Let's Go Fishing

Humor writer Slim Randles is back as today's Wednesday's Guest. This piece reminds me of all the great times I had fishing over the years. I can almost taste the perch we caught on the lake in Michigan and cleaned and fried right there on the beach. Yum. Then there were all the wall-eyes in South Dakota. Still my favorite fish. I caught quite a few trout in Nebraska, but they are my least favorite to eat. My garden sure loved them though. If you have a favorite fishing story, do share it if you'd like. Meanwhile, let's have a cool glass of lemonade this hot Texas day and enjoy....

Image Courtesty of KitchenTalks.com where you can read about the history of lemonade

“What do you figure he’ll weigh now, Doc?” said Steve. Mavis topped off their cups at the philosophy counter of the Mule Barn coffee shop.

“A good three pounds, if my guessing is any good,” Doc said, shaking his head.

“Your dog?” asked Mavis.

“No, Hon,” Doc said with a smile, “Ol’ Lunker, that big trout down in Lewis Creek.”

The best fly tying and fly fishing had failed to bring O.L. to the net for a long time now. Oh, sometimes he’d investigate a fly closely and start a near panic attack in the angler, but then he’d turn back into his hole and let the fly drift on by. It was maddening.

“Maybe he’s just smart,” Dud said.

“Instinct, I think,” said Doc. “I just don’t think any trout is all that smart. But instinct could account for it. He knows what he wants to eat, and somehow, the flies we send him just don’t quite look right, or smell right, or float properly, or sink fast enough. Who knows?”

“I’ve tied my best for him,” Marvin Pincus said, looking semi-depressed. “I swear I don’t know what that fish wants.”

“You’re the best fly tier in the valley, Marvin,” Steve added. “If your flies can’t do it, I’m wondering if anything can.”

“Have you tried using bait?” Mavis asked. “My brother does okay with worms and salmon eggs.”

Every member of the world dilemma think tank gave hostile stares at their friendly waitress until she remembered something in the kitchen and left in a hurry.

“Bait? Use BAIT?” Doc moaned.

Marvin nodded. “Might just as well shoot the dang fish.”

Life, after all, would mean nothing without standards and values. 
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Brought to you by Saddle Up: A Cowboy Guide to Writing. Learn more at www.lpdpress.com

The Perfect Christmas Gift

My friend, Slim Randles is back as today's Wednesday's Guest, sharing what some of his friends are dreaming about as the perfect holiday gift. Enjoy....

There is a secret selfish longing we all share this time of year. It is traditional to give gifts at Christmas, of course, but there’s always the chance that those who adore us for our sterling qualities won’t give us what we really want or unquestioningly deserve. Therefore … we are allowed to have Christmas present dreams.

Just take Doc. He knows he’ll be getting neckties from the grand-kids and socks and underwear from Mrs. Doc. His daughters? Well, they’re the wild cards. They work hard each year to get Doc something different and special. But for Doc, when he sits quietly and dreams, there’s just that nine-foot Sage fly rod. Oh yes. With that, he’ll be able to feel the fish breathe down in Lewis Creek.

Photo Courtesy of Front Range Anglers

Anita Campbell knows Dud will give her clothes that look really good to him but are either the wrong size or the wrong color, or they are a style she wouldn’t wear to the grand opening of a septic tank. But she always wears them for one day, anyway, and it’s a day when Dud is home and she knows she doesn’t have to go anywhere.

Her secret Christmas dream has a lot to do with warm, sandy beaches, a tall, fruity adult beverage with an umbrella in it, and surfing lessons. She’s willing to compromise, of course, because of the expense. It doesn’t have to have an umbrella.

Photo Courtesy of Breathing Space Blog

Steve, like many cowboys, has been gratifying his secret Christmas dreams in the well-worn pages of catalogs. His compadres in the bunkhouse will shower him with Snoose, of course, as that is his drug of choice, but for himself, there’s that pair of Tony Lama boots. Oh yes, the ones with the filigree-looking tops. He knows he’ll just naturally ride Ol’ Snort better if he’s wearing them.

Photo Courtesy of The Rusty Zipper Vintage Clothes

You know, every bride has this registry thingie she uses so Aunt Mims won’t get her a butter dish that doesn’t match the sugar bowl, so why doesn’t someone come up with a Christmas dream registry? You’re welcome. No charge.
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 If you like what Slim shares here, you would enjoy his books. Check out his author page on Amazon if you have a moment. His books are a delight, and they make perfect gifts for folks on your Christmas list.

Slim has sponsors for all of his columns, and this month it is Beltone Hearing Aids,  so we do have to do this little ad: Give the gift of hearing this Christmas. Start your loved one off with a free hearing test at BELTONE. Call 1-866-867-8700.

Grandma thought he said “you’re the crest,” ‘til she took her free hearing test.

Gone Fishing

This is from a blog I did a number of years ago when I wanted to share some of my experiences as a hospital chaplain. The blog is called The Many Faces of Grief, and I have been reading some of those older posts as I walk this path of grief. One thing I have discovered is that it is much easier to deal with grief professionally than it is personally.

Anyway, I found this piece about a wonderful experience I had during the years I worked at a hospital, and I thought I would share it.

Sometimes ministry takes strange turns. One wouldn’t necessarily consider fishing a ministry, but in the case of Mr. Charles it was.

Mr. Charles, a retired Presbyterian minister, was our neighbor in Omaha and about a year after his wife died, he was diagnosed with leukemia. It was not the virulent leukemia that kills so many young people, He had Chronic Myelogenous Leukemia, which is a slow-progressing form of the blood cancer and is very treatable for several years.

I first met Mr. Charles when I was out walking my dogs, and we would pass by his yard. He was one of the few neighbors who would be outside no matter what the weather was like, and we would often chat for a few minutes. He was thrilled to find out that my husband was a minister and that I am a chaplain, finding a common bond in shared ministry.

When I would stop to visit, some of our other conversations revolved around fishing and the great walleyes that could be found in lakes north of us, although Mr. Charles preferred the trout at a lake much closer. One day he told me how much he missed fishing, and I was surprised to find out he was no longer going out. He explained that his children, both of whom lived some distance away, were afraid for him to go out alone now that he was sick, and the friend he used to fish with was no longer able to.

He talked about this a couple more times when I stopped on my daily walk, and finally it hit me that maybe he was really grieving for this loss in his life. I asked if he would like to go fishing with me sometime.

“Oh, I thought you would never ask,” he said.

“But why didn’t you just ask me?”

“Because a black man cannot invite a white woman to go fishing,” he said. “That is the way I was raised. I could never be that forward. But there is nothing in that code of conduct that says I cannot accept your invitation.”

So, for the next year, Mr. Charles and I went fishing about once a week in prime fishing times, stopping only when winter snowed us in.

Sometimes we would talk about the beauty and bounty of God, and other times we would talk about social issues, or books, or whatever topic struck our fancy. That would always be on the drive to and from the lake, however. The time at the lake was spent in quiet contemplation of the warmth of the sun, the gentle splash of water against the dock, the screech of a gull, or the drone of a curious bee circling our can of soda.

Actually catching a fish was never a criterion for measuring the success of a fishing trip.

Wednesday's Guest - Slim Randles

I can always count on my friend, Slim Randles, to share something fun with us. Got to love these guys down at the Mule Barn coffee shop. Meanwhile, I'm over at the Blood Red Pencil with a little fun of my own. Enjoy....

If you didn’t know what time of the year it was, or what the weather was like, you could tell simply by eavesdropping at the philosophy counter of the Mule Barn coffee shop. Let’s give it a try.

“Good to see you here, Doc,” said Herb Collins. “That warm water on the battery trick work for you?”

“Thanks, Herb. Yep. I tried it this morning. What’s that you got there?”

“Travel thingie. You know it’s more than 80 degrees in Guatemala … right now?”

“Saw a deal on TV,” Dud said. “They’re water skiing in Florida. You can go fishing down there all year round.”

“You going to Guatemala, Herb?” said Doc.

“Maybe. Been thinking about it. I don’t know much Spanish, though.”

“All you need to know,” said Dud, “is ‘Hace mucho calor,’ Herb.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Sure is hot!”

“I was just thinking yesterday,” said Doc, “of the unsung beauty of sweat. You know, we take sweat for granted in summer. Heck, we even dislike it and go swimming to wash it off.”

“That’s a fact,” Dud said.

“But I think it would be kinda fun to sweat right now. You know, just sit in a hot sun and bask like an old lizard and sip iced tea…”

“… and wear dark glasses,” said Herb.

“ … and watch girls in bikinis,” said Dud.

They looked at him.

“Around here?”

“Well, no. I mean, Guatemala or Florida, you know.”

“Yeah,” said Herb. “Guatemala.”

About that time Loretta came up. “You boys want your coffees topped off, or should I just turn the hose on you?”

They shoved their cups forward and grinned.

“Sale on snow shovels down at the hardware store,” said Doc.

“Heard that,” said Dud.

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Brought to you by Slim’s award-winning book “A Cowboy’s Guide to Growing Up Right.” Learn more at http://www.nmsantos.com/Slim/Slim.html