Went fishing yesterday. What an adventure. First of all, the only access to my chosen lake is via a “minimum maintenance” dirt road. “Minimum maintenance” means they don’t grade or plow, ever.

I think that, when the holes get deep enough, county forestry people hide in the bushes and wait for a big truck to come by, wallow down into the hole, and then, while the driver is struggling to get out, the forestry people begin throwing large rocks on the truck until it is buried to the point where the former hole is level with the rest of the “road.” I don’t know if they let the driver get out. I suspect not, since my theory has not yet been proven.

Getting in wasn’t really all that difficult. I had to slowly crawl the truck over a few blowdowns, but other than that the way was relatively clear. At this point I should tell you I was pulling a small trailer upon which was perched a 14-foot 1953 Alumacraft rowboat I had bought a year ago for $50 at an auction, but had not yet put in the water.

I was headed for Blacksmith lake, which is managed by the DNR as a trout lake. Rainbows only. Fun fish to catch and even more fun to eat. The surface water around here is 70 degrees right now, and trout can’t survive long in that kind of heat. I was headed for two deep holes, one 40 feet and the other 35 feet deep. I knew the trout would be down there in that colder water.

When I launched the boat I learned that it came complete with a miniature fountain! I found a piece of wire the correct diameter, forced it into the hole and thereby thwarted a potential sinking.

I was ready. I loaded the boat. Rod – check. Net –check. Tackle and bait – check. Cooler and hard cider – check. Live net – check. Line – check. Life jacket – check. Oars – check. Anchor – check. I shoved off and began rowing toward those fruitful deep pockets of water.

It was on about my twelfth stroke when the starboard oar broke just above the oarlock.

Not one easily deterred when going after trout, I began to experiment with using the blade end of the broken oar as a paddle. Cumbersome, but modestly effective.

That mode of locomotion required ample sweat equity in the 85-degree afternoon, but I need to lose weight anyhow. I decided to view this small inconvenience as a good thing. I hadn’t counted in the effect 14 feet of aluminum hull acting like a sail in the ten- to fifteen-knot southerly wind. More sweat equity, perhaps more than I could afford.

I missed the first strike because I was in the middle of learning how to counter the wind. No problem. One nightcrawler down, eleven to go.

Over the next hour I landed two nice ten- to twelve-inch rainbows. Good “eatin’ size!” Then it was time to go.

Yeah, right.

Remember that wind? It had shifted a tad to the SW. I was being blown away from the landing by a now nearly 20-knot wind. It required almost thirty minutes of exertion to cover the 100 yards of open water between my boat and my truck, but I finally made landfall.

While in the water and positioning the boat for loading onto the trailer I accidentally stepped into a wad of fouled line. Unaware of my misfortune, I tried to move my feet.

Judges of Olympic quality would have been proud of how I managed to become parallel to the surface of the water before perfectly executing a flat back-flop.

Did I mention I had my brand-new cell phone hooked to my belt?

Soaked head to toe, my new cell phone disassembled for drying on the seat of my truck and the contents of my wallet similarly arrayed, I managed to load the boat onto the trailer and strap it down. I began my egress, acutely aware that our Wednesday night poker game was getting underway in half an hour.

I did not learn that the strap I had run athwart the boat had come loose until the trailer encountered a particularly large rock, which resulted in the boat leaping to the right and landing on the gravel roadbed. Once there, it began to rattle loudly and raise large clouds of dust as a result of being dragged over a mixture of sand and one-inch rock.

Fear not! I reloaded the boat onto the trailer.

Perhaps I should mention here that loading a boat onto a trailer requires significantly less physical exertion if the process is aided by having the weight of said boat being primarily supported by water.

Once again, I checked the positioning and securing of the boat. Satisfied that all was well, I continued my egress via the previously mentioned Minimum Maintenance Road. I successfully negotiated several deep holes, probably disappointing a host of hidden county forestry employees in the process.

Eventually I made it to County Road 4, a nice bituminous roadway that would eventually lead to the poker game scheduled to begin just ten minutes into my future. The only problem was that the game was 25 minutes away.

Not to worry! I could use my cell …

Oh, crap.

#

(I have attempted to keep this in the original three column format - if it doesn’t work I will make it a one-column piece defined by stanzas. The original font is Vivaldi Italic.)

We have come together

To celebrate

This wonderful

Redefinition

Of our family,

And to learn

Once again

That it is neither

Blood

Nor law

That makes us family,

But love.

We have come together

Because these

Two people

Love

One another,

And the covenant

That makes them

Loved

And Beloved

Makes each of us

Brother

And sister

In this new family

Of love

We have come together

To pray.

Our prayer is a simple one:

Keep their love strong

And let them learn,

As many of us have learned,

That the only great wealth

Is great love;

That the only good fortune

Lies in finding,

And keeping,

Great love.

This is the blessing we ask

As we come to this table

Together.

Amen

(c) Kenneth K. Kalish, 2017

Ken@carmarescue.org

The dead are perfect soldiers. They have no fear of pain or injury or death. Loud noises, consuming fire and hunks of hot metal cannot frighten them. They hold their position no matter what odds they face. Bomb them, shell them, gas them, and they will not retreat.

The dead require no logistical support but transportation, and that only when it is safe for the living who come for them. They don’t mind being “bumped” for one of the living, no matter how plebian.

The dead voice no objection when the living take their weapons, ammunition, food, medical supplies, wallets and protective gear. Like Spartan soldiers of long ago they honor a warrior mother’s admonition by returning home, not with their shield, but on it.

The dead have great power over the living. Their presence alone is sufficient to instill wonder in their weaker, living comrades and in those who once were their enemies. Left without any accoutrements of war their ranks can spread pestilence on a biblical scale, and for those fortunate enough to be ministered to by the living, they can evoke horror simply by their terrifying visage. The dead have no false humility. They are comfortable to appear naked or to display unimaginable wounds as if to remind their living compatriots that beneath the skin, we are all the same.

The dead are eternally patient, whether lying in rows of aluminum coffins, lines of dark body bags, or in the solitude of dark earth their own being has made fruitful. They will wait to be taken home, to be found, or as Ataturk said of the AnZak troops buried some 25 years in Turkish soil, to become “our sons.”

The dead do not grouse about late mail or low pay. They never malign the cooks or the administrative staff or their officers. They allow one officer to speak for them, no matter how few or many they may be, and the Officer of the Dead need not even treat them with respect.

And so it is that we will all, one day, become perfect soldiers.

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I had a most fun time yesterday.

I wanted to rope a young lama, Louie, who had never before been haltered, so I went to the paddock and set to work. I easily roped him and was allowed to set about putting on his halter. I then hooked a lead to his halter and removed the lasso from his neck. So far, so good.

Louie was not at all impressed with the liberties I had taken.

We wandered about for a while looking much like the fabled Pushme-Pullyou, him pulling one way while I pulled the other.

After about half an hour, I was able to let the lead slack and I thought we had come to an understanding.

Not so, oh naked ape.

He took off at a trot, my septuagenarian body trying to keep pace.

Eventually he chose to weave his way through our grape vines. A lama is superbly shaped for that kind of adventure. My shape, not so much.

I actually made it upright all the way through the grape vines, but then got my legs tangled up in an improperly stored rake. Down I went, head first into the still green grass. Fortunately there were no rocks, toys, or dog excrement in my way. All I got out of it was a broken pinky finger, a bruise to the temple, and a grass stain in my hair.

Unfortunately, I had landed close to one of those afore mentioned dog piles. When I stood up, I placed my right foot squarely upon a pile of low hurdle poop. (Dog poop smells better than dog fart, so I was lucky) Every detail of my work boot sole was crammed with aromatic brown stuff.

Another hour of “I’ll go, no I won’t go,” passed. I finally got him into a small paddock where he would be safe from the attacks of fully grown males.

It was 2:30, much earlier than my usual wrapping up time but, after various injuries to my pride and body, I felt it was time to call my lama wrangling day done.

Perhaps more halter lessons tomorrow.

#

Had a most fun time yesterday.

I had roped a young lama who had never before been haltered.

I went to work. I roped him and set about putting a halter on him, then hooked a lead to his halter and removed the lasso from his neck.

He was not at all impressed.

We wandered about for a while, him pulling one way while I pulled the other. After about half an hour, I was able to let the lead slack and I thought we had come to an understanding.

Not so, oh naked ape.

He took off at a trot, my septuagenarian body trying to keep pace. Eventually he chose to weave his way through our grape vines. An animal like that is superbly shaped for that kind of adventure. My shape, not so much.

I actually made it all the way through the grape vines, but then got my legs tangled up in an improperly stored rake. Down I went, head first into the still green grass.

Fortunately there were no rocks, toys, or dog excrement in my way. All I got out of it was a broken pinky finger, a bruise to the temple, and a grass stain in my hair.

Unfortunately, I had landed close to one of those afore mentioned dog piles.

When I stood up, I placed my right foot squarely upon a pile of low hurdle poop. (Dog poop smells better than dog fart, so I was lucky)

After another hour of “I’ll go no I won’t go,” I got him into a small paddock where he would be safe from the attacks of fully grown males.

So, after various injuries to my pride and body, I felt it was time to call my lama wrangling day done.

Perhaps more halter lessons tomorrow.

I remember the first time I saw her

That August of ’83

She was madder ’n hell and boy,

Could she yell

Yet so small - she could sleep on my hand

You know I was proud, for cryin’ out loud

And we all knew that she would be

Someone special

We had ten long days of sleepless nights,

‘Til we were takin’ Tammy home

We were takin’ Tammy home

The whole damn family came that day

‘Cuz we were takin’ our Tammy home

She called us one night in December

Alone and with no place to go

Just her and her son, the marriage was done

A toothbrush, her clothes, and a comb

At twenty years old, broke, sad, and cold

So we asked her to come home

To us, she was special

We grabbed us some cash and left in the van

But we were bringin’ Tammy home

We were bringin’ Tammy home

We were on the road two days and nights

‘Cuz we were bringin’ our Tammy home

It took her a year to arrange things

She kept every move to herself

She cut off her hair to take on her share

For country, for family, for pride

And as orders do, hers finally came through

Though they tore me up inside

They were special

For two short weeks we held her tight

As we welcomed Tammy home

We welcomed Tammy home

Those orders sent her off to war

So we welcomed our Tammy home

Ah – you’ve spotted that flintlock

It’s mine from a long time ago

She earned it, by God, out in front of her squad

And some rule says she ain’t infantry

But when she goes down in that hole in the ground

I want every warrior to see

She was special

Not much time left to say goodbye

But we’re takin’ Tammy home

We’re takin’ Tammy home

The whole damn town will come today

‘Cuz we’re takin’ our Tammy home

ken@carmarescue.org