A Fish for Supper

Back when I was younger, ‘bout 19 or 20 I reckon, I took my little brother fishing. I'm 12 years older than my brother, so he was really my little brother. Not anymore, but that’s another story.

It was a Saturday, and I was finally giving in to take him fishing.He’d been pesterin’ me about it for a long time. I was not the fisherman I said I was. I mean, what was the harm of enhancing my skills a bit for the little guy? I told him I would teach him the art of catching a monster largemouth bass on a plastic worm, the kind of fish Uncle Jabe called a waterhorse. I was indeed a bit braggadocious, but what the heck.  

We piled into the old  '47 Chevy affectionately known as "Jezebel".  I don't know why we called her that, we just did, or why cars are female in gender. Anyway, Tragedy, my brother's dog, jumped in the back seat. So there we were, two guys and a dog going fishing on a beautiful spring day. What could be better? Right? Male bonding, I think they call it.

Well Tragedy, being a dog, did what most dogs would do. He put his front legs on the window ledge and stuck his head out the window. I mean he was really enjoying the wind blowing through his long wavy hair. He was sort of a Springer mix. Did I tell you about Jezebel? This '47 Chevy had a bunch of miles on it. The speedometer had gone around once and was up to 40,300 miles again before it broke. Course Daddy did not believe in automobile maintenance much, just checked the tires, water and oil levels, and drove ‘em. The old car was just about worn out. The shock absorbers were shot, and the old car really bounced up and down on the rough road. We hit a big bump in the road and ...Yep, you guessed it. Tragedy fell out.  I heard a yelp as he went out the window. I applied the brakes on that old car, and we slid to a stop. My brother ran to his dog a layin' by the side of the road.  He tried to pick up his dog. The dog bit him on the ear, and he  started bleeding. I got him calmed down and wrapped a bandana around his head to get the bleeding stopped. I told him his dog still loved him and only bit him because he had grabbed the dog where it was injured.

We finally made it to the pond to fish with wounded boy and dog. I rigged his rod and reel with a plastic worm. Before I could get my hook in the water he had hung a fish. Now a Zebco 202 is just one step up from a toy. Well, sir, that ole bass grabbed that plastic worm and inhaled it. I could hear that little Zebco reel screaming.  My little brother was trying to reel the fish in but “Mr. Fish “ wasn’t giving up easy. I think he had smelled the grease in the frying pan. I was afraid the fish would get away. I could tell he was a nice one by the way he walked on his tail across the water shaking his head trying to get shed of the hook.  I grabbed  the fish line and started to pull the fish in by hand.  The Zebco reel was done for.  I was standing right at the edge of the shallow water.  I stepped forward and got into the soft mud while grappling for the fish. When I tried to step away from the water my right foot came back but my right shoe stayed in the mud. Yep, I busted it right there in the mud. But I didn’t, and I repeat I didn’t, turn a loose of that fish line.  I might’ve been covered with mud when I got home, but we had us a nice 3 pound bass.

I got Mama to throw me a clean shirt and pants out the backdoor, and I changed in the well house. Little brother was in hog heaven.  Had to put the fish in the basket on his bicycle and was riding around the neighborhood showing it to everybody. Me, I knew I had to clean the fish. Around our house if you hooked it or shot it you cleaned it to eat it. By the time he got back from his ride with the fish I was ready. I had a butcher knife and a smaller knife and  dishpan full of water and ready for the fish.  There was an old table out back under a pecan tree where I always cleaned fish when I caught some.

I had no sooner started scaling the fish when the first cat showed up. We didn’t filet fish, because we didn’t want to waste any of the meat. Besides, Uncle Bill said that fish tasted better if it was cooked on the bone. As I was saying, the first cat showed up. It was our cat, Whymple.

Largemouth bass (Micropterus salmoides) is a freshwater gamefish
in the sunfish family a species of black bass native to North America.
It is also known by a variety of regional names.  

My brother had named the cat, too. Whymple climbed the tree and sat on a limb looking down on me cleaning the fish. As I continued to work, another cat showed up and joined Whymple in the tree. Then a third cat showed up. I was starting to gut the fish now. I was also getting a little uneasy about the way the cats were looking at the fish. And then, Big Boy came over. Big Boy was James Earl Swanger’s tomcat, and he weighed twenty-one pounds. And he climbed the tree too. It’s a wonder I didn’t cut a finger off watching them cats while cleaning that fish. The backbone on that fish was as big as my thumb, and I was having a hard time cutting through it, but when Big Boy jumped out of that tree onto me and the fish, the knife went right through that backbone like it was goin' through butter.. I grabbed the fish and ran for the house, and Big Boy grabbed the fish head and lit out across the back yard with all the other cats following him.

I fell face down inside the backdoor, dropped the fish, and had blood flowing from my forearms where Big Boy had scratched me.  I was tired and injured, but I had cleaned the fish for supper. And then, Mama yelled at me. “Son, you’re getting blood all over my clean floor, and you dropped the fish too."

I never took my brother fishing again. Actually, it was twenty years before I wet a hook again.

Once Upon a Time in Granada.

I remember Granada well, both of them. The first was built by Ford Motor Company and was a lemon. The second was a city in Spain, which I remember more fondly.

A few years ago my wife and I were traveling in Spain and visited the city of Granada. We were to visit the Capella Real, the royal chapel,  of the Granada Cathedral. It was a beautiful morning and we stopped by a coffee shop for a breakfast. The shop was crowded with well-dressed Spaniards on their way to work no doubt.  The shop had the modern look of lots of glass and chrome. However, there were about seventy-five hams hanging from the ceiling. The Spanish seem to have a love affair with the rear end of the pig. Each has a small cup attached to it to capture the drippings of this Spanish delicacy as it continues to age.  Jamon, i.e. Spanish cured ham, can reach seventy euros per kilo in selling price. But we had a cream filled pastry and cafe con leche. It was a short walk to the Cathedral of Granada past a building demolition project. Like all attractions the entrance is crowded by those pesky vendors. They want to sell you postcards, food, and souvenirs of all kinds.  Here I was, we were, accosted by the gypsy women. The fortunetellers.  My grandmother had always told me to keep away from gypsies. She said they would steal children. Well, I wasn't a child anymore. All gypsy women seemed to look the same, long black hair tied back. Many had wrinkled faces. They wore long skirts and had shawls and aprons. They would grab your hand and attempt to read your palm.   If you said you did not speak Spanish they would switch to broken English. Then they would press a piece of rosemary in your hand, tell your fortune, and demand  five euros. We escaped and had curses screamed at us in Spanish. But I remained curious. The curses did not hurt. I wondered about the survival rate of those cursed by gypsies.

The entrance to the Catedral de Granada was more like a tourist attraction than a place of worship, but then we were tourists. One of the cathedral's claims to fame is the final resting place of perhaps Spain's most famous couple. Of course we Americans remember Queen Isabella because she borrowed the money, probably from the Medicis of Florence, using her jewelry for collateral to finance an Italian sea captain's voyage of discovery. That sea captain was Christopher Columbus, who is given credit for discovering America. However, Isabella of Castile and Ferdinand of Aragon united Spain. They were also responsible for driving the Moors out of Spain. Their tomb is the center of interest in the cathedral. The tomb features the supine figures of the king and queen lying beside each other on a stone bed as high as the average man is tall. The effigies are very lifelike, with Ferdinand in his armor.

"You know they say that she was smarter than he was," Claudette announced.

"Really?" said I.

"They say that's why she is taller than he is, " She said.

We taook four steps down into the crypt underneath the reclining sculptures of the king and queen.
The monarchs remains are in simple lead caskets. I had been giving the idea of the queen being smarter some thought  and voiced my opinion, "I know why they say that Queen Isabella was smarter."

"Why?" Claudette wanted to know.

"It's simple really.  She financed Columbus's trip to discover America," I said.

She did not respond.  We enjoyed looking at the ornate interior of the Catedral de Granada a while longer before stepping back into the brilliant morning sunlight. 

Once again the gypsies were upon us. Grabbing, touching, feeling us.  I instinctively clutched my

camera and phone. I don't carry a wallet but keep money, credit cards, and passport in a money belt.  I found these women to be quite strong. So, I finally agreed to have my fortune told. Yes, I did pay five euros for it and got that sprig of rosemary pressed into my hand. She said I would have long life and good luck. All of this was to the chagrin of my dear wife. I said, "Okay, okay, I'm easy!"

"And she wasn't even pretty!" Claudette said.  She was citing my penchant for being an easy mark for a pretty face. That charge I can't really deny. However, my response was, "I know, but how many times do you have a chance to have your fortune told by an authentic Spanish gypsy fortune teller?" She did not continue to ridicule me.

We had decided to take a mini-bus to the Moorish part of the city for lunch but had a few blocks to walk to the bus stop. Along the way we went through an area where some demolition was taking place. We stepped carefully around the debris. Suddenly I heard a yell in Spanish, isounding like a warning, and a huge piece of concrete and stone hit the sidewalk just a few feet from me. I jumped at the sudden noise as the ground seemed to shake. I felt tiny bits of stone hitting my face. When I realized how close I had been to sudden death I felt something clutched in my right hand.

 It was that sprig of rosemary!

Beer, Brats and Chocolate.

We turned off the asphalt onto the gravel road through the desert. I hesitate to call it a dirt road because it was sort of pink like most things around Phoenix. I have never seen pink earth although I did once know an artist named Pink Earth. Our reservation was for seven in the evening. As we crossed the cattle guard we saw cows wandering among the trees, shrubs and cacti. Patrick slowed the SUV to avoid hitting the cows. A hundred yards further we saw horses as well. Then there were fewer trees but more cacti.  The giant sequoia loomed over the landscape like huge watchmen.  Unlike those in the roadrunner cartoons these frequently have more than two "arms".  Soon we reached the parking lot for Friday Night Franks. There are a number of cars and SUVs there and a small building with a sign stating "Rent Segways Here".  I had never considered a Segway as an all-terrain vehicle.  I guess you could play ring around the cactus on a Segway.

We entered through the gate in the adobe wall.  The main building was about two stories tall and was of Hispanic style. I think any other style would have been uncommon in the southwest. A wagon pulled by two big Belgium horses was beginning its venture through the desert with Friday

night visitors. As we walk beside the building we see that the back of the building is open and has a small covered stage and an covered earthen dance floor. Behind this were stone fire pits and picnic tables. To our right was another smaller building from which we see people getting food and drink. We went for that straight away. There was a choice of meals. Bratwurst or wiener with bun, a bag of chips and a package of s'mores makings. And it included two beverages as well. Claudette and I chose adult beverages. We chose skewers from a barrel and walked toward the fire pits. The pits were about six feet in diameter with burning wood in the center. Actually it only appeared to be burning. The flames actually from a circular gas burner. Any good camper knows

that wieners and brats are best cooked over glowing coals, not flames. But Friday Night Franks is about fun not proper cooking techniques. I skewered the fat brat and headed for the fire pit with Claudette, Pat and Kim. The flames were high and hot. Thankfully the meat was already cooked. I charred mine a bit just to get that outdoor flavor. A brat on a bun with a bit of mustard, chips and a cold brew under the Arizona sunset with friends. I'm not sure life gets much better than that. Soon  it was time for dessert. I had never made a s'more before.  I thought that was a Girl Scout thing.  The little ziploc bag had a square of Hershey's chocolate, two graham crackers and two marshmallows. The idea was to toast the marshmallows, then place them between the crackers with the chocolate making a sandwich. Toasting a marshmallow can be problematic. If you hold it too far away from the flame, nothing or very little happens. Too close and it goes up in flame. It was my lucky night.  I managed to get my marshmellows hot and almost brown before placing them on the chocolate. I would have preferred toasty. But the chocolate melted right on cue and  the treat was very tasty. But alas my long neck Corona was empty and Patrick happily made a beer run. We listened to the music a bit and watched grandpa dance with the five-year-olds before leaving.

It was a great night under the stars and amongst the cacti in the Arizona desert. It was a lot of fun and I recommend it as a family event.  Watch out for the cow poop in the road!

Snack Sneaker

Are you a snack sneaker? I am. Perhaps a definition is in order.

snack

  [snak] 

noun

1.

a small portion of food or drink or a light meal, especially one eaten between regular meals.

2.

a share or portion.

verb (used without object)

4.

to have a snack or light meal, especially between regular meals: They snacked on tea and cake.

sneak-er  

 1 .      one that sneaks

          2.       a sports shoe with a pliable rubber sole 


Yes, I am a person who sneaks snacks, a snack sneaker.  There are people, I am told, that  don't have this problem.  Actually there are two kinds of people who don't have this problem. Some (Oh, how I envy them) can et with wild abandon and not gain weight. The other group can eat with wild abandon and become mobile mountains of humanity.  And then there are people like me when every waking hour has the temptation to eat but we can't because we feel the need to maintain a reasonable body weight either for health or appearance reasons. Usually the impetus to maintain any such dietary regime is supplied by either self discipline or the discipline on one's significant other. My discipline is split although unequally. My biggest problem is between meal snacks. This is the reason I am a snack sneaker. Over the years I have become quite proficient at sneaking snacks. (Or at least I think I'm proficient.) When my mate is not around is a great time to snack. I still feel like I'm sneaking even though she's not even the house. It's difficult to enjoy something like gorp while listening for the garage door to go up. I lock the door to the garage to impede her progress. You must keep the crunching sounds to a minimum to hear well.  One handy trick I've discovered is to have an extra container.  I buy an extra container of nuts, when that's is what I'm sneaking out of the pantry. As I eat the nuts from the container in the pantry, I replace the ones I've eaten with ones from my "stash". I have to buy my "stash' with cash because my dear wife checks all credit card receipts.Another problem I have is with the cat, Sophie. I do not like to share my snacks. One of my favorite snacks is string cheese.  Sophie loves cheese. She's a mouser though. I think she chases mice because they know where the cheese is. The string cheese comes in the form of a stick in vacuum sealed plastic. I am not positive how Sophie knows when I have a cheese snack but she does. I thought maybe it was the opening of the refrigerator door because when I would get the cheese stick for the frig, she would be right there looking up at me with those big blue eyes pleading. There have been rare occasions when I've retrieved the cheese without her there but as soon as I start to remove the plastic she's there. Once I was able to remove the plastic and hide it in my hoodie pocket from her. But she would not leave.  When overcome by hunger I pulled the cheese from my pocket to eat. I had a fine coating of lint. I pulled off the outer layer and gave it to Sophie.  She would not eat it! So, what could I do but share. Sophie has developed discriminating tastes. My frugal wife has started buying the store brand of cheese sticks now. Sophie does not prefer these. I get to enjoy more of the less tasty string cheese. I think that there is a female conspiracy. Not all snacks agree with me.   There was a certain brand of almonds which gave me a stomach ache. I preserved through the entire package before I acknowledged the ill effect. I also like chocolates and peanut butter. You can dip your finger into the peanut butter jar for a quick snack. Peanut butter breath is a dead giveaway to this sneak. Of course there are healthy snacks. There are carrot sticks and celery sticks and carrot sticks and celery sticks. But these are not fit food for human snack consumption. More like bait for a rodent trap. There are times (Thank goodness there aren't many.) when snack sneaking can have a detrimental effect on marital bliss. For example, when my wife was baking a citrus cake.  I had to fess up to having eaten all the macadamia nuts.

I guess I need more training in snack sneaking. Maybe there is a YouTube video. I do have a twelve-year-old friend I could consult with...

Two Brothers From Dayton

Many of you who read this blog know I have a fondness for airplanes. One thing a true aerophile must do is to visit the place it all began. That place would be Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. Recently, we were there at Kill Devil Hills, the actual spot the first flights took place. It was cold for March, or so I thought. Forty-five degrees and windy. Interestingly enough this temperature almost mirrors the average December temperatures. The Wright brothers, Wilbur and Orville, first flew a powered and controlled flying machine in sustained flight on December 17, 1903 under very similar weather conditions. 

We had dropped our bags off at the Shutters Hotel before exploring that famous airstrip. The Shutters was oceanfront, very nice, and cheap. The off-season rate was only $47 with a coupon.

The Wright Brothers National Memorial was only a few blocks away in this town that was still pretty much boarded up for the winter.  But the Memorial had a goodly number of visitors. Inside the modern visitors center a full size replica of the Wright Flyer takes center stage. We were told that original airplane cost $700 but the flying reproduction cost $1.3 million. On the walls are the portraits of the famous siblings as well as vintage photographs. Display cases held memorabilia of these early flights. There were photographs and portraits of other famous aviators as well. At the information desk we were told the the next lecture would be given in about an hour so we went outside to look around. The landscape has changed quite a bit since 1903.  What was once a flat sandy area is now covered with grass and the ocean is no longer visible. But the hill is still silhouetted against the sky.  Atop that hill is a monument to the first flight. From that hill Orville and Wilbur Wright made over one thousand glider flights. From the base of that hill they launched the powered aircraft. Today there are markers indicating the distances of those first flights. 120, 175, 200 and 852 feet, respectively. Interestingly enough the duration of the first two flights were the same, twelve seconds. Could Orville have been learning to fly or was the wind a factor? There are replicas of the barn-like structures or hanger and a

workshop building which also served as lodging for the brothers is replicated as well. The lodging/workshop is furnished according to the period in which it was used. With the overcast sky and wind the forty-five degree temperature felt quite frigid much as it did on that famous December day in 1903.

We were back inside the visitor's center before the lecture. One of   the    docents     or    rather    park    rangers    gave    me    a
close up look at the aircraft inside the secure area.  I had always been curious how the control surfaces on the airplane were operated. The airplane cannot be touched by human hands. Therefore my guide had a handkerchief between his hand and the wing struts when he showed me how the wing was warped to produce roll while the plane was flying. The wing warping was linked to the rudder which controlled yaw. These control surfaces were linked together by piano wire. The pilot, laying prone on the wing, shifted his body to the left or right to initiate movement which turned the airplane.  The up or down attitude of the aircraft was controlled by the elevators in the front and actuated by a lever at the pilot's left hand. The airplane, with the Wright designed 12 hp. engine, only weighed six hundred pounds. When the lecture started there was very little for me to learn.  The lecturer delivered the facts at the fourth grade level since school students were his normal audience.

Later we visited the only wind-powered brew-pub in the United States for barbecue and crab cake sandwiches. It was good although I'm not particularly fond of the North Carolina vinegar based barbecue sauce. The crab cake had a lot of crab. And the local brew was good too.

The following morning we headed south.  The Outer Banks are a chain of islands most of which are uninhabited and connected by bridges. The weather was the same as the day before except for the addition of rain. As we left Kill Devil Hills we were soon in the Hatteras National Seashore. Many times there were dunes on either side of us and in many places the sand was encroaching on the highway. There is only one highway, Highway 12. There are frequent areas to pull off the highway for you to enjoy the landscape. But it was raining and we had seen the sea many times. Occasionally there was a village but very few. The landscape in some areas is densely wooded but no palm trees like further south. We stopped on one of the more inhabited islands for lunch and had great grouper sandwiches.  Very fresh fish. It was my kind of place a little tattered and torn with a squeaky floor and sort of "beachy". And, yes, The Hag was on the jukebox. We continued

on and had to wait about an hour for hour our first ferry. It was much larger than I expected. Since it was raining we stayed in the car for the relatively short voyage. Soon we were on on Ocracoke Island famous for wild horses. It seems some horses escaped from the Spanish in the eighteenth century and their descendants are still there. We saw them in a pasture. Not quite the same as the ones we saw near the Little Big Horn River, Wyoming. The last ferry ride was over an hour in duration. Claudette busied herself reading a book on her iPad and I did some drawings in my sketchbook.  Normally, I would have used my phone for the drawings but the battery was dead.

Soon we were back on the mainland and moving in a southerly direction. We'd like to return on a rainless day.