First of all, let's just say that the critics of the Ontario health care system are not entirely correct. I report this based on purely anecdotal evidence -- i.e., the story of my wife and her gall bladder.
Without going into too much gory detail: Nancy experienced severe abdominal pain starting around 5:30 a.m., Saturday, January 8. By 9 a.m., we were in Stratford hospital's emergency room, where she moved admission along very effectively by fainting. By 7 p.m. (I'm eliminating quite a few steps, here), she was in surgery, as a very competent surgeon removed her gall bladder. I was having a conversation with her in Recovery by 8 p.m. She probably won't remember all the details, but I can assure her the new set of Callaways was agreed upon. I digress.
So, from onset of symptoms through admission, assessment, initial treatment, tests, evaluation of test results, preparation for surgery, operation, and recovery in less than 15 hours. Now, that's efficient health care.
I know it doesn't always go this smoothly, and I suspect the superb staff and surgical team at Stratford General had more to do with this happy outcome than did the provincial poohbahs that administer the overall system, but still... I carry my health card proudly, this week.
We learned a couple of important lessons from this experience, by the way.
First -- and please, write this down -- soup is the universal medication. Nancy was no sooner home (and that happens within hours of surgery in this cost-conscious era), than wonderful friends appeared, bearing soup. Turkey soup. Vegetable soup. Squash soup. Chicken soup. Soup in Mason jars and crock pots and recycled yogurt containers and, of course, Tupperware.
We could have opened a soup kitchen. But we didn't, being less generous than that, and as I write, most of the soup has been consumed. By Nancy. Well, at least by her close, personal husband.
Soup is, well, super. Especially in trying times.
The second lesson is, almost everybody has had gall bladder surgery. One would not guess this -- I certainly didn't -- but if you, or someone you love, has said operation, the truth emerges like smoke from Mount Etna.
I don't think I have talked to one single person, post-op, who has not had their gall bladder taken out, or at least who doesn't know someone who has. And not only do they know the patient, they know they all know the intimate details of the operation.
Me, I'm not a big one for intimate details of surgical procedures. My sister in law is threatening to send me an on-line link to a video record of just such a surgery. I may need a new sister in law.
I will avoid the video evidence at all costs, but I sure heard enough spoken testimony to last me a life time. The first, superb, nurse in emergency guessed it was a gall bladder issue, and told us about her own experience. That wasn't so bad... kind of soothing, in a macabre way. But then the deluge started friends, parishioners (Nancy's, of course), joined the chorus.
After the operation, the surgeon came and assured me that all had gone very well. Then, I waited, lonely as a spouse, in a waiting room empty but for me (and Don Cherry on the TV). A cleaning person arrived to mop a bit, and within seconds, was telling me all about her own personal gall bladder surgery. With plenty of detail.
Well-intended, but disconcerting at that moment. Better she had popped out and made me some soup.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
A life full of story-making
Our good friend Jim Miller died, November 25. I've known Jim and Marlene for decades, working closing with them on the Castle Kilbride restoration, sharing dinner and glasses of wine on many occasions, debating and discussing matters of state (Jim was never short of opinions), and often marvelling over the latest absolutely perfect antique or classic car he had acquired and would sell. Or might not sell for a while, because he loved to be surrounded with unique, beautiful things.
He battled cancer we always say that, but in Jim's case it was the utter truth to the end, dealing antiques one week, gone the next.
Several communities came together as one for Jim's funeral. Antique and classic car dealers from across North America showed up. A good proportion of long-time Baden residents were there. And then there were all the others who simply were his friends. It was an eclectic group, and a similarly eclectic funeral.
The gathering was too big for the Millers' Lutheran church in Baden. So, the funeral was held at a Mennonite church, led by my favourite United Church minister (my wife, Nancy), with servers and ushers from several congregations and the community at large.
I went away from a beautiful funeral service thinking about Jim Miller stories. For it seems that everyone who met Jim including the 700 who visited the funeral home and almost 500 who came to the funeral came away with a Jim story to tell. He was that kind of guy.
Speaking at the funeral, one antique dealer recalled buying a trailer of antiques from Jim, sight unseen, because the offer was "$10,000 if you look at the stuff, $8,000 if you buy it sight unseen." He couldn't resist the ridiculous offer, and reluctantly admitted that it had been a good deal.
As I listened to the stories, I was reminded of a whole raft of Jim stories of my own. I laughed about the evening he showed up at our door in a gorgeous classic Packard; he'd been wondering how fast that very heavy automobile would go if you began from a standing start, in neutral, at the top of Bender Hill. So we drove up to the top of that hill, rocked back and forth to start the car moving, and by the time we hit the upslope on Huron, we were going very fast, indeed.
A lot of warm, funny things were shared about Jim. I can think of no better tribute that to remember him as a man who left a story with everyone he met.
The funeral itself was vintage Jim Miller. He had played a large part in planning it. I suspect most of the people who filed into the hall at Steinmann Mennonite had never been to a funeral that was preceded by music by the Dave Clark Five, Madonna, Harry Chapin, the Thompson Twins, Jim Croce, Roy Orbison, and Billy Joel, among others. This menu of music was followed, still pre-service, by a slide show with a soundtrack by the Beatles, Elton John and many more.
In the midst of the service itself, we sat quietly and listened, not to traditional hymns, but to "In My Dreams" by REO Speedwagon.
There were stories, there was music, there were images of Jim's beloved Rudy the Rooster, the fowl-on-the-lam befriended by Jim, even in the face of threats from the township bylaw department. And there were scripture readings and prayer, too, because Jim was a spiritual man, and wanted Nancy to bring those important things to the unique mix of the occasion.
As we left the reception, I realized that Jim had done it, one more time every person at the unique service went away with one more Jim Miller story. What a legacy.
He battled cancer we always say that, but in Jim's case it was the utter truth to the end, dealing antiques one week, gone the next.
Several communities came together as one for Jim's funeral. Antique and classic car dealers from across North America showed up. A good proportion of long-time Baden residents were there. And then there were all the others who simply were his friends. It was an eclectic group, and a similarly eclectic funeral.
The gathering was too big for the Millers' Lutheran church in Baden. So, the funeral was held at a Mennonite church, led by my favourite United Church minister (my wife, Nancy), with servers and ushers from several congregations and the community at large.
I went away from a beautiful funeral service thinking about Jim Miller stories. For it seems that everyone who met Jim including the 700 who visited the funeral home and almost 500 who came to the funeral came away with a Jim story to tell. He was that kind of guy.
Speaking at the funeral, one antique dealer recalled buying a trailer of antiques from Jim, sight unseen, because the offer was "$10,000 if you look at the stuff, $8,000 if you buy it sight unseen." He couldn't resist the ridiculous offer, and reluctantly admitted that it had been a good deal.
As I listened to the stories, I was reminded of a whole raft of Jim stories of my own. I laughed about the evening he showed up at our door in a gorgeous classic Packard; he'd been wondering how fast that very heavy automobile would go if you began from a standing start, in neutral, at the top of Bender Hill. So we drove up to the top of that hill, rocked back and forth to start the car moving, and by the time we hit the upslope on Huron, we were going very fast, indeed.
A lot of warm, funny things were shared about Jim. I can think of no better tribute that to remember him as a man who left a story with everyone he met.
The funeral itself was vintage Jim Miller. He had played a large part in planning it. I suspect most of the people who filed into the hall at Steinmann Mennonite had never been to a funeral that was preceded by music by the Dave Clark Five, Madonna, Harry Chapin, the Thompson Twins, Jim Croce, Roy Orbison, and Billy Joel, among others. This menu of music was followed, still pre-service, by a slide show with a soundtrack by the Beatles, Elton John and many more.
In the midst of the service itself, we sat quietly and listened, not to traditional hymns, but to "In My Dreams" by REO Speedwagon.
There were stories, there was music, there were images of Jim's beloved Rudy the Rooster, the fowl-on-the-lam befriended by Jim, even in the face of threats from the township bylaw department. And there were scripture readings and prayer, too, because Jim was a spiritual man, and wanted Nancy to bring those important things to the unique mix of the occasion.
As we left the reception, I realized that Jim had done it, one more time every person at the unique service went away with one more Jim Miller story. What a legacy.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Kicks to be found in the bucket list
It was like being repeatedly hit over the head with a bucket. Actually, with a bucket list.
That's one of those phrases that has slipped easily into our collective vocabulary that idea of a list of things we would like to do before... well, before we cannot do them, any more. Before we boot the aforementioned water container.
I heard it voiced several times in the past few weeks, during a multiple-stop trip to Florida. Each time someone referred to the idea, it drove home a certain reality even further into my consciousness -- i.e., that I am rapidly approaching the "bucket list" time of my life. More to the point, I have reached my 60th birthday.
Sixty. It comes, not with despair, but certainly with a sense of finiteness. I remember when I thought 50 was old. Nope, it wasn't. And now sixty. Well, maybe. It feels different. Older, perhaps... that would make a certain amount of sense.
The term "bucket list" was used by a number of strangers we encountered, in a variety of locales. We sat on the pier at Key West and watched the sun go down -- a daily ritual in that town, accompanied by street performers, drinks and then a hush followed by applause at the sun dips into the Gulf of Mexico. For a lot of people, enjoying that experience is an item on their bucket list. We heard murmurs to that effect on every side.
A delightful group of ladies aged 70-or-so who we met en route confided over cocktails that they had recently scratched an item off their bucket lists -- they had puffed on a marijuana joint at a birthday party for a septuagenarian.
I am not recommending this, but if anything can make grass cute, that might be it. Most, by the way, didn't inhale -- apparently, simply being in the vicinity of a doobie was enough to eliminate that item from their lists. From what we heard, though, the inherent giggling has lasted for days, perhaps weeks.
They are unlikely to turn into dopers -- their bucket lists are lengthy and creative. I think that's the secret of bucket lists -- make 'em long and whimsical. The saddest thing would be to scratch off the final item, look up, and wonder what else there is to do this week.
So I have begun ruminating about my own, personal list. A few things have been scratched off, mentally, even before I have started writing them down. Sea kayaking, for example -- we were lured into kayaks during a visit to Captiva Island, and spent an enchanting three hours floating inches above sting rays, and gliding silently around islands inhabited by bald eagles. Amazing. It's off the list, but I'd do it again in a second -- so maybe some things can remain as repeat intentions.
Once upon a time, my list would have included running for political office. Well, that's off the list and, unlike sea kayaking, it is gone for good. Really. I have retrieved my hat from the ring, and I'm wearing it to the golf course.
Maybe that will be one item on the list -- to shoot in the 80's. And no -- not on the first nine. I almost broke 100 on our trip, except the borrowed golf clubs were clearly defective.
And let me be clear -- my list will not share the stated item with those partying ladies. I have no wish to revisit that ancient era.
That was a long time ago, wasn't it? Sixty does seem somewhat advanced -- or let's just agree, it's a good time to start making a list.
That's one of those phrases that has slipped easily into our collective vocabulary that idea of a list of things we would like to do before... well, before we cannot do them, any more. Before we boot the aforementioned water container.
I heard it voiced several times in the past few weeks, during a multiple-stop trip to Florida. Each time someone referred to the idea, it drove home a certain reality even further into my consciousness -- i.e., that I am rapidly approaching the "bucket list" time of my life. More to the point, I have reached my 60th birthday.
Sixty. It comes, not with despair, but certainly with a sense of finiteness. I remember when I thought 50 was old. Nope, it wasn't. And now sixty. Well, maybe. It feels different. Older, perhaps... that would make a certain amount of sense.
The term "bucket list" was used by a number of strangers we encountered, in a variety of locales. We sat on the pier at Key West and watched the sun go down -- a daily ritual in that town, accompanied by street performers, drinks and then a hush followed by applause at the sun dips into the Gulf of Mexico. For a lot of people, enjoying that experience is an item on their bucket list. We heard murmurs to that effect on every side.
A delightful group of ladies aged 70-or-so who we met en route confided over cocktails that they had recently scratched an item off their bucket lists -- they had puffed on a marijuana joint at a birthday party for a septuagenarian.
I am not recommending this, but if anything can make grass cute, that might be it. Most, by the way, didn't inhale -- apparently, simply being in the vicinity of a doobie was enough to eliminate that item from their lists. From what we heard, though, the inherent giggling has lasted for days, perhaps weeks.
They are unlikely to turn into dopers -- their bucket lists are lengthy and creative. I think that's the secret of bucket lists -- make 'em long and whimsical. The saddest thing would be to scratch off the final item, look up, and wonder what else there is to do this week.
So I have begun ruminating about my own, personal list. A few things have been scratched off, mentally, even before I have started writing them down. Sea kayaking, for example -- we were lured into kayaks during a visit to Captiva Island, and spent an enchanting three hours floating inches above sting rays, and gliding silently around islands inhabited by bald eagles. Amazing. It's off the list, but I'd do it again in a second -- so maybe some things can remain as repeat intentions.
Once upon a time, my list would have included running for political office. Well, that's off the list and, unlike sea kayaking, it is gone for good. Really. I have retrieved my hat from the ring, and I'm wearing it to the golf course.
Maybe that will be one item on the list -- to shoot in the 80's. And no -- not on the first nine. I almost broke 100 on our trip, except the borrowed golf clubs were clearly defective.
And let me be clear -- my list will not share the stated item with those partying ladies. I have no wish to revisit that ancient era.
That was a long time ago, wasn't it? Sixty does seem somewhat advanced -- or let's just agree, it's a good time to start making a list.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
The dog days of autumn
Sorry. I know it has been a while... I've been sick.
Well, no, I've been campaigning. Which is sometimes equivalent.
When I signed up to run for mayor, I knew some of the things that might be important -- issues, policies, efforts, special events, advertising, that sort of thing.
What I didn't count on was the influence of dogs in the campaign.
Just yesterday, I called at a home where the very active and defensive dog confronted me through the screen door. Which at that time seemed to me to be a very unsubstantial screen door, indeed.
The owner joined us, and his opening remark was, "If my dog doesn't like you, I don't think I can vote for you."
Well, that's discouraging.
But then he added, "Actually, he barks at everyone like that." So unless the owner is looking for a reason not to vote, he's going to have to use some other oracle. The dog has taken a universal scunner to politicians. Not all that unwise, come to think of it, but still not helpful in determining which undesirable politician one is going to support.
I've also encountered the opposite response. In two cases on one day, I heard "My dog doesn't usually like anyone, but she seems to like you. You have my vote."
Who am I to disparage such thinking. I know that people vote for a lot of reasons, and some I have heard are not as well thought through as this, so I'm happy to be the beneficiary of the friendly dog ballot.
I have a friend who is in the dog food business, and believe me, after visiting some thousands of homes, I want a piece of his action. I believe there are about 1.75 dogs for every human in this municipality. Big dogs. Dogs who hit the door at full speed when I ring the bell. Tiny dogs. Friendly dogs. Dogs where, if they act the way they sound, you don't want anyone to be home and open that door.
One thing is clear... as I work my way around our communities each day, meeting voters and canine vote influencers, I become much more interesting to the dogs as the time goes on.
The first dog finds me pretty bland, and is not much interested in my freshly laundered trousers. A casual sniff is the sum total of that relationship.
The second dog... more interest. Not because of me, of course, but because of my recent, brief encounter with Dog One. This level of interest expands geometrically as I meet dog after dog, until by the end of the day, the dogs find me the most interesting man in the world, Dos Equis notwithstanding.
I have no idea how this election will work out, but if I am not the people's choice, I can at least be consoled by the fact that I seem to be the choice of the vast majority of dogs. And I am pretty sure I'm going to invest in a dog food business. Either that, or a company that replaces front doors and door screens.
Well, no, I've been campaigning. Which is sometimes equivalent.
When I signed up to run for mayor, I knew some of the things that might be important -- issues, policies, efforts, special events, advertising, that sort of thing.
What I didn't count on was the influence of dogs in the campaign.
Just yesterday, I called at a home where the very active and defensive dog confronted me through the screen door. Which at that time seemed to me to be a very unsubstantial screen door, indeed.
The owner joined us, and his opening remark was, "If my dog doesn't like you, I don't think I can vote for you."
Well, that's discouraging.
But then he added, "Actually, he barks at everyone like that." So unless the owner is looking for a reason not to vote, he's going to have to use some other oracle. The dog has taken a universal scunner to politicians. Not all that unwise, come to think of it, but still not helpful in determining which undesirable politician one is going to support.
I've also encountered the opposite response. In two cases on one day, I heard "My dog doesn't usually like anyone, but she seems to like you. You have my vote."
Who am I to disparage such thinking. I know that people vote for a lot of reasons, and some I have heard are not as well thought through as this, so I'm happy to be the beneficiary of the friendly dog ballot.
I have a friend who is in the dog food business, and believe me, after visiting some thousands of homes, I want a piece of his action. I believe there are about 1.75 dogs for every human in this municipality. Big dogs. Dogs who hit the door at full speed when I ring the bell. Tiny dogs. Friendly dogs. Dogs where, if they act the way they sound, you don't want anyone to be home and open that door.
One thing is clear... as I work my way around our communities each day, meeting voters and canine vote influencers, I become much more interesting to the dogs as the time goes on.
The first dog finds me pretty bland, and is not much interested in my freshly laundered trousers. A casual sniff is the sum total of that relationship.
The second dog... more interest. Not because of me, of course, but because of my recent, brief encounter with Dog One. This level of interest expands geometrically as I meet dog after dog, until by the end of the day, the dogs find me the most interesting man in the world, Dos Equis notwithstanding.
I have no idea how this election will work out, but if I am not the people's choice, I can at least be consoled by the fact that I seem to be the choice of the vast majority of dogs. And I am pretty sure I'm going to invest in a dog food business. Either that, or a company that replaces front doors and door screens.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Inch by inch, door by door
I'm packed, and ready to go. Except, today, the weather gods have conspired against me.
At this point in the election campaign, I start my day (after coffee and the crossword, of course) by loading my blue satchel with Paul Knowles for Mayor brochures, some buttons (same theme, surprisingly enough), a bottle of water, and some note paper and a pen.
And then I am off to go door to door, meeting the residents of Wilmot township. This was the plan this morning, too... except torrential rains and some thunderstorms have put a bit of a cramp in the schedule. It's supposed to get nicer, though, so I should be able to hit the streets later in the day.
This door to door campaigning is very interesting. A bit unnerving, too -- after all, each new door is an adventure, and you never know what you are going to encounter.
I have found everything from a refusal to meet me ("I don't open my door to solicitors") to warm welcomes from both friends and strangers ("Come in and sit down. Tell us about the election.")
Mostly, when people are home, they are very cordial, and often downright friendly. Most are aware of the election, and I will not be surprised if this time, we see a much higher turnout than we have in recent decades (where in Wilmot we were lucky to have a quarter of eligible voters cast their ballots).
I have already learned about a number of local issues -- and I will be writing a more 'official' news release about these issues, and posting it on paulknowles.ca.
But to be more informal, in this space: here are some of my favourite moments, so far, in the door to door quest for votes:
* A man who refused my brochure, but then explained, "I don't need your brochure. You have our votes, so please use that material to convince someone else to support you. Good luck!"
* Three folks on the same street who greeted me with, "I was just reading about your wife!" -- Nancy was featured in Most magazine, because of the Kitchener-Waterloo Arts Award we won for New Hamburg Live.
* Two people who saw my vague profile through frosted glass beard and belly most obvious, I suppose (I gotta stop standing in profile!), and assumed I was one of my similarly portly competitors.
* A friend who opened the door on one of the hottest afternoons, recognized that I was nearing the end of heat tolerance, and said, "Will you please go home before you kill yourself?"
* A series of women on one street who said, one after another, "You have my vote, because my neighbour has been singing your praises." Yo have to love neighbours like
that.
* Several voters who appear to support me after we discussed, not issues, but gardens. Which seems eminently sensible to me!
In the course of campaigning, I have been invited to meet lovely little dogs including a beagle named Molly (I accepted), to assist one friend in painting his foyer (I declined), and to give a hug to a long-time acquaintance who now lives in a seniors' apartment (I accepted).
I have also realized, as I attend larger events, that political campaigning involves a lot of eating, most of it excellent if not entirely fat-free. Pork chops, corn on the cob, sausages, hot dogs, ice cream, pie... all of which helps to explain why at least two of the candidates look like this. Or, at least, will continue to look like this for the foreseeable future. Maybe the multiple kilometers we will walk will counteract this, but I doubt it.
All in all, although it takes a bit of self-induced oomph to knock on that first door, each time, I am genuinely enjoying the process. And the good news is, there are only several thousand more doors to go.
At this point in the election campaign, I start my day (after coffee and the crossword, of course) by loading my blue satchel with Paul Knowles for Mayor brochures, some buttons (same theme, surprisingly enough), a bottle of water, and some note paper and a pen.
And then I am off to go door to door, meeting the residents of Wilmot township. This was the plan this morning, too... except torrential rains and some thunderstorms have put a bit of a cramp in the schedule. It's supposed to get nicer, though, so I should be able to hit the streets later in the day.
This door to door campaigning is very interesting. A bit unnerving, too -- after all, each new door is an adventure, and you never know what you are going to encounter.
I have found everything from a refusal to meet me ("I don't open my door to solicitors") to warm welcomes from both friends and strangers ("Come in and sit down. Tell us about the election.")
Mostly, when people are home, they are very cordial, and often downright friendly. Most are aware of the election, and I will not be surprised if this time, we see a much higher turnout than we have in recent decades (where in Wilmot we were lucky to have a quarter of eligible voters cast their ballots).
I have already learned about a number of local issues -- and I will be writing a more 'official' news release about these issues, and posting it on paulknowles.ca.
But to be more informal, in this space: here are some of my favourite moments, so far, in the door to door quest for votes:
* A man who refused my brochure, but then explained, "I don't need your brochure. You have our votes, so please use that material to convince someone else to support you. Good luck!"
* Three folks on the same street who greeted me with, "I was just reading about your wife!" -- Nancy was featured in Most magazine, because of the Kitchener-Waterloo Arts Award we won for New Hamburg Live.
* Two people who saw my vague profile through frosted glass beard and belly most obvious, I suppose (I gotta stop standing in profile!), and assumed I was one of my similarly portly competitors.
* A friend who opened the door on one of the hottest afternoons, recognized that I was nearing the end of heat tolerance, and said, "Will you please go home before you kill yourself?"
* A series of women on one street who said, one after another, "You have my vote, because my neighbour has been singing your praises." Yo have to love neighbours like
that.
* Several voters who appear to support me after we discussed, not issues, but gardens. Which seems eminently sensible to me!
In the course of campaigning, I have been invited to meet lovely little dogs including a beagle named Molly (I accepted), to assist one friend in painting his foyer (I declined), and to give a hug to a long-time acquaintance who now lives in a seniors' apartment (I accepted).
I have also realized, as I attend larger events, that political campaigning involves a lot of eating, most of it excellent if not entirely fat-free. Pork chops, corn on the cob, sausages, hot dogs, ice cream, pie... all of which helps to explain why at least two of the candidates look like this. Or, at least, will continue to look like this for the foreseeable future. Maybe the multiple kilometers we will walk will counteract this, but I doubt it.
All in all, although it takes a bit of self-induced oomph to knock on that first door, each time, I am genuinely enjoying the process. And the good news is, there are only several thousand more doors to go.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Venison sausage, pickled eggs: gone fishin'
It worked out to about $10 a fish. And that was just for the fishing license -- I did not have to pay, personally, for the boat, the captain, the bait and other such essentials to a day-long bass fishing trip. That was all supplied by my friend Don, who hosts about 10 of us on such an outing, on Long Point Bay, every summer.
Now, when I say he does this every summer, I am being more presumptuous than I should be. Don keeps careful minutes, each trip, and the minutes always point out that each and every one of us, with the exception of mine host himself, is on probation.
It's not completely clear what we would have to do in order to lose our probationary rights, but none of us are eager to test the boundaries, at the risk of finding out. So, for example, we agree that Don always catches the biggest fish, and that it would be foolish to actually measure the bass, since Don's catch is demonstrably larger.
This is the only time, all year, that I fish. One day. Actually, by the time we made the trek to Port Rowan, and then took the two-hour boat ride to where the fish were allegedly biting, we probably got no more than about four hours of genuine fishing in.
In that time, I caught three fish, and watched several others escape my line. It's a thoughtful moment, when you realize a bass is smarter than you are. But I did triumph over our finned foes, three times in a day.
While this sounds less than stellar, I actually wound up in the middle of the pack, when it came to production this year. Everyone caught at least one fish, but for some, that was their total. No one caught their personal limit; Dave, our "sleeper" this year, caught nothing for about two and a half hours, and then landed (boated?) five in the last hour and a half to take the title.
This may not be exactly how it appears in the minutes of the meeting, however. Don has a way of massaging the facts, and may, in fact, wind up as the superior fisherman of record. Who are we probationers to argue?
All in all, this is an unusual day. It's always on a weekday, so except for two or three of the assembled multitude who are retired, for the rest of us it carries that special sense of playing hooky. We should be working; instead, to quote an ancient phrase, we have "gone fishin".
We all take along some edibles, which are served starting around 8 a.m. -- and comprise a most unusual breakfast. Venison summer sausage, for example, pickled eggs, limburger cheese with sweet onions; cheese curds (cheese is big with these guys), suicide pepperoni. Not your standard healthy breakfast, but it seems just right, when you are skimming (well, in this boat, perhaps "ploughing" is the more apt phrase) across the waters of Lake Erie.
We get to the area where the fish are hanging out, today - how the captain knows, we don't ask... it would be like asking a Mason to reveal secrets of the order -- and we fish.
Actually, we cast out our lines, and reel them in. Pretty much everything else, except for the eating and drinking part, is handled by the captain. He puts the bait on the hooks, he replaces lost hooks and sinkers, he nets the fish. We take the credit... or give it to Don.
On the way home, we stop at a place where the owners have built a niche businesses, cleaning fish for the likes of us.
Then we finish the homeward trip (this year in a borrowed 1977 camper van with a designated driver), knowing the feast that awaits us once Don fires up the barbecue and concocts his secret bass seasoning.
One bit of that fresh-caught fish, and there is no doubt in anyone's mind that Don caught the most, the biggest, perhaps the only fish of the day! Let the record show it.
Now, when I say he does this every summer, I am being more presumptuous than I should be. Don keeps careful minutes, each trip, and the minutes always point out that each and every one of us, with the exception of mine host himself, is on probation.
It's not completely clear what we would have to do in order to lose our probationary rights, but none of us are eager to test the boundaries, at the risk of finding out. So, for example, we agree that Don always catches the biggest fish, and that it would be foolish to actually measure the bass, since Don's catch is demonstrably larger.
This is the only time, all year, that I fish. One day. Actually, by the time we made the trek to Port Rowan, and then took the two-hour boat ride to where the fish were allegedly biting, we probably got no more than about four hours of genuine fishing in.
In that time, I caught three fish, and watched several others escape my line. It's a thoughtful moment, when you realize a bass is smarter than you are. But I did triumph over our finned foes, three times in a day.
While this sounds less than stellar, I actually wound up in the middle of the pack, when it came to production this year. Everyone caught at least one fish, but for some, that was their total. No one caught their personal limit; Dave, our "sleeper" this year, caught nothing for about two and a half hours, and then landed (boated?) five in the last hour and a half to take the title.
This may not be exactly how it appears in the minutes of the meeting, however. Don has a way of massaging the facts, and may, in fact, wind up as the superior fisherman of record. Who are we probationers to argue?
All in all, this is an unusual day. It's always on a weekday, so except for two or three of the assembled multitude who are retired, for the rest of us it carries that special sense of playing hooky. We should be working; instead, to quote an ancient phrase, we have "gone fishin".
We all take along some edibles, which are served starting around 8 a.m. -- and comprise a most unusual breakfast. Venison summer sausage, for example, pickled eggs, limburger cheese with sweet onions; cheese curds (cheese is big with these guys), suicide pepperoni. Not your standard healthy breakfast, but it seems just right, when you are skimming (well, in this boat, perhaps "ploughing" is the more apt phrase) across the waters of Lake Erie.
We get to the area where the fish are hanging out, today - how the captain knows, we don't ask... it would be like asking a Mason to reveal secrets of the order -- and we fish.
Actually, we cast out our lines, and reel them in. Pretty much everything else, except for the eating and drinking part, is handled by the captain. He puts the bait on the hooks, he replaces lost hooks and sinkers, he nets the fish. We take the credit... or give it to Don.
On the way home, we stop at a place where the owners have built a niche businesses, cleaning fish for the likes of us.
Then we finish the homeward trip (this year in a borrowed 1977 camper van with a designated driver), knowing the feast that awaits us once Don fires up the barbecue and concocts his secret bass seasoning.
One bit of that fresh-caught fish, and there is no doubt in anyone's mind that Don caught the most, the biggest, perhaps the only fish of the day! Let the record show it.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Evening is for the birds
It's a remarkable sight.
Every evening, between 7:30 and 8 p.m., starlings congregate in the giant, old poplar in the field behind our home. They arrive singly, or in small groups, or in flocks of a hundred or more.
The first to come settle on the top, leafless branches of the dying tree. They are soon joined by others, and the noise begins... not singing, because these are starlings, after all, but their best efforts at chirping.
The first large flock to arrive is an amazing sight, as a hundred or more birds glide across the sky, and then swoop to their chosen perches. Then another flock, and another, until the tree contains more than a thousand loud birds, at a conservative estimate.
Sometimes, they spill over into other nearby trees, including our spruces, but if we clap our hands, they soar up out of the spruce trees and elbow their way into spaces on the poplar.
We try to imagine what they are doing in this nightly gathering. Reporting in? Sharing information about the best places to find edible insects? Or is it a singles bar for starlings?
They arrive over the course of a half hour or so; by the end of the exercise, the tree is quivering like a wet Labrador, even though no other tree nearby shows any movement at all.
The noise hits maximum level, everyone is chattering at once, and suddenly, on some signal that you know humans are never going to figure out, they are off, again. This tree is not their night-time perch... it's their after-work pub. They spend anything from forty minutes to 30 seconds, for the latest-comers, and then they are off to destinations we know not of.
It is not rare to see a lone starling or two soar in just as the crowd is departing. These tail-end Charlies never land, they simply tag along at the rear of one of the new flocks heading off to -- to what? A better bar, or a starling restaurant, now that they have had their pre-dinner cocktail?
It's a fascinating phenomenon, all the more so because it lends itself to no easy explanation. Anything we try to figure out smacks of blatant anthropomorphism, so it's probably better to go all the way and call the popular tree Cheers for the Birds.
Whatever the inspiration, it's loud, it's fraught with danger for human observers under the flight paths of these thousand-plus birds, and its absolutely intriguing.
Plenty of people don't have any affection for starlings... I'm thinking they might change their minds if they saw them in this unusual behaviour. Or, they might simply have a dry cleaning bill of major proportions.
Every evening, between 7:30 and 8 p.m., starlings congregate in the giant, old poplar in the field behind our home. They arrive singly, or in small groups, or in flocks of a hundred or more.
The first to come settle on the top, leafless branches of the dying tree. They are soon joined by others, and the noise begins... not singing, because these are starlings, after all, but their best efforts at chirping.
The first large flock to arrive is an amazing sight, as a hundred or more birds glide across the sky, and then swoop to their chosen perches. Then another flock, and another, until the tree contains more than a thousand loud birds, at a conservative estimate.
Sometimes, they spill over into other nearby trees, including our spruces, but if we clap our hands, they soar up out of the spruce trees and elbow their way into spaces on the poplar.
We try to imagine what they are doing in this nightly gathering. Reporting in? Sharing information about the best places to find edible insects? Or is it a singles bar for starlings?
They arrive over the course of a half hour or so; by the end of the exercise, the tree is quivering like a wet Labrador, even though no other tree nearby shows any movement at all.
The noise hits maximum level, everyone is chattering at once, and suddenly, on some signal that you know humans are never going to figure out, they are off, again. This tree is not their night-time perch... it's their after-work pub. They spend anything from forty minutes to 30 seconds, for the latest-comers, and then they are off to destinations we know not of.
It is not rare to see a lone starling or two soar in just as the crowd is departing. These tail-end Charlies never land, they simply tag along at the rear of one of the new flocks heading off to -- to what? A better bar, or a starling restaurant, now that they have had their pre-dinner cocktail?
It's a fascinating phenomenon, all the more so because it lends itself to no easy explanation. Anything we try to figure out smacks of blatant anthropomorphism, so it's probably better to go all the way and call the popular tree Cheers for the Birds.
Whatever the inspiration, it's loud, it's fraught with danger for human observers under the flight paths of these thousand-plus birds, and its absolutely intriguing.
Plenty of people don't have any affection for starlings... I'm thinking they might change their minds if they saw them in this unusual behaviour. Or, they might simply have a dry cleaning bill of major proportions.
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