amused.
Fortunately
I was.
And
fortunately this was not the last time I’d be amused by Blacky talking in his
sleep at our cabin. Another time I actually set up a tape recorder (a boom box
function) to try to record his nightly ramblings. It worked. He, at one point,
was talking about the “Soviet Red Navy” and then went on to offer commentary on “Louis
Farakhan, the bastard…and Louis
Armstrong.” Oddly enough, he called me the following week to tell me that he’d
almost never thought about either of them before, yet now had heard news stories about both of them in the
same day.
The
next time he was up he opined in the middle of the night that it was “a nice
day, but there could be some environmentalists about, though.”
One
unusually hot late August weekend he went to bed well before me, as I was
watching television. About an hour and a half after he turned in, he turned
up…walking through our living room with his hair sticking out everywhere, eyes
closed, mumbling “Hot…hot…hot…hot!!”, then promptly returning from whence he
came.
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