Raggamuffin Ramblings

The smell of gifted fish

2005-07-12T12:24:00.000-06:00

It amazes me the lengths to which fish can annoy a fella. Last evening I was sitting at the end of my dock dangling a worm. My mind wasn't really on fishing I just like the spot for reading. The fishing pole just gives me a proper look for the location.

Patrick McManus is perfect after supper reading. Insects popping along the top of the water and a few fish sending the winged creatures to an early demise. Water laps the shore as I read about strange and unusual things such as blood sausage and the art of catching grasshoppers.

Somedays I think Pat and I could have been neighbors or possibly twins seperated at birth.

That's when my dilemma began. Just as soon as I got to a good part there was the twitter of a fish discovering temptation - then the full on answer to the question of what he will do. My pole bends and I do some wrangling to bring the fish in.

Well, maybe this isn't so bad. I caught a fish, now I can simply relax and enjoy my book.

This was not to be. Every time I got to a good spot some fish spoiled my mirth by insisting I reel it in so they could join their other imprisioned fish family.

After five fish I gave up and decided Patrick McManus might just be better read fireside.

Perhaps you will pardon my use of a key McManus phrase, but I determined never to sniff a gift fish. Clenaed them up and put them on ice, but if they weren't going to leave me alone, then I was content to pack up my pole and head home.

Gathering on the back porch

2005-07-07T09:39:00.000-06:00

The fourth of July was a rather robust affair viewed from the front porch of my little cabin in the woods. I sat in the porch swing on my back porch and waited for what I was certain I would see.

Oh, before I go any further, I really need to say that my back porch is one of my favorite places to be. So many people walk around the lake and they have a standing invite to drop by the Stephens place where the coffee is always on, hot and black - many do.

I’ve been here for the better part of twenty years and I’m only now becoming known as a veteran of Lake Quanah. The good news is that I have attained some status among lake dwellers while the bad news is I’ve suddenly been labeled as old. I sip my Joe and blow gently on my mouth harp. It’s not long before a small but appreciative crowd gather and take up roost on tree stumps and lawn chairs I acquired at the finest garage sales in town.

It turns out my cabin is chosen largely because of its scenic beauty in relation to the Patterson’s annual fireworks display. I am always invited to walk over to their place and I always politely refuse largely due to the fact that the lake acts as a mirror to the fireworks so it always appears to be twice as spectacular when viewed from my back porch. Apparently many of my neighbors agree because I had to simmer another pot and pull out the Styrofoam.

I turn all the lights off and the bugs hightail it to some other nightclub. Low whistles and appreciative comments are punctuated with bombs bursting in air. It seemed only fitting that I draw out my harmonica and play a slow mournful rendition of the Star Spangled Banner. In the dark I see some of the men remove their caps and a few are lost in their own private thoughts where friends and family members are remembered before their ultimate sacrifice.

The last colorful volley is sent skyward and all becomes quiet and subdued.

“No need to turn on the lights,” says Jerry Talmer.

“Thanks for the hospitality, Ben,” was voiced and then confirmed by several others as they all scattered into the darkness.

I sit in my porch swing and remember my own fallen. It’s been so long and they lost a war they didn’t even know they had to fight. They left too soon and it is in awkward moments such as this that their memory surfaces unbidden and I am left to remember two dark haired children who left before so many firsts.

I blow out a slightly hesitant “Jesus Loves Me” and they are there again in my mind. I am keenly aware of the gratitude I feel that I am left alone to re-embrace this part of my life. I’m always left ragged by such memories but I never regret them.

A deep cleansing breath and I’m on my way through a too quiet house to a too empty bed.

It will be a long night.

Idiot Box?

2005-07-06T08:47:00.000-06:00

If you read my profile, then you know that I have referred to the grand entertainment center of television as an idiot box. I suppose an explanation may be in order since it may leave some of you thinking that I am seeking to judge you for your viewing habits.

Before I do so, however, I need to explain an allusion to a show that I am certain many of you have seen - “Finding Nemo” - in my last dispatch (worms are friends - not food). Now, it may seem a contradiction to refer to the television as an idiot box and have such a bold illustration of pop culture in my last post. Let’s see, how to make sense of it all… hmmmmm - I was invited to attend a birthday party at the Patterson’s just the other side of the lake from my humble abode.

I have taken Jake Patterson fishing any number of times over the last few years, so on his sixth birthday, Little Jakie invited me to his party. He said I’d love it because there was fish involved. I naturally assumed it was a day fishing with Jake and his buddies. When I arrived, however, I was greeted by a little vacant-eyed fish and a clown fish with a gimpy fin. The napkins, the cups, the cake - the walls were all ablaze with the underwater friends.

Then Jake showed me a picture of a shark named ‘Bruce’ and repeated the words, “Fish are friends - not food.” This pronouncement with a quasi-childish-Australian accent caused his friends to hold their sides and laugh at the intense hilarity of such a pronouncement.

I’ve always considered fish - food, so I was naturally curious as to why a shark would somehow embrace a vegetarian lifestyle. With almost no reluctance I consented to watch the movie on their high def, plasma, satellite fed television with Dolby surround sound. Oh, it was high quality fun. Maybe that’s where the idea for Johnny Trout came from, I’m not sure. For a few days I envied little Jakie and his wondrous form of entertainment.

That’s when I remembered why I don’t have one and why I call it an idiot box. That term is meant for me alone and should never be considered a pronouncement of judgment for those more fortunate than myself (those who can watch television and not drool on themselves). You see, there was a time when I had a television and I enjoyed almost every minute that I spent watching - comedy, drama, fishing shows - oh, it didn’t matter they were all such high entertainment I watched every moment possible - cheese curl residue staining my fingers and shirt.

It wasn’t so much that the television was stupid because it only sent to my screen what I asked it to and the information was astounding, articulate, well presented, engaging, entertaining and a few other relevant adjectives. No, the television itself was fine, it was me that was the problem. I had something at my fingertips that might have been useful but I abused it so much that I became the idiot. I let almost everything that I once enjoyed fall by the wayside while I was learning about the special type of Lemur only found in Madagascar and the sports stats of football greats from the 60’s and the proper soil temperature for planting tulips.

For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction - we’ve all heard that before, but in my case what that meant was…

Gain Lemur habits - lose viewing a spectacular sunset over Lake Quanah.

Gain Sports stats regarding people I don’t even know - lose an opportunity to fish with Little Jakie Patterson.

Gain planting tips - lose the desire to actually plant.

Yep, for me television is an idiot box because I let that little 19 inch box make an idiot out of me.

I don’t regret watching “Finding Nemo” - I might even see another movie someday, but not today. Nope! Today Little Jakie and I have a few night crawlers ready to beckon to a few fish with slightly confused looks and possibly a few with gimpy fins, and what will be really important is what’s happening just to the left of that place where air and H20 meet.

Morning Mists and Missing Fish

2005-06-30T08:45:00.000-06:00

There's something almost magical about getting up in the morning, observing mist floating above Lake Quanah, grabbing a pole and dropping a worm from the end of my dock.

The trees on the opposite side of the lake rise like apparitions from some little remembered dream. I know I should be threatened by their appearance but I can't really remember why.

A struggling mass of wiggle tells me that an early fish got the worm and I conduct an intricate line dance as I bring an eighteen inch trout (give or take a foot) to the top of the lake.

Suddenly I have an image of the school I must have rudely interrupted with my early morning snack. Miss Perch was just explaining to the class that worms are friends not food when little Johnny Trout latches onto a juicy little piece of temptation. The next thing he knows he's being led down a road he never wanted to travel. Miss Perch gathers her little flock of fishlings and scoots to a safer classroom.

I decide to send Jr. back to class a little wiser.

I've heard that goldfish have a memory of about three seconds so I figure he'll forget about his little ordeal soon enough and maybe he'll be bigger next time.

The morning sun is burning the misty tree line to a more suitable clarity and the limbed ghosts seem less ominous. I rest my pole on the front porch and have communion with Tony the Tiger.

I gaze out over my life and see specters of something ominous and it occurs to me that I bear a striking resemblance to Johnny Trout. Listen to the wisdom of others? Me?

Well, maybe someday - when I finally remember the last lesson life taught me.

Now what was that again?

Hmmmm.....

Raggamuffin Man

2005-06-29T13:18:00.000-06:00

So this is a blog.

Nice view, comfortable rooms and a few easy chairs for the ramblings that will surely take place here.

I'll take the rocker in the corner that squeeks out it's own somewhat violent protest at my presence.

I grew up in a family of story tellers. Some missives could be verified - some rank among the best of legend and folklore and some seem almost like fairy tales.

I might just share a few, and make up a few of my own along the way.

Part time story teller, humorist and there are those odd times when I might even have something important to share.

Until then, enjoy the loose knit threads that are my life here at Raggamuffin Ramblings.

Ben