Month: November 2023

Those Who Go Down to the Sea in Ships

I know this is a stretch because my fishing boat is not ship, at least by normal definition but I think any craft meant to take one out to sea in search of fish might qualify even if it is an eight foot inflatable pontoon “ship”. It has no engine other than my very-sustainable self who is powered by a peanut butter sandwich and a nice mudpuppy porter (an aquatic animal of the salamander sort).

However, because of my own personal view of the importance of my fishing “enterprise”, I have taken to reciting the following poem in appreciation of myself. James K Tweedie, who was inclined to borrow from the Bible, in this case Psalm 107, wrote this about me and all the fishermen of the world who in our struggles are spared the grave—and bring home the food for our waiting, and anxious, families.

The men who go down to the sea in their ships,
Who sail on the water and pursue their trade,
The sound of the sea echoes back from their lips;
Their eyes see the wonders of what God has made.

Then God gives the word and the winds start to blow,
Releasing the waves to rise up and be free.
They mount to the heavens above all below
And fall to the depths of the fathomless sea.

The sailors’ hearts melt as the tempest bears down,
They reel to and fro, as if drunk on new wine
And helplessly cling to the mast lest they drown
While crying out to God to be spared from the brine.

The Lord hears their plea, as their cries fill the air,
By grace stills the storm and becalms every wave.
And then they are glad, for the Lord heard their prayer
And guides them to harbor, and spares them the grave.

It was in the evening. The wind had blown in an imposing and all-encompassing pall of forest smoke from the wild fires of Canada making the sun a red, glowing orb hanging in the sky as I launched my ship. There was an apprehension in the air for last year on this same spot I had a ten inch bluegill taken from me by a three foot pike, leaving me startled, and almost unwilling to move forward. Lime Lake has become a treacherous fishery but tonight the water was calm. But still, I like all fishermen, know the dangers that lurk in such waters. At almost any moment an osprey, in its own desperation, may take the very panfish I am pursuing leaving me fishless and heart broken. It is here I have seen the bald eagles and the heinous vultures look at me as if I, the struggling navigator of this wild world, might pass as food with the simple slip of my tiny ship.  

“The sailors’ hearts melt as the tempest bears down,
They reel to and fro, as if drunk on new wine”

I sipped my porter as the tempest closed in. This was going to be a struggle. I reeled to and fro, but also up and down, as I pulled hard against the ores wanting to make headway to the better fishing grounds to the south. A flock of angry geese flew thirty feet above me viewing me in one-eyed distain. The water snake, the serpent of biblical proportions, slid toward me with venomous filled eyes, the massive bull frog just to my left bellowed out warnings to the other warty beasts scattered about. 

My craft, the valiant ship of Lime Lake, bounced and lifted with the massive four inch waves pushed my way by the passing twelve-foot motor ship filled with laughing teenagers who were, I am sure, manipulating to get to my fishing ground near the grand banks, the fishing shoals, and take the silver darlings that were my quarry.

But, “The Lord hears (my) plea, as their (my) cries fill the air,
By grace stills the storm and becalms every wave.

I held strong under the multiple threats as even the swallows are now eating the bugs that feed my bluegills. The seventy-eight degree temperature and the constant chatter of the cardinals, along with the distant aggravating calls of the aggressive sandhill cranes make for nothing but confusion as I near my secluded target, the seas of many bluegills. The distractions of nature are overbearing as I strain on the ores. Will I have to call on Stella Maris?

As the anchor is dropped and the hungry flyrod is readied, it is obvious my life has been spared one more time. There will be no watery grave. I sip the nectar, look about almost overwhelmed, Once again it is obvious that all the way to heaven is heaven. The bluegills will be coming to me.

Organ Recital

Normally, I don’t write about getting old because it seems like everyone over fifty endlessly talks about it, and who needs complainers, or nonsensical banter on who has what malady, accompanying operation or treatment. It does make for small talk and admittedly, we all do it when with friends. It’s almost to the point as if nothing else is going on in our miserable aging lives.

So ya, I have had some surgeries but not a lot of disease type things. Never the less, there are reasonable opportunities to reflect on these replacements or that new titanium knee all the while drawing attention to myself by maybe reliving all the dandy injuries I have secured, mostly form playing violent sports. Truth is, at this age we all have stories—and that includes more fun stuff like my younger brother’s wild episode of being stung by Sea Wasp jelly fish.  With great macabre fanfare we marvel at his flopping uncontrollably, grand mal style on some pristine Caribbean beach, and then to falling into local hands, some of who wanted to urinate on the wound,  for a miraculous recover from near death—and according to him, no worse off for it today.

My charming girlfriend, also referred to as my wife, calls all the banter an Organ Recital. Yes, this is a common activity of those aging and might even displace an extended discussion on the merits of a Chopin Piano concerto recital, or an evening at a Verdi opera, or a rip roaring outing to hear Little Baba over in Scandinavia.

Now that I have another new metal hip, folks do drop by to see how I am doing, maybe offering a meal or, as often the case, wondering if I will even be able to do the bean bag toss again, or just to remind me I am really old and closing in on being worthless. I usually follow this with a boastful diatribe on how in just a matter of weeks I’ll be slamming the old B ball again and doing triathlons.  Eyes roll on that one and I hear, “Can you tell us about your numerous concussions? Do you think they’re starting to play out?”

I respond, ”Only four concussions—-that I remember. Plus for your information, Bo Jackson played baseball with a replaced hip!”

 “You ain’t no Bo Jackson white boy!” is what I got on that one.

So, Mike comes over to talk computers and to see just what was going on with the guy who couldn’t write a column just because he spent a few hours in the hospital getting a new hip joint. I mean, it was only outpatient now and I was walking within 4 hours. Had I turned into a sniveling old coot, a duffer with no constitution? “With all that time resting from that little surgery, I should have had plenty of time.” He chirped with a smile of devious intent. He probably knew I couldn’t rise to defend myself.

That is where it started. I tried to change the topic to kayaking because he has a long history of paddling about the local waterways and maybe he had been out. He probably could relate a comforting story on what was waiting out there for me once I was over my ‘self-imposed’ recuperation.

It was then I had to talk about my ten foot stare in the six foot room, the one that had been induced with various drugs. This was the good old anesthetics/opioid-created brain fog. 

While I was down to a couple of Tylenol and warfarin, the rat poison, things were just not right with the world and even though I was fully intending to talk about my favorite tree, the leaning white oak on county T, there was just no way. The compassionate editor/life coach Brent had given me some needed slack.

 Sure, I talked about the big chunk of metal now imbedded in my femur and how I could feel it there as if a small cannon ball taken at Gettysburg. I gave him the story how on entering the operating room I looked around to see if the floor was covered with gore and discarded body parts, as well as sawzall, hack saws, and various grinders.  I just went for it.

As the recital went on Mike related how he, in great ballet style, stepped out his back door on to glare ice. In a nano-second, he executed a tour jete only to find himself shattered and broken on the ground. In a thoughtful moment, he realized he didn’t want to alarm his wife with moans and cries of desperation, so he clawed himself back to the garage where his predicament wouldn’t look as shocking as she came to find him. A valiant gesture I thought. He was trucked off by the local meat wagon to fetch up some nice pins, staples, assorted drugs and medical assurances. Now with great pride, and a claim he can still get in and out of a kayak, he stands tall, smiling as if he is a stronger man than I—the sniveling old duffer. The recital really got going.  I thought I saw Ann do the sad tune on the miniature violin as we carried on.

Well, that is the way it is and we gotta tell stories, plus we are still alive to tell them. So there.

We have a friend who, with his family, is spending the year in northern Germany taking in the culture and generally living large, rather a sabbatical. In Waupaca County, they lives in a semi-rural setting enjoying a local, backyard pond and surrounding forest. He is by all accounts an observant sort with a vocal desire to match.

So, I got an email that said, “I went to the local Fleet Farm here in Germany and asked them for a large bag of bird seed. They gave me a 5lb bag and said, this is your best deal, and you’ll have some left over for next year.” He offered nothing else but went on to talk about a $10 cinnamon roll and boxed fruit juice they enjoyed Norway.

With a bit of hesitation, the statement caught my attention as it would any midwestern local with a hand in feeding birds. Fascinating I thought. At Harriet’s home in southern France we were struck by the absence of song birds and the lack of spring time bird song. No birds in the hills of Italy either. But, it was March and early April. I assumed they had just not moved back in.

In a more odd twist, and some might say for only me, on the entire west coast of Ireland, I never saw a single road killed bird or animal. I do have a nose for such things, and that is an idiomatic expression, not a literal one in most cases, well a few cases, say for a nice pre-chilled deer that experienced inappropriate, unanticipated vehicular contact. Still, nothing lying dead in the road. This would also mean no scavenging crows, slobbering buzzards, eagles, noisy gulls, or hawks hanging out looking for some roadside jerky.

Eventually we did spot a delicate colorful, mid-sized bird flitting about in the shrubbery, and later found out it was a European robin. A true delight and clearly a favorite of the old country.

A couple of years ago, Jen, our daughter-in law visited China for bear research and had noticed there were few birds and even fewer insects. In fact, China willingly publishes photos of humans being used as pollinators in orchards. No, they were not dressed in bee suits and fuzzy bodies but branch waving, ladder climbing pollinators.

I also had read some years ago that in Easter Europe and the Middle east it used to be common to use whisper nets to catch birds for consumption, with orioles being a favorite for Skibobs.

 In a pondering mood, I thought of India which is one third the size of the US and has 1.4 billion people. How were birds going to fit in there? Maybe crows and gulls, vultures.

We have friends that burn through five pounds of bird seed and 3 blocks of suit in a week, maybe more. Plus, we all know there are a multitude of flying scavengers around here that make a sold living on street meat. Some might say I am resentful of this because they beat me to it, but that is generally not true.

I guess what it comes down to is we are fortunate, still fortunate with our vast selection of song birds. This includes those pesky cardinals that insist on doing their pumping call while we are doing an outside breakfast, and even the bickering crows in my compost pile. We even have to grin, and grimace, at the eagle who snagged a wondering cute little kitten.

It is also one of the benefits of travelling around the world. We get to see what we have and then hopefully mount an all-out campaign to damn well take care of them. Just saying.