I Might Need a Bigger Pole

Turnabout’s fair play is a human slogan that I’m sure that piscatorial species would LOVE to apply to anglers and other invaders of their deep.
Indeed, I guess they often do, in life and on the silver screen. “Jaws” leaps to mind. And I’ve had a couple of scrapes that have reminded me of my favorite line from that movie, if not ANY movie, when the the late, great Roy Scheider's character stammers nervously: “You’re gonna need a bigger boat.”



Another video clip I enjoyed decades ago played along a similar theme. But I’d like to embellish the story line, because that’s what writers do.
Imagine a sandwich sitting on a Florida beach, when a corpulent, lily-white tourist (probably from New York, but possibly from Nebraska) happens by and spies the sandwich beyond the pale of his stomach.
It’s a WONDERFUL sandwich, piled high with a couple of different deli meats, complemented with lettuce and tomato, topped off with quality cheeses and slathered with condiments.
It’s irresistible and, of course, he can’t resist.
Bending over, and illustrating further why fat men shouldn’t wear Speedos, he snatches it up and takes a big chomp out of it.
His face contorts in pain as a hook roughly pierces the roof of his mouth and the barbed point pokes through his nose. He struggles mightily against the force that is dragging him, kicking and screaming, into the ocean. But in an instant, he disappears beneath the thrashing water, and the waves and froth disappear, leaving a calm, glassy surface.
Thus it has been with me and a couple of fishing poles, when creatures of the deep have gotten the better of me.
First time was five or six years back, when grandson Anthony, who was a lad of 10 or 11, and I fell asleep at the switch and didn’t even SEE the pole disappear into the deep. The only evidence was the furrow in the sand where the finger-thingy on the rod handle gamely dug in but failed to resist whatever was on the hook.
That’s really frustrating, when a thief from the deep takes the pole to the depth and you don’t know whether it was an old boot or a barracuda.
Fast forward to last year, when 4-year-old Jack and I were fishing just a few feet away from the scene of that crime. The rambunctious tyke was scrambling on some rocks, and I was watching him so he wouldn’t fall into the drink.
“Lookit THAT pole,” he said.
“What pole?” I said, looking around to see whether another fisherman had arrived.
“THAT one,” he said, pointing over my shoulder,
Slowly I turned, and beheld my pole, 15 feet out into the water, then jerking to 20. The water was only about 2 feet deep there, so I pondered running after it, until it jerked again to 25, then disappeared in the drink.
Again, no way of knowing what took my pole, hook, line and sinker. But I was reely steamed about it.
Fast forward again to two weeks ago, in a lake across the street from the boys’ house. Vincent, Jack and Luke and I were catching sunnies of nice eating size, although you don’t dare eat them because of all the lawn chemicals that slough into such suburban ponds.
Vincent and Luke tired of the sport, so they went home, leaving the now 5-year-old Jack and I to finish off the worms.
Within minutes, Jack latched onto the catch of the day, to that point: a peacock bass that went a good 2 pounds. These aren’t photos of HIS bass, but I didn’t have a camera, and they’ll give you the idea. The colors of his were much more brilliant.



Jack’s trophy was SUCH a beauty that we ran across the street to show his mom and dad before releasing it.
I didn’t even take the time to pull the other two lines out of the water because, after all, just little sunnies had been hitting so far.
Imagine my chagrin, then, when we crested the hill to the lake and the pole was gone. Fortunately, it was still visible in the water, but jerking in fits and spurts toward the deep.
Hesitating to jump in, I thought of “Jaws” and Roy Scheider as I grabbed another pole and tossed out a lure, then retrieved furiously and managed to snag the line.
Then I managed to pull the line enough to get the pole and let wide-eyed Jack land a 2.5-pound catfish, the first of his career. He was excited because he never had seen a catfish, let alone catch one, and it was huge. Well, not as huge as THESE puppies, but big:




As we headed to the house to show off the newly crowned catch of the day, I thought, “Maybe I should pull in that other line,” then brushed the thought off, thinking, “Naw, this was just a fluke.”
After Jack accepted his well-earned accolades back at the ’stead, we returned to the lake and danged if that pole wasn’t in the water. Fortunately, it was easily retrievable and just a little sunny was hooked this time.
But the experiences of my poles’ joining Davy Jones have taught me a lesson: Maybe I need a bigger pole.
I suppose some would say I need a bigger brain, but what do THEY know? I’ve eaten plenty of fish, which are, after all, brain food.

Old School Pix Scam Reverts To Womb

“Land SAKES!” as my grandma used to say, although I never would use such an outdated, and girlie-girlie, term myself because I don’t want to turn into my grandmother.
However, considering the fact that my language in this column must remain as pure as the driven snow, I’ll eschew expletives much beyond Holy TOLEDO!
Well, Holy TOLEDO, sonogram pictures sure have come a long way, BABY. The intra-wombal snapshots weren’t even available when my oldest, Annie, was curled up in the fetal position.
Now, as I mentioned back in January, the pix come even in 3-D, but that initial one didn’t show much. Back then, we didn’t even know the gender of a bun in the oven. Back in the DAY, that determination came when the baby burst into the world, kicking and screaming.
Now, we know not only that Annie’s daughter — I call her Bun because she’s still in the oven and doesn’t even have a NAME yet — is a girl but also have a damn, uh, darn fine, look at her, courtesy of the 3-D views.
As I was marveling at the technology, I wondered what the hitch possibly could be. After all, everything in life has a quid pro quo. What could the quid be for this quo, pro? Where’s the conspiracy? Although I don’t believe that everything in life is a conspiracy, most are, right?
I realized the identity of the benefactors of the conspiracy and who’s going to make the quid when my mind flashed back to school pictures, almost as far back as I can remember.
Kindergarten, Mrs. Findley’s class, the year: none of your beeswax. Besides, that one was just a group shot of us all lined up against the brick wall outside school in South Sioux City, NE. Black and white and bland.
The stakes escalated in the first grade, the first year that I recall getting a free plastic comb on the august occasion of school picture day. I was just a poor dry-cleaner’s son, so it was a thrill to get the free black comb (in later years, technological advances brought COLORED combs, probably evoking a “Land SAKES” invective from grandma’s lips).
Those were big days for us tykes, wearing a new shirt — or, at least, a rare, CLEAN one, for some kids — as we displayed various tooth counts for the camera.
I suppose those pictures were cheap enough, and I’m not sure where greed took over the school photo phenomenon, but you know the drill nowadays: Buy none or just a few, or mortgage the house if you fall for the increasingly expensive pitches to freeze time.
The sales pitches depend on whether you want 12 wallets, many of which end up lying around the house or tossed in relatives’ wastebaskets because they don’t want photos of your kids, anyway, to the Full Monty, including 5-by-7s, 8-by-12s, etc.
And the photo ops aren’t confined to schools these days, extending way beyond even professional studios to various and sundry money grabs at T-ball team photos, etc.
Holy TOLEDO! I’ve strayed from my original point, which was: the invasive conspiracy of womb photo arrays.
Under the guise of offering parents a peek at their offspring before they are sprung, a conglomerate’s executives are rubbing their hands in anticipation of windfall profits when they start repackaging the product.
After all, sonograms have evolved from indecipherable blobs to lifelike 3-D photos. It won’t be long before the sonogram tech says, “Could I interest you in some wallets? How about some 5-by-7s? We’ve got a deal on 8-by-10s. And don’t forget the 12-by-16s. They’re real popular with grandparents.”
Glad it hasn’t gotten to that point yet, because that will just multiply the opportunities for obnoxious grandparents to haul out more photos to show people who don’t give a rip about them.
Never have been that way; never will be.
Oh, by the way, would you like to see the new pix I have of Bun? Just happen to have a few here in my wallet:

Channeling Ma Barker and James Cagney

Sometimes it’s tough to be a role model, especially when one has been known to have a lead foot, on occasion.
That’s why I don’t go more than a half-mph over the speed limit when I have my grandson charges with me. I wouldn’t want their mom to think I didn’t practice safe driving when they’re buckled in the back seat.
Not so, her. Well, perhaps that’s harsh. Melissa drives with ultimate care. Far be it from me to besmirch her, or her driving acumen. She drives accident free, which is more than I can say for me.
On the other hand, perhaps I should let her record speak for itself. And, the other day, her Parnelli Jones impression could have put her in the slammer and the boys, with foster parents, were it not for Jack’s advice from his booster seat.
The official version is that a deputy pulled Mom over with all her brood buckled safely in their respective seats, although baby Patrick was wailing at the top of his lungs because he rebels at the harness.
As the deputy approached the car, Jack could have played Clyde to her Bonnie and urged her to peel out.
Or the just-turned-5-year-old could have channeled James Cagney and said, “You dirty RAT, mommy, don’t let the copper take you ALIVE, Ma!”
Of course, even Cagney sometimes denied having said that:



Besides, Jack’s not the grapefruit-in-the-face type.



Depending on the situation, Jack can be a prevaricator or a peacemaker. On this occasion, he took the higher, and wiser, road and advised: “Do whatever he says, Mommy. Do WHATEVER he says!!”
I don’t know where Jack got such street smarts, but they stood her in good stead when the copper told her she had been going 57 in a 45.
Thank God for her, John Law stretched the thin blue line when he saw the crying baby and the other three lads and cut her a deal. The warning got her out of a possible $240 fine, but she still was on the hook for not having her current insurance card along for the ride on the wild side.
Talk about the wild side: If she doesn’t lighten up, she apparently could be on the road to perdition, like Ma Barker and HER boys.



Oh, I know she won’t take that route. But still, she keeps floating the story line that there’s no WAY she could have been going that fast. She claims she thought she might have had a burned-out taillight when she saw the copper’s lights.
In FACT, she’s replayed it in her head and in conversations, and contends to this day that there’s no way she could have been going that fast after just leaving a stoplight.
With a weak alibi like that, and setting such a lame example, she shouldn’t be surprised when her boys get into mischief and trump up an excuse or deflect the blame to somebody else.
Mayhaps Jack will go out like Cagney in “White Heat,” rejoicing even at the point of death: “I made it, Ma: the top of the WORLD.”



Jack looks sooooooooo threatening with a gun, no?

New Spin on the Caboose’s Lot in Life

Perhaps Vincent’s status as an inveterate train buff inspired his journey on a philosophical track the other day.
For years, I have regaled the now-7-year-old with tales of the days when EVERY train had a caboose. That knowledge makes him pay particular attention on the rare occasions when we see trains with cabooses.
And it’s a sad thing, indeed, that cabooses have gone the way of the model T, largely because of the usual things that doom such relics: automation at the expense of tradition and jobs. Fortunately, some cabooses have a second lease on life, including this entire TRAIN of cabooses:

Speaking of cabooses, Patrick Michael came ’round the mountain when he came. And he WAS a surprise when around the mountain when he came, because we all thought Luke was the caboose.

We thank the boys for that musical interlude with the notation that it’s pretty certain that Patrick IS the caboose for sure.
And that’s what turned Vincent into a philosophical locomotive the other day.
No sibling rivalry there, as he told his mom how much he enjoyed watching Patrick grow from a bundled infant into a wonderful little baby with tons of personality. (For some reason, the 7-month-old has taken to sitting on the couch and growling, like a bear or, perhaps, like Jabba the Hutt.)
Enough about “Star Wars.” Back to Vincent, waxing eloquently about the youngest star in : “Mommy,” he told Melissa, “ I really enjoy watching Patrick as he learns to play with things, starts to sit up, gets his first teeth,” etc., etc.
It’s sad, though, that Patrick “will never get to see those things.”
Ba-da-BUMP. How heavy is THAT, that a 7-year-old realizes the implications that Patrick never will have a younger sibling? How sensitive! How caring; how humbling to me, an adult who rarely utters such an introspective gem (heck, it took me several seconds to catch the point when Melissa related the story to me).

Hygiene 101: Wash Apples Because . . . Although Even Washing an Apple a Day Won’t Keep My Digressions Away

The financial meltdown that has roiled talk of a reprise of the Great Depression hurled me into the vortex of a flashback the other day.
No, not to the REAL Great Depression. How old do you think I AM? I wasn’t even alive when that Depression knocked the nation on its heels with wounds that never healed for some. But I’ve heard stories and read books.
Granted, I’ve got some older friends, such as an English wiz who still is sharp enough to continue to mold youths’ minds in her native Texas. But having ancient friends doesn’t make me old, too. Truth be told, I don’t even know how old Becki is, although I’m SURE The English Maven is not as old as the The Bard. (Even if I did know, I wouldn't risk a pound of flesh by spreading such foul whisperings abroad.)
I also would venture to guess that she’s not as old as, for instance, The Alamo, Pilgrim, as The Duke might address James Stewart’s lawyer/teacher Ichabod Crane-like character in the great film, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance:
.
Even if the modern-day English pedagogue were as old as The Alamo (another great Wayne flick, by the way), I know better than to mess with Texas.
Hie Thee, speaking of Shakespeare engenders thoughts of age, anon:
“Crabbed age and youth cannot live together
“Youth is full of pleasance, age is full of care;
“Youth like summer morn, age like winter weather;
“Youth like summer brave, age like winter bare;
“Youth is full of sport, age’s breath is short;
 “Youth is nimble, age is lame;
“Youth is hot and bold, age is weak and cold;
 “Youth is wild, and age is tame.
“Age, I do abhor thee; youth, I do adore thee.”
But WAIT, this crabbed youth is taking forever and a day (as Shakespeare would say, in taming a shrew) in this digression from The Depression.
So ENOUGH about Rebecca of Sunnybrook Ranch, who is not a shrew, anyway, but a fine, upstanding woman of high repute. Teachers get a bad enough rap without my piling on, too. If I don’t drop the subject, my friend very well might say, “Et tu, Brute?” Besides, like the bumper sticker says: If you can read this, thank a teacher.
Like I said, ENOUGH about her, more about ME. I was sitting at a railroad crossing a couple of weeks back, listening to the clickety-clack and finding the sway of the train cars mesmerizing, when I time-traveled to a similar scene when I was about 10, also waiting for a train to pass.
“See what I’m talking about?” my stepmother said. “THAT’s why you should wash apples before you eat them.”
She motioned toward two hobos standing in the door of a cattle car, watching as the panhandlers (the variety from my native Nebraska, not of Texas, Oklahoma or even Florida) passed by the world.
“HUH?” I replied.
“See those tramps?” she said.
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, it’s just like I told you: The tramps urinate all over the apples the trains are carrying,” she lectured with a conviction that I suppose Ms. Becki uses when she teaches about Dante’s Inferno. “And THAT’s why you have to wash apples.”
I didn’t challenge her theory, because, well, I was only 10 and I didn’t know much about gypsies, tramps and thieves because that Cher song hadn’t even been written yet.

By the way, gypsy wagons, motorized by the time I was a lad, looked exactly like the one in Cher’s salute.
But I digress even more from my original topic, as I am wont to do but seem more want to do than usual in this episode. All I knew at the time was that, when so-called gypsies camped outside of town, store owners were more vigilant when groups of them swarmed in.
Besides, calling hobos tramps seemed rather harsh for the rail-riders who, after all, might be considered the homeless of yore. I suppose that even that analysis is flawed, as many hobos opted for that lifestyle by choice, while many these days are mired involuntarily in the homeless state.
Rarely, if ever, will you find a song that lionizes hobo life like, John Lee Hooker’s Hobo Blues.

So that’s the hobo lifestyle, but I don’t see any evidence that they relieved themselves on produce on the trains.
Even if it were true back then, and even if they still Remember the Alamo in Texas, the rail-riding hobo lifestyle has long since gone the way of the Model T. And I suspect trucks deliver more apples than trains do.
However, I still urge my grandsons to wash apples and other produce before they partake of the fruits of farmers‘ labors.
Today, the concern is pesticides and herbicides used in growing the food. And I would venture that they are at least as many deposits hobos used to do to taint those Delicious cargoes.
So wash your apples. OR, as we say in Nebraska: Warsh your apples.