He explained that wasn’t real sure how the tradition began, but over the years, enjoying all the commercial glam of Christmas, he and his sisters took additional great pleasure in giving one mean gift at Christmas. Dianne loathed pork rinds, and Sue’s gag reflex took over at the mere mention of mushrooms. He had a rash-causing aversion to dickies. These dislikes were known by all, and they had each honed their ability to leverage them to great effect. Each went to great lengths to be opportunistically mean gift givers.
There was the Christmas Dianne received Li’l Abner Pork Rinds disguised as Eagle Brand Premium chips. Another year, Sue received a stunning pair of dehydrated mushroom earrings presented in a luxurious blue velvet Hartzburg’s jewelry box.
“Why, poppa! Christmas isn’t supposed to be mean!” his little cherub-daughter exclaimed. “Why did you dit a dickie?”
Hearing her question, he was transported back in time . . . .
Charles stood nervously on the edge of the Michigan playground. His dad’s company had moved him from the metropolitan prairies of Shawnee Mission, Kansas – a mid-year move that placed him in a new school setting just before the Christmas holiday break. Trailwood Elementary. Day one. Recess. Clear. Bright sun. Windy. Cold.
A game of tag had sprung up and the primary grade herd stampeded, like so many zebras running from a lion. That lion was Franklin Johns. Big, bad Franklin Johns. The BMSGOC – the Biggest, Meanest Sixth-Grader on Campus.
Tag in the Michigan winter, in between snowfalls, when the snow and ice melted enough for the pavement to reappear was Franklin’s specialty. When he wasn’t limited to merely pelting you with snowballs, he was famous for his speed, agility and vice-grip. In dry conditions, he could catch any one, but he especially targeted schoolmates who wore turtlenecks – Michigan’s de rigueur winter wear and easily accessible even when his victims wore their winter coats.
Now, Franklin was just not very nice. He had four main objectives when in tag-pursuit: Spot a turtleneck. Yank the turtleneck up from behind, then down suddenly over his victim’s head. Smear the hair. And, untuck the shirt’s bottom hem from slacks or skirt.
As the kids scattered, Franklin rocketed toward the Trailwood newbie, espying his royal blue lycra-reinforced rib knit collar. Flat-footed, Charles was no match for Franklin’s intercept speed. Coming from out of the sun with Charles at ten o’clock low, Franklin locked onto the royal blue lycra-reinforced rib knit collar and yanked. Charles’ head disappeared into the fabric sleeve, and he went down like a steer hooked by a bulldogger.
Still in full stride, Franklin assessed the effect of his blitzkrieg attack. Head and face covered? “Check.” Smeared hair? “High probability.” Shirt untucked? “Negative! I say again, ‘Negative!’ Wait! What’s this in my hand? ‘Wing Commander, we have a dickie!’”
Charles’ mother thought dickies were very practical for Michigan winters. But at that moment, as Franklin was joined by a mob of classmate zebras, all gleefully braying, “What the heck? What the heck? Can’t afford a real turtleneck?!?” his faith and trust in his mother was severely shaken.
Over the years, he would warily scan the packages under the tree, wondering which of them would be the decoyed dickie. He was skilled at finding the concealed object of his displeasure. It was always conspicuously light, and silent when shaken. He only mis-guessed one year, when mean Sue crocheted a dickie on a ceramic duck ornament which had been hung weeks earlier on the Christmas tree.
As they worked through their respective piles of gifts, opening each one, Sue’s mushroom earrings, Dianne’s premium pork rinds, and his unveiled dickie were inevitably discovered, and drew predictable laughter from all the family.
The Christmas of the first dickie, as his stack of opened gifts grew, he slipped the dickie out of sight to be destroyed. Later, when no one was looking, he’d burn it, or toss it in the trash. Given parental mandates in force at that time, concerning the proper use of matches and other incendiaries, burning it wasn’t practical. So, into the trash it went. In fact, it wasn’t buried deeply enough in the trash and so Sue would easily retrieve it. He would receive the same dickie the next year and bury it at the bottom of the trash. Sue would still find it, and he would receive the same dickie again the next year. This time, he would hide it in his dresser – back right corner of the sock drawer. He never suspected that his mother was a treasonous double agent, in league with Sue. She was, after all, intimately familiar with his dresser drawers, and kept them stocked on laundry day. Next year, same dickie.
The years passed by. Family members aged and passed on as well. Children were born. Mean-gifting sisters became beloved “Aunties,” and the long-practiced and much refined tradition of mean gift giving seemed to wane.
To this day, however, in anticipation of and at Christmas gatherings, the younger generation still asks for and listens with rapt attention to the pork rind, mushroom and dickie lore secretly hoping at least one package will reveal the famous Christmas Dickie.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Three Equal Parts
My sisters and I had dinner together this past Labor Day Weekend. Sue drove over from Wheaton, and Dianne drove down from Philadelphia. I was a seven-eighths bachelor. The kids – all but Caleb – were scattered out of town: Allie, the “outest” of town, was in Sweden, Chip in Mt. Airy, and both Em and Gin were shepherding Calvin, Gracie and Gifford in Williamsburg. Alice and her mom had traveled to Boston. So, it was a rare quiet weekend at home for me, visiting with Dianne and Sue.
Dianne’s life has recently taken a complicating turn. She’s been diagnosed with neuro-endocrine cancer and will begin chemo in a week or so. Her diagnosis was the thing of which we all were aware, but about which we were somewhat reluctant to speak. At least I was. Still, it framed the occasion, and for much of the evening, this news channeled the conversation to lighter things. We talked about our jobs, nieces and nephews, the new roof, the gate I’d repaired, my plans to do some edging for flowerbeds. But it had also given a particular purpose to the evening.
These days, barbeque sauce comes out of a bottle with trendy additives: onions, mesquite, Jack Daniels. No real prep. No real culinary artistry. Just slice the paper seal. Twist off the cap. Squirt it out. Slather it on. Dianne knew her chemotherapy would begin soon. In anticipation of its side effects, and wanting to strike while the appetite was still hot, she phoned with a very simple request. My mission, should I decide to accept it, was to recreate Frank Heidel’s barbeque chicken.
I can remember playing basketball on my Tobin Circle driveway as a junior high and senior high schooler. My neighborhood friends came over and we rammed around, firing jumpers, laying lay-ups, dribbling well with our right hands (not so well with our left hands), fouling each other, and complaining when we (thought we) were fouled. It was on this driveway where my dad would spot and fire-up the charcoal grill for some delicious chicken. Not infrequently these pick-up hack fests were the sideshow to Frank’s barbeque. “Watch the grill,” he would caution us, not sure we were ever really listening. “Yes sir, Mr. Heidel,” was the reflexive answer. Somehow we managed to never knock over the grill.
To fire up the charcol, Dad used a large coffee can whose bottom and top were removed. With a traditional pre-pull tab or pop-top can opener with the pointy curved beak and the small hook that would grip the ridge at the bottom of the bottomless can, Dad poked a series of openings in the very bottom sides of the can. His favorite can opener had a white plastic handle with a screened-on Chevrolet logo, and a red tip. The reengineered coffee can was placed on the bottom grate of the grill. Charcoal would be dumped into the can, and then was dowsed with charcoal lighter fluid. A match was tossed in, and Woof!
Reminds me of a joke – When does a cat sound like a dog? When you dowse it with lighter fluid, toss a lit match at it, and . . . . WOOF!. I digress . . .
It was the carefully poked series of bottom side vents around the opening at the bottom of the can that ensured optimal airflow, once the charcoal and lighter fluid were ignited. This “Dad design” put the coals into the glowing red state quickly. With tongs held in an oven mit, he lifted the can. The briquettes found themselves suddenly without walls and tumbled, scattering evenly just inches below the cooking grate which was then dropped into place.
The chicken pieces, skin on, were arranged on the grill in a particular order. Breasts with breasts. Thighs with thighs. Wings with wings. Drumsticks with drumsticks. The barbeque lid was lowered, and they all cooked an initial 15 minutes so as to be heated-through.
While Kraft and others may have perfected their flavor varieties in the lab, trying to home-style-ize their offerings with white lab coated motherly looking spokes-chemists, my dad was not their audience. His recipe for barbeque sauce was simple. Three equal parts Worcestershire sauce, A-1 Steak Sauce, and butter, heated in a pan until the butter was melted and ingredients thoroughly combined.
Poultry parts in formation, Dad would then begin to loooove that chicken. He dipped the brush in the pan of sauce, and began caressing the top side of each piece. The sauce was painted on slowly – more like an anointing that a painting. As the elixir clung to the chicken, some dripped on the coals. Tsissssss . . . tsissss . . . tsissss. This was not a sad thing. It was an aromatic thing. A smell locked in my olfactory memory. After 7-10 minutes, the sauce thickening, the chicken would be carefully turned over. Still in poultry-part order. Dad would loooove the chicken some more, completing the base layer. 7-10 minutes later turning the pieces again and adding another coat. Coat after coat. The sauce layers would gradually thicken, turning darker and darker – until it looked like the chicken had been dropped in black ash. I can’t explain it, and probably can’t persuade the uninitiated, but the end product was absolutely, stunningly, counter-intuitively delicious.
We all have rights of passage as adolescent boys. Not uncommonly, one of these is learning to swear. My friends and I had long since passed that right, but we flew nimbly under the parental profanity radar. At home we spoke Ivory soap. When out of the house, we were excellent swearers. As we rammed around the driveway shooting, dribbling and fouling, the color commentary was nothing less than polyphonic profanity. “He shoots! He swears!”
Dad had gone into the house to get additional barbeque provisions. As I drove the lane, my friend stepped in front of me. I slammed into him, knocking him over. He fell, then got up yelling “Charge!” and angrily shoved me. I shoved him back. He swore at me. I shoved him back again. He swore at me again.
Dad was a bit hard of hearing – wore a Miracle Ear that would whistle occasionally. Once, when we had a garage sale, a man spoke to my dad, inquiring about the price of a bauble. Dad just walked past him and went into the house. The man looked at me, confused. I was watching the money box and explained apologetically that dad was hard of hearing, pointing to my left ear. The man waited until dad came back into the garage. When dad appeared and walked past the man, the man held up the item he wanted and shouted in the direction of dad’s right ear, “How much for this!?” He startled my dad so much he almost fell over. Dad looked at him like he was crazy. The man looked back where I was sitting, but I wasn’t there anymore.
Just as dad came out of the garage, the argument continued, and I dropped the F-bomb on my friend. Dad may have been hard of hearing, but he heard that. Didn’t like it. His eyes met mine and had me in their tractor beam. Somehow I knew we’d be talking later. Perceiving a teenage conflict had erupted, he growled “Knock it off, you two.” We knocked it off. The game ended. Cagers went home for their dinners. Dad and I talked. Then we ate some chicken.
I approached my (cheater) gas grill. You see, these days Folger's coffee cans are plastic. Besides, I can’t find the can opener with the pointy curved beak and the small hook that would grip the ridge at the bottom of the can. Presuming the absence of charcoal and lighter fluid would be excused, I arranged the poultry parts as Dad would have, but with skin off (times change). The Worcestershire and A-1 sauces had been married with the butter – three equal parts. All had been heated until the butter was melted, and the ingredients thoroughly combined. I began to loooove that chicken and imagined back to those noisy adolescent driveway basketball games.
About 45 minutes later, I stepped into the kitchen with a platter full of ash covered chicken. Sue and especially Dianne closely scrutinized the pile of poultry parts. You could see the approval spreading gradually across their faces. Then the aroma found them. As we filled out plates at the kitchen island buffet, and then began to eat, all agreed that I had channeled Frank Heidel at the barbeque. The ash covered chicken was absolutely stunningly, counter-intuitively delicious.
In fact, that evening our conversational currents would carry us into the tropic of cancer, but we also shared lots of laughs, most at Dianne’s expense around the Scrabble table. Sue won, having used more than her fair share of triple word score squares, and Dianne had a stunning double word play. However “not” is not spelled n-t-o. Sue and I considered extending Scrabble dispensation to Dianne, but as her chemo had not begun yet we agreed – no mercy. Much more laughter. But the best part of the evening was that we ate some chicken.
Dianne’s life has recently taken a complicating turn. She’s been diagnosed with neuro-endocrine cancer and will begin chemo in a week or so. Her diagnosis was the thing of which we all were aware, but about which we were somewhat reluctant to speak. At least I was. Still, it framed the occasion, and for much of the evening, this news channeled the conversation to lighter things. We talked about our jobs, nieces and nephews, the new roof, the gate I’d repaired, my plans to do some edging for flowerbeds. But it had also given a particular purpose to the evening.
These days, barbeque sauce comes out of a bottle with trendy additives: onions, mesquite, Jack Daniels. No real prep. No real culinary artistry. Just slice the paper seal. Twist off the cap. Squirt it out. Slather it on. Dianne knew her chemotherapy would begin soon. In anticipation of its side effects, and wanting to strike while the appetite was still hot, she phoned with a very simple request. My mission, should I decide to accept it, was to recreate Frank Heidel’s barbeque chicken.
I can remember playing basketball on my Tobin Circle driveway as a junior high and senior high schooler. My neighborhood friends came over and we rammed around, firing jumpers, laying lay-ups, dribbling well with our right hands (not so well with our left hands), fouling each other, and complaining when we (thought we) were fouled. It was on this driveway where my dad would spot and fire-up the charcoal grill for some delicious chicken. Not infrequently these pick-up hack fests were the sideshow to Frank’s barbeque. “Watch the grill,” he would caution us, not sure we were ever really listening. “Yes sir, Mr. Heidel,” was the reflexive answer. Somehow we managed to never knock over the grill.
To fire up the charcol, Dad used a large coffee can whose bottom and top were removed. With a traditional pre-pull tab or pop-top can opener with the pointy curved beak and the small hook that would grip the ridge at the bottom of the bottomless can, Dad poked a series of openings in the very bottom sides of the can. His favorite can opener had a white plastic handle with a screened-on Chevrolet logo, and a red tip. The reengineered coffee can was placed on the bottom grate of the grill. Charcoal would be dumped into the can, and then was dowsed with charcoal lighter fluid. A match was tossed in, and Woof!
Reminds me of a joke – When does a cat sound like a dog? When you dowse it with lighter fluid, toss a lit match at it, and . . . . WOOF!. I digress . . .
It was the carefully poked series of bottom side vents around the opening at the bottom of the can that ensured optimal airflow, once the charcoal and lighter fluid were ignited. This “Dad design” put the coals into the glowing red state quickly. With tongs held in an oven mit, he lifted the can. The briquettes found themselves suddenly without walls and tumbled, scattering evenly just inches below the cooking grate which was then dropped into place.
The chicken pieces, skin on, were arranged on the grill in a particular order. Breasts with breasts. Thighs with thighs. Wings with wings. Drumsticks with drumsticks. The barbeque lid was lowered, and they all cooked an initial 15 minutes so as to be heated-through.
While Kraft and others may have perfected their flavor varieties in the lab, trying to home-style-ize their offerings with white lab coated motherly looking spokes-chemists, my dad was not their audience. His recipe for barbeque sauce was simple. Three equal parts Worcestershire sauce, A-1 Steak Sauce, and butter, heated in a pan until the butter was melted and ingredients thoroughly combined.
Poultry parts in formation, Dad would then begin to loooove that chicken. He dipped the brush in the pan of sauce, and began caressing the top side of each piece. The sauce was painted on slowly – more like an anointing that a painting. As the elixir clung to the chicken, some dripped on the coals. Tsissssss . . . tsissss . . . tsissss. This was not a sad thing. It was an aromatic thing. A smell locked in my olfactory memory. After 7-10 minutes, the sauce thickening, the chicken would be carefully turned over. Still in poultry-part order. Dad would loooove the chicken some more, completing the base layer. 7-10 minutes later turning the pieces again and adding another coat. Coat after coat. The sauce layers would gradually thicken, turning darker and darker – until it looked like the chicken had been dropped in black ash. I can’t explain it, and probably can’t persuade the uninitiated, but the end product was absolutely, stunningly, counter-intuitively delicious.
We all have rights of passage as adolescent boys. Not uncommonly, one of these is learning to swear. My friends and I had long since passed that right, but we flew nimbly under the parental profanity radar. At home we spoke Ivory soap. When out of the house, we were excellent swearers. As we rammed around the driveway shooting, dribbling and fouling, the color commentary was nothing less than polyphonic profanity. “He shoots! He swears!”
Dad had gone into the house to get additional barbeque provisions. As I drove the lane, my friend stepped in front of me. I slammed into him, knocking him over. He fell, then got up yelling “Charge!” and angrily shoved me. I shoved him back. He swore at me. I shoved him back again. He swore at me again.
Dad was a bit hard of hearing – wore a Miracle Ear that would whistle occasionally. Once, when we had a garage sale, a man spoke to my dad, inquiring about the price of a bauble. Dad just walked past him and went into the house. The man looked at me, confused. I was watching the money box and explained apologetically that dad was hard of hearing, pointing to my left ear. The man waited until dad came back into the garage. When dad appeared and walked past the man, the man held up the item he wanted and shouted in the direction of dad’s right ear, “How much for this!?” He startled my dad so much he almost fell over. Dad looked at him like he was crazy. The man looked back where I was sitting, but I wasn’t there anymore.
Just as dad came out of the garage, the argument continued, and I dropped the F-bomb on my friend. Dad may have been hard of hearing, but he heard that. Didn’t like it. His eyes met mine and had me in their tractor beam. Somehow I knew we’d be talking later. Perceiving a teenage conflict had erupted, he growled “Knock it off, you two.” We knocked it off. The game ended. Cagers went home for their dinners. Dad and I talked. Then we ate some chicken.
I approached my (cheater) gas grill. You see, these days Folger's coffee cans are plastic. Besides, I can’t find the can opener with the pointy curved beak and the small hook that would grip the ridge at the bottom of the can. Presuming the absence of charcoal and lighter fluid would be excused, I arranged the poultry parts as Dad would have, but with skin off (times change). The Worcestershire and A-1 sauces had been married with the butter – three equal parts. All had been heated until the butter was melted, and the ingredients thoroughly combined. I began to loooove that chicken and imagined back to those noisy adolescent driveway basketball games.
About 45 minutes later, I stepped into the kitchen with a platter full of ash covered chicken. Sue and especially Dianne closely scrutinized the pile of poultry parts. You could see the approval spreading gradually across their faces. Then the aroma found them. As we filled out plates at the kitchen island buffet, and then began to eat, all agreed that I had channeled Frank Heidel at the barbeque. The ash covered chicken was absolutely stunningly, counter-intuitively delicious.
In fact, that evening our conversational currents would carry us into the tropic of cancer, but we also shared lots of laughs, most at Dianne’s expense around the Scrabble table. Sue won, having used more than her fair share of triple word score squares, and Dianne had a stunning double word play. However “not” is not spelled n-t-o. Sue and I considered extending Scrabble dispensation to Dianne, but as her chemo had not begun yet we agreed – no mercy. Much more laughter. But the best part of the evening was that we ate some chicken.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Spare Not The Rod
For several years, we have vacationed in West Virginia, at a location beloved by my wife's mother and father, which was the occasion of their fiftieth wedding anniversary in 1994. That year was our first visit, and we celebrated the occasion with my wife's sisters and their families. We look forward to these annual reunions, and make the trek each summer (July usually), to rejoin the extended family bunch. My wife, our four daughters and four sons, my two sisters, my wife's mother and three sisters, and their families, and not infrequently a family guest or three. Our destination is down in a secluded "holler" with (to the surprise of the uninitiated) many conveniences and amenities: golf course, hiking trails, swimming (the spring-fed pool is filled with glacier run-off), good roads for cycling, an adequately stocked pond (bring your own rods, or borrow a bamboo fish-catcher at the desk), cool sleeping weather, and good food served family style three times a day.
It is not impossible to communicate with me while I'm there, but as I begin my break from work, I like to tell my colleagues that while I'll be in the continental U.S., I may be hard to reach. The internet runs on "bob-war," and the phone's just a party line up a pole (picture Olivaaaah on Green Acres) where messages can be taken, wrapped around a rock and dropped down to the runner. Any messages brought down from the pole will be removed from their rocks and posted on a whiteboard just inside the dining room. I try to remember to look for my messages three times a day, but only after I dine. If absolutely necessary, I can hike up the first fairway and "summit" the first green where, having climbed to sufficient elevation I just might receive a faint T-Mobile signal. I get a signal boost if I remove and raise the flag stick real high in my off-hand.
It's an out of the way place that I enjoy very much.
Speaking of meals, there are usually 20-25 people at our table for meals. We enjoy lots of good food - the litany below is what comes to mind as I write. At breakfast, eggs any style (two poached soft on toast is my regular), double and triple bowls of oatmeal and seven-grain cereal, buckwheat flap jacks, rashers of bacon, sausage patties and links. For lunch, wonderful salads, watercress with piquant dressing, spaghetti with meat sauce, silver-dollar burgers with grilled onions, Sunday duck and turkey. For dinner, more salads, iridescent roast beef, fried chicken, meat loaf, fresh baked rolls and fresh vegetables. Desserts include Whitehouse cherry ice-cream, fresh watermelon wedges, cantaloupe with a scoop of lime sherbet, vanilla ice-cream with chocolate sauce, gingerbread cake with whipped cream.
In the dining room, the waitresses all wear white outfits, and rush around, pushing brushed steel carts full of the day's meal offering. They remind me of nurses in a 1950's movie, rushing patient gurneys into the operating room. All food is served on indestructible pastel colored melamine plates, and bowls. The ceiling fans hum. An occasional birthday or anniversary announcement is made to the accompaniment of appropriate music played over a crackly speaker. A cake appears and is delivered on a brushed steel cart (of course) to the celebrants' table.
Several meals are served on the hill under the first fairway pavilion (beside the fairway, but beneath the "summit"). Hill-dinners are barbequed Chicken on the Hill, and Steak on the Hill. Hill-lunches are the salad-sandwiches (chicken salad, egg salad, tuna salad) all on bread with crust removed, and barbeque pork plopped on a whole wheat roll. Don't forget the endless sweet hill-tea (for some reason, can't get sweet tea down below in the dining room).
Meals are also, as my daughter Ginny taught me, opportunities for community, fellowship and deepening friendships. I believe she would say, "Meals should have meaning." It's always interesting to see who sits by whom at each meal, and who rotates to sit by different whoms as people take an early leave from the table. Cousins reunite. Siblings banter. Members of the younger generation are cornered by their seniors and pumped for information as to academics and career trajectories. Disparate political, theological and philosophical views can be aired (and are). The ten-and-unders, the eleven-to-fifteens, the legal drivers and collegians, the working class and retirees all intersperse and seem to dialog very naturally. Age-based cliques and silos are dissolved.
Meals here are also opportunities to showcase and satisfy man's ages-old fisher-gatherer (Posted: No Hunting) instincts. A visit to the pond, which yields a “keeper,” permits the fisherman an opportunity to enjoy his or her fish at the next scheduled meal, sans head, filleted, egg and cornmeal battered and fried up goooood.
This prospect brings me to the point of this narrative.
Over the years, the kids have clamored for me to bring fishing poles. I did that in the past, but stopped, because I grew tired of prepping the rods, stocking the tackle box, picking up the 7-Eleven night crawlers that no one but me would cut, threading them onto the barbed hook, and then having repeatedly to untangle the lines I prepped. Fishing in July had become for me like a warm weather version of winter wear bundling. You spend 20 minutes to get junior all dressed up in his snow suit, boots, gloves and hat, only to hear him say "I gotta pee." Big build up. Big let down.
Notwithstanding my cynicism, I do still chuckle from time to time about one fishing event several years ago. Chip (son #1) was late to dinner one evening. The cousins last saw him at the pond, fishing. I got up from the table and went to retrieve him. When I got to the pond, he was on the dock, and appeared to be in distress. Seems he'd strung a triple-hook on his line, baited it, drew back the rod and cast. All three hooks were traveling at whip-crack speed, and one (it only takes one) found its way to that sweet spot just below the left rear blue jean pocket, where it penetrated Levi Strauss’s best, and buried itself in Chip’s derrière."
Well, well. Interesting," I said.
Assessing the situation, I removed the fillet knife from the tackle box and cut a quarter-sized piece of to expose the butt-buried hook. I was now ready to remove the gluteus implant . . . a hook-ectomy. To this day, I’m certain those blue jeans are the only thing that fillet knife ever cut. Using the needle-nosed pliers in the tackle box, I carefully took hold of the hook and moved it around gently. Despite my gentleness, he insisted on howling (drama-rama).
I studied the situation a moment longer, looked him in the eye, and said, "Sonny, this is definitely going to hurt you more than it hurts me." I suggested he put the handle of the rod between his teeth and bite down hard when I counted to three. I began counting, "One . . . two . . . (three seemed like too many). . ." and yanked the hook with lightening speed, freeing him from the snare. But, I digress. Back to my cynical discontentment with bringing fishing gear.
This year I brought two rods. Zip tied 'em to the luggage rack. When I got up our first morning and headed out, I met Chip (of "Butt Hook Pond" fame) who said, "Did you hear about Giff (son #3)?"
At the pond, there are small fish (perch, sunnies, etc.), and some decent size cat fish. There are also several huge carp. 2-3 feet in length. Lazy. Never bite. Not interested in any lure. Ever. Been that way for years. Giff got up at 0-dark-30 and went to the pond with a rod for an early morning angling session. What Gifford knew, as did Sir Issac Walton was that the carp is the queen of rivers (and ponds); a stately, a good, and a very subtil fish. Plus, the American Carp Society in March of 2006 paid out $275,000 to the carp angling winners. Really. So, Giff stood on the small dock, and floated the line in the water espying a big game fish. He hung the bait just above the Alpha-carp, and waited.
Gnats are a problem at times and the establishment provides punks (like incense sticks without the stink) which are lit and waved so as to cast a smoky haze around one's head and shoulders, and which drive the gnats over to the next punkless guy. You know, we even light seven or eight at a time and stick them in whole wheat rolls at the hill-meals to keep the gnats away.
Sorry. Digressed again.
Well, Giff set his (my) rod down to light his punk. In a flash, the rod rocketed off the dock and into the pond. That fat, lazy carp had become caught, and was heading for deeper water at high speed with my rod in tow!
No doubt a genus cyprinus mistake.
As he returned to the carp academy dragging a rod along behind him, his fellow cyprinus carpo (the common carp) likely ostracized him like the guy who leaves the men’s room with a foot of toilet paper stuck to his shoe. He was probably branded a carp-leper by the uppity hypophthalmichthys moultrix (the silver carp) and hypophathalmichthys nobilis (the bighead carp) - the carp-brahmins.
I can just hear him now: "Listen here! I innocently brushed up against a medial-fin-high ball of dough, and it snagged me! Honest! I'm a carp for goodness sake. I eat bottom scum like the rest of you. What do I want with a ball of dough?! That stuff is bait for the bourgeois! Come on, guys!"
As the rod rocketed off the dock, Giff lunged, diving forward and reaching elbow deep into the pond. Alas, he was not long enough of arm.
Rod gone.
At breakfast, I quelled my urge to yell at him for losing my rod. After all, were it not my rod, were it some other family, this would be a pretty cool story. I told him so, and we fist-bumped.
To his credit, he spotted what looked like a rod at the bottom of the pond later that afternoon. So, the next morning before breakfast, he, Allie (daughter #3) and I took a row boat out to West Virginia's answer to the Marianas Trench - the Butt Hook Pond Trench. And, after 25 minutes of rowing clumsily in circles to hold our position, still in time to make it to breakfast, we managed to fish the rod out of the pond.
Both rods are back safely in my garage, snugly hung against the ceiling out of reach. Next July, I'll be asked to bring the fishing rods. I'll ignore the question. Then I'll protest. Then I'll acquiesce and tie them to the car roof for another adventure.
It is not impossible to communicate with me while I'm there, but as I begin my break from work, I like to tell my colleagues that while I'll be in the continental U.S., I may be hard to reach. The internet runs on "bob-war," and the phone's just a party line up a pole (picture Olivaaaah on Green Acres) where messages can be taken, wrapped around a rock and dropped down to the runner. Any messages brought down from the pole will be removed from their rocks and posted on a whiteboard just inside the dining room. I try to remember to look for my messages three times a day, but only after I dine. If absolutely necessary, I can hike up the first fairway and "summit" the first green where, having climbed to sufficient elevation I just might receive a faint T-Mobile signal. I get a signal boost if I remove and raise the flag stick real high in my off-hand.
It's an out of the way place that I enjoy very much.
Speaking of meals, there are usually 20-25 people at our table for meals. We enjoy lots of good food - the litany below is what comes to mind as I write. At breakfast, eggs any style (two poached soft on toast is my regular), double and triple bowls of oatmeal and seven-grain cereal, buckwheat flap jacks, rashers of bacon, sausage patties and links. For lunch, wonderful salads, watercress with piquant dressing, spaghetti with meat sauce, silver-dollar burgers with grilled onions, Sunday duck and turkey. For dinner, more salads, iridescent roast beef, fried chicken, meat loaf, fresh baked rolls and fresh vegetables. Desserts include Whitehouse cherry ice-cream, fresh watermelon wedges, cantaloupe with a scoop of lime sherbet, vanilla ice-cream with chocolate sauce, gingerbread cake with whipped cream.
In the dining room, the waitresses all wear white outfits, and rush around, pushing brushed steel carts full of the day's meal offering. They remind me of nurses in a 1950's movie, rushing patient gurneys into the operating room. All food is served on indestructible pastel colored melamine plates, and bowls. The ceiling fans hum. An occasional birthday or anniversary announcement is made to the accompaniment of appropriate music played over a crackly speaker. A cake appears and is delivered on a brushed steel cart (of course) to the celebrants' table.
Several meals are served on the hill under the first fairway pavilion (beside the fairway, but beneath the "summit"). Hill-dinners are barbequed Chicken on the Hill, and Steak on the Hill. Hill-lunches are the salad-sandwiches (chicken salad, egg salad, tuna salad) all on bread with crust removed, and barbeque pork plopped on a whole wheat roll. Don't forget the endless sweet hill-tea (for some reason, can't get sweet tea down below in the dining room).
Meals are also, as my daughter Ginny taught me, opportunities for community, fellowship and deepening friendships. I believe she would say, "Meals should have meaning." It's always interesting to see who sits by whom at each meal, and who rotates to sit by different whoms as people take an early leave from the table. Cousins reunite. Siblings banter. Members of the younger generation are cornered by their seniors and pumped for information as to academics and career trajectories. Disparate political, theological and philosophical views can be aired (and are). The ten-and-unders, the eleven-to-fifteens, the legal drivers and collegians, the working class and retirees all intersperse and seem to dialog very naturally. Age-based cliques and silos are dissolved.
Meals here are also opportunities to showcase and satisfy man's ages-old fisher-gatherer (Posted: No Hunting) instincts. A visit to the pond, which yields a “keeper,” permits the fisherman an opportunity to enjoy his or her fish at the next scheduled meal, sans head, filleted, egg and cornmeal battered and fried up goooood.
This prospect brings me to the point of this narrative.
Over the years, the kids have clamored for me to bring fishing poles. I did that in the past, but stopped, because I grew tired of prepping the rods, stocking the tackle box, picking up the 7-Eleven night crawlers that no one but me would cut, threading them onto the barbed hook, and then having repeatedly to untangle the lines I prepped. Fishing in July had become for me like a warm weather version of winter wear bundling. You spend 20 minutes to get junior all dressed up in his snow suit, boots, gloves and hat, only to hear him say "I gotta pee." Big build up. Big let down.
Notwithstanding my cynicism, I do still chuckle from time to time about one fishing event several years ago. Chip (son #1) was late to dinner one evening. The cousins last saw him at the pond, fishing. I got up from the table and went to retrieve him. When I got to the pond, he was on the dock, and appeared to be in distress. Seems he'd strung a triple-hook on his line, baited it, drew back the rod and cast. All three hooks were traveling at whip-crack speed, and one (it only takes one) found its way to that sweet spot just below the left rear blue jean pocket, where it penetrated Levi Strauss’s best, and buried itself in Chip’s derrière."
Well, well. Interesting," I said.
Assessing the situation, I removed the fillet knife from the tackle box and cut a quarter-sized piece of to expose the butt-buried hook. I was now ready to remove the gluteus implant . . . a hook-ectomy. To this day, I’m certain those blue jeans are the only thing that fillet knife ever cut. Using the needle-nosed pliers in the tackle box, I carefully took hold of the hook and moved it around gently. Despite my gentleness, he insisted on howling (drama-rama).
I studied the situation a moment longer, looked him in the eye, and said, "Sonny, this is definitely going to hurt you more than it hurts me." I suggested he put the handle of the rod between his teeth and bite down hard when I counted to three. I began counting, "One . . . two . . . (three seemed like too many). . ." and yanked the hook with lightening speed, freeing him from the snare. But, I digress. Back to my cynical discontentment with bringing fishing gear.
This year I brought two rods. Zip tied 'em to the luggage rack. When I got up our first morning and headed out, I met Chip (of "Butt Hook Pond" fame) who said, "Did you hear about Giff (son #3)?"
At the pond, there are small fish (perch, sunnies, etc.), and some decent size cat fish. There are also several huge carp. 2-3 feet in length. Lazy. Never bite. Not interested in any lure. Ever. Been that way for years. Giff got up at 0-dark-30 and went to the pond with a rod for an early morning angling session. What Gifford knew, as did Sir Issac Walton was that the carp is the queen of rivers (and ponds); a stately, a good, and a very subtil fish. Plus, the American Carp Society in March of 2006 paid out $275,000 to the carp angling winners. Really. So, Giff stood on the small dock, and floated the line in the water espying a big game fish. He hung the bait just above the Alpha-carp, and waited.
Gnats are a problem at times and the establishment provides punks (like incense sticks without the stink) which are lit and waved so as to cast a smoky haze around one's head and shoulders, and which drive the gnats over to the next punkless guy. You know, we even light seven or eight at a time and stick them in whole wheat rolls at the hill-meals to keep the gnats away.
Sorry. Digressed again.
Well, Giff set his (my) rod down to light his punk. In a flash, the rod rocketed off the dock and into the pond. That fat, lazy carp had become caught, and was heading for deeper water at high speed with my rod in tow!
No doubt a genus cyprinus mistake.
As he returned to the carp academy dragging a rod along behind him, his fellow cyprinus carpo (the common carp) likely ostracized him like the guy who leaves the men’s room with a foot of toilet paper stuck to his shoe. He was probably branded a carp-leper by the uppity hypophthalmichthys moultrix (the silver carp) and hypophathalmichthys nobilis (the bighead carp) - the carp-brahmins.
I can just hear him now: "Listen here! I innocently brushed up against a medial-fin-high ball of dough, and it snagged me! Honest! I'm a carp for goodness sake. I eat bottom scum like the rest of you. What do I want with a ball of dough?! That stuff is bait for the bourgeois! Come on, guys!"
As the rod rocketed off the dock, Giff lunged, diving forward and reaching elbow deep into the pond. Alas, he was not long enough of arm.
Rod gone.
At breakfast, I quelled my urge to yell at him for losing my rod. After all, were it not my rod, were it some other family, this would be a pretty cool story. I told him so, and we fist-bumped.
To his credit, he spotted what looked like a rod at the bottom of the pond later that afternoon. So, the next morning before breakfast, he, Allie (daughter #3) and I took a row boat out to West Virginia's answer to the Marianas Trench - the Butt Hook Pond Trench. And, after 25 minutes of rowing clumsily in circles to hold our position, still in time to make it to breakfast, we managed to fish the rod out of the pond.
Both rods are back safely in my garage, snugly hung against the ceiling out of reach. Next July, I'll be asked to bring the fishing rods. I'll ignore the question. Then I'll protest. Then I'll acquiesce and tie them to the car roof for another adventure.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
2008 Scion - 1, Road Bike - 0
Well, I won't be bike riding for a little while. We former (once one, always one?) English majors find cathartic solace in written expression, so read all about it:
Thursday evening my Specialized Allez Elite road bike and I "met" Sgt. Augustine Garcia's bright red 2008 Scion (Texas plates) at Powdermill (east bound) and 295.
For the record, I had right of way, as he was at a stop sign waiting to make a left turn. He pulled out in front of me to make his left turn, but had to stop suddenly to avoid an oncoming car he noticed suddenly. Also for the record (as all you physics majors know), the laws of physics trump rights of way. My 230 lbs. were traveling 25 mph. I needed 25 feet to stop, but Sgt. Garcia was 20 feet in front of me. To adapt an adage I attribute to my friend Ken Barnes, "You can't put 25
feet in a 20 foot bag." As you mathematics majors would put it: "25' - 20' X (m car - (m road bike + m rider) X 25 mph) = Chuck's got a problem."
I skidded 20 feet. Hit his rear left quarter. Detached from bike. Flopped over his rear windshield. Landed solidly on the left side of my pride (buttock) in the middle of several vehicles (all stopped at that moment).
From somewhere, I heard "Sir! Are you alright?" I turned in the direction of the question and saw Sgt. Garcia exiting his vehicle. I looked at him, but did not snap to attention. He barked again, "Sir! Are you alright?" I replied. "I'm not sure." I did a systems check. Not dizzy. Not vomiting. No blood evident. Joints work. Neck's fine. No fabric torn in embarassing places. I stood and walked to grassy area. Told Sgt. Garcia I thought my only injury was a bruised rump. Sgt. Garcia was an EMT. How convenient. Like I always say, "If you're gonna pull out in front of a cyclist and ruin his day, make sure you can get his vitals and stabilize him. Judgement of charity: He was also very concerned, and very apologetic. A Goddard Space Center Policeman (don't have his name) next appeared from nowhere, as did, Officer J.T. White of the U.S. Par
k Police. They informed me that the event took place on the Beltsville Agricultural Research Center (ARC) property, so I had to wait for paramedics to stop and evaluate me. OK. I stood again. Did another systems check. Sore rump. No other problems detected. "Officer Goddard" told me he'd prefer my remaining seated until emergency responders arrived. He had the gun, so I "remained seated" in my bib shorts and Specialized team jersey, taking care that my left "pride" bore as little weight as possible.
Two ambulances and three firetrucks arrived in the course of 10 minutes. I declined transport to hospital, indicating my only discomfort was my aforementioned left buttock. A nice lady appeared and said she'd witnessed the event, and offered her information. Sgt. Garcia declined (surprise), but I accepted. Asked her to email me at "'c' as in 'charlie' - 'f' as in 'foxtrot' - 'heidel' as in 'Heidelberg' [she said she'd been there] '@comcast.net'." Another guy appeared with a large first aid kit slung over his shoulder and four bikes mounted on the back of his Ford van. He asked if I needed anything. Nice of him - but I did not require an ice pack, tongue depressors, or tournequet, and none of his bikes would fit me, so I let him go.
I know. I know. Your all wondering "What about the bike?!" Well, thanks for asking. My front wheel is noticeably no longer flat (as to its plane) nor round (as to its circumference). Front fork will need to be replaced. Handlebars were catawampus. Officer White gave me a ride back to the neighborhood, dropping me at the top of the street so as not to alarm family and near neighbors. I stealthily coasted down the street, alarming no one.
Alice asked me how my ride was. Short. Explained it all, and even reconstructed the event using Gifford's Lego Indiana Jones on a motorcycle (me) and Gracie's shoe (Sgt. Garcia).
The bike's in the bike-hospital for a crash assessment, and will need a rim, spoke and front fork transplant.
But, keeping it real, God is good. He spared my life and all my limbs.
Thursday evening my Specialized Allez Elite road bike and I "met" Sgt. Augustine Garcia's bright red 2008 Scion (Texas plates) at Powdermill (east bound) and 295.
For the record, I had right of way, as he was at a stop sign waiting to make a left turn. He pulled out in front of me to make his left turn, but had to stop suddenly to avoid an oncoming car he noticed suddenly. Also for the record (as all you physics majors know), the laws of physics trump rights of way. My 230 lbs. were traveling 25 mph. I needed 25 feet to stop, but Sgt. Garcia was 20 feet in front of me. To adapt an adage I attribute to my friend Ken Barnes, "You can't put 25
feet in a 20 foot bag." As you mathematics majors would put it: "25' - 20' X (m car - (m road bike + m rider) X 25 mph) = Chuck's got a problem."
I skidded 20 feet. Hit his rear left quarter. Detached from bike. Flopped over his rear windshield. Landed solidly on the left side of my pride (buttock) in the middle of several vehicles (all stopped at that moment).
From somewhere, I heard "Sir! Are you alright?" I turned in the direction of the question and saw Sgt. Garcia exiting his vehicle. I looked at him, but did not snap to attention. He barked again, "Sir! Are you alright?" I replied. "I'm not sure." I did a systems check. Not dizzy. Not vomiting. No blood evident. Joints work. Neck's fine. No fabric torn in embarassing places. I stood and walked to grassy area. Told Sgt. Garcia I thought my only injury was a bruised rump. Sgt. Garcia was an EMT. How convenient. Like I always say, "If you're gonna pull out in front of a cyclist and ruin his day, make sure you can get his vitals and stabilize him. Judgement of charity: He was also very concerned, and very apologetic. A Goddard Space Center Policeman (don't have his name) next appeared from nowhere, as did, Officer J.T. White of the U.S. Par
k Police. They informed me that the event took place on the Beltsville Agricultural Research Center (ARC) property, so I had to wait for paramedics to stop and evaluate me. OK. I stood again. Did another systems check. Sore rump. No other problems detected. "Officer Goddard" told me he'd prefer my remaining seated until emergency responders arrived. He had the gun, so I "remained seated" in my bib shorts and Specialized team jersey, taking care that my left "pride" bore as little weight as possible.Two ambulances and three firetrucks arrived in the course of 10 minutes. I declined transport to hospital, indicating my only discomfort was my aforementioned left buttock. A nice lady appeared and said she'd witnessed the event, and offered her information. Sgt. Garcia declined (surprise), but I accepted. Asked her to email me at "'c' as in 'charlie' - 'f' as in 'foxtrot' - 'heidel' as in 'Heidelberg' [she said she'd been there] '@comcast.net'." Another guy appeared with a large first aid kit slung over his shoulder and four bikes mounted on the back of his Ford van. He asked if I needed anything. Nice of him - but I did not require an ice pack, tongue depressors, or tournequet, and none of his bikes would fit me, so I let him go.
I know. I know. Your all wondering "What about the bike?!" Well, thanks for asking. My front wheel is noticeably no longer flat (as to its plane) nor round (as to its circumference). Front fork will need to be replaced. Handlebars were catawampus. Officer White gave me a ride back to the neighborhood, dropping me at the top of the street so as not to alarm family and near neighbors. I stealthily coasted down the street, alarming no one.
Alice asked me how my ride was. Short. Explained it all, and even reconstructed the event using Gifford's Lego Indiana Jones on a motorcycle (me) and Gracie's shoe (Sgt. Garcia).
The bike's in the bike-hospital for a crash assessment, and will need a rim, spoke and front fork transplant.
But, keeping it real, God is good. He spared my life and all my limbs.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)