A Fishing Secret

Game Warden friend of mine was always asking how I catch so many fish.  Finally I said, "Come along with me sometime.  I'll show you."  We made plans and met down at Jolly Rogers Marina early one Sunday morning, loaded up and launched the boat as the sun rose over Pinnacle Mountain.  We motored across to the other side of the lake, under Highway 10, back up Maumelle Creek a little ways where I killed the engine.

He asked, "Is this it?  The secret fishing hole?"  I didn't say anything, just reached down into my tackle box, calmly pulled out a stick of dynamite, lit it and threw it out into the water.  Couple-seconds later that thing said, "ka-WHOOMPH!'  Course the game warden was horrified as dead fish started floating to the surface.  I was trolling around dipping them up with the scoop-net, and he was saying, "You can't do that!  I'm going to have to arrest you!"  I stopped, reached into my tackle box and pulled out another stick of dynamite.  I lit it, handed it to him and said, "Are you going to stand there and talk all day, or you gonna fish?"

--MJF

King Crab Legs, Oysters on the Half Shell, Shrimp

You know, baby food. 

Being a boy-dad has its perks.  

• When R.L. mashes his finger in a cabinet door, I get to say, "Dry up boy.  It's a long way from your heart."  (And I kiss his 10 1/2 month old hand.)
  
• I lie on the floor on my back with him at my side tossing a tennis ball in the air over and over and over and over.  He's already trying to catch it.  
• I spray him in the face with the hose on the kitchen sink.  He loves it, and Mama does too, now.  Just says, "You boys."  (I catch her doing it sometimes.)
• I buy baseball cards for his collection, guns for him to shoot with me someday.
• I will always own a truck so I can give it to him when he starts to drive.
• I will laugh when he picks up a dried dog turd and chases me with it, and I call his poop doo-doo.
• We'll discuss the differences between centipedes and millipedes in depth.
• We'll have thousands of nicknames for each other.
• I'll teach him about beer and bats and fire and traps, sharp knives and boots and go-karts and hats, jock straps and girls and edible plants and DIRT BOMBS!

So when Dad took us out for supper at The Flying Fish, it was high time to start the kid in on some serious family-boy eatin'.  The joint has fabulous, fresh seafood and great atmosphere any time of the year.  We ordered half the menu and watched Bobby Bowden and the Seminoles win another bowl game.  Romulus ate King Crab legs, raw oysters, fried shrimp, boiled shrimp, hushpuppies.  And crackers, crackers are good for babies.  He devoured all of it and begged for more, but Mama grew increasingly adamant that enough was enough.  When we put him down that night he was pleasantly fatigued and slept like a log.

He arose especially chipper (a nickname I'm toying with--Littleman's already a huge Braves fan and he does look like his daddy).  The look in his eye seemed to say, "Are you experienced, Dad?  I am."  And then he took his first poop since the momentous occasion.  He didn't sit in it long.  I knew when he had done it.  But when I changed his diaper, it looked like someone had taken a blowtorch to his ass.  That seafood doo-doo was radioactive.  Chipper didn't even know it yet either, until it was time to wipe.  

When Mama took him to his pediatrician yesterday, the lady had to leave the room for a minute when she saw.  She was nice about it and all, but there was no mistaking it, I had messed up.  She advised H to sharply advise me to EDUCATE myself about the foods a 10/11 month old should be eating and to acknowledge that what I had done was "not very smart."  The doctor cooked up a little potion that she named Butt Balm and sent H on her way to straighten me out.  

Last night, R.L., Dad, M.C., K.C., H, and I were in the dining room at dinner passing dishes family style.  I started to feed the boy some Italian Chicken, an old family recipe and staple menu item in our home.  I was quickly put in check by the entire table--in unison, and we had a good laugh.  But Chipper didn't think it was so funny.  That boy wants to eat.

I can't wait for him to scrape his knee for the first time.  I'm ready.  When he comes to me crying, I'll smirk and say, "Rub a little a dirt in it Son."  (And then I'll clean it up and teach him his first lesson in Basic First Aid.)    

--MJF

A Whole Front Yard Full of Fat Robins

--from the memoirs of Mary Rome Foster

"My Daddy caught a robin at work one day and brought it home to me.  For a five-year-old, there is nothing more wonderful than a pet of any kind and to have a bird and a wild one at that--wow!  Daddy had done it again.  (He was the best you know.)

I put it on the front porch and sat with it all afternoon.  Talked to it.  Gave it bread and worms.  (YUK!!)  And kept telling it how lucky it was to have ended up with me.  No bird would ever be so loved.  

It watched me closely but never made a sound.  And it didn't eat anything either.  Birds are supposed to eat a bunch!  But not this one.  He just watched me.

Along about dusk (you know, that homesick time of day when the shadows get long and the sky makes everything look orange), Mother came out.  

'Pretty bird.  You really love it don't you?'  Mother asked.  'Daddy thought you'd enjoy having it.  For the day.'

Notice how Daddy gave it to me, but Mother had to come with the unpleasant news.  She sat down and told me that each year, I could claim the first robin of spring and that it could always be a message of God's promise to be there when I needed."

--MJF

Don't Shoot!!

I volunteered for the Obama campaign for two years. Mass-emailed. Phone-banked. Raised and donated money. Registered and rallied a posse of new voters. I strutted Obama garb through street fairs, Walmarts, and faculty meetings to evoke discussion and debate. Mind you, Arkansas is conservative/Clinton heaven; it wasn't easy or fun. I quickly learned to shun that unpatriotic closet-Muslim terrorist hoohoo and avowed to dismiss those potential-voters with glee.

The debate that niggled me was over gun control. I was assured by the conservative quacks on more than one occasion that Obama would take my guns away, come to my house personally and confiscate them. And I was sermonized by pink pistol anti-gun zealots and instructed to "go shoot a wolf from a helicopter [if that's how I felt]." The more it came up, the more exasperated I grew with Republicans and Democrats on the issue. I've come to the conclusion that gun control theory can be as divisive as abortion and gay rights. It's an American political party litmus test. One that can result in excommunication--on either side! Typical conservatives [one can infer] seem to think that drug lords and gang members deserve full access to extremely compact-highly concealable-fully automatic-high caliber-assault weapons, while bleeding heart liberals like me want to take shotguns from duck hunters.

After 2 years of superfluous debate, I've landed in the same place that my boyhood hero Edward Abbey did in the conclusion of his essay "The Right To Arms":

If guns are outlawed, only the government will have guns. Only the police, the secret police, the military. The hired servants of our rulers. Only the government--and a few outlaws. I intend to be among the outlaws.

I assure you, Obama will not revoke your 2nd Amendment rights. He [and I] will protect your right to target shoot for fun [an Olympic sport by the way], to sustain your family hunting wild game, and to guard your home against invasion by the criminal or the tyrant. And this sermonizer also prophesies that, given 8 years, Barack Hussein Obama will single-handedly inspire monumental reductions in inner-city gun violence in America. You don't have to believe me. Just watch and be willing to admit it when it happens. And quit fighting over the 2nd Amendment, the flippin' BILL OF RIGHTS! Gah!!!

Dad and I are going to a gun and knife show today at the fairgrounds. Maybe trade up on a nice, new piece. So shoot me.

--MJF

Rock Creek Trout

I am wary of Winter's gray song.  I don't like to stay inside.  I pull on layers and position the gear in the bed of the truck.  Drive to Rock Creek and suit up: neoprene waders, fleece toboggan, nail-knot multi-tool, fly rod, 2 flies, creel.  In that order.  Stalk the creek through the riparian thicket. Crouch and observe the activity; tie two on about a foot apart with the brown sow bug trailing the bead-headed, gray sow bug.  Call it the best of both worlds.  Roll cast; dead drift; swing; repeat.  The air must be slush.  It should be snowing, rather the flakes are suspended, invisible.  Have to adjust for that, a little more oomph.  Water congeals on the line as I strip it; freezes and clogs the guides.  One more cast before I must retreat to the covert and break the ice.  Roll cast; mend; dead drift; swing; repeat.  Her silver belly rolls out of the water, lets slip her girth as she takes the gray one, flexes the tip, and snap.  She bites it off cleanly and leaps away through the slush.

The Arkansas Game and Fish Commission's Trout Stocking--Family and Community Fishing Program is a valuable allocation of our public funds.  They stock municipal waters with thousands of farm-raised trout throughout the winter months to stir an outdoor lover's coals during the gelid hours.  Take advantage of it sometime.  

--MJF

Once a Pound a Time,

A student of mine started a story with this phrase.  She's 18.  I cannot decide how I'm going to break the news to her.  I was mad at age 3 or 4 when Mom and Dad told me that nayonnaise is really mayonnaise. (So I just ate twice as much!)  

I wonder how much of what I know and understand began with once upon a time? 

--MJF

Old School

Dads can be wise guys.  Mine is a big man, raucous and strident.  Still, most everyone loves him; he's fiery, spirited, joyous, loyal and unselfish. He possesses a flat-0ut cavernous cache of quips and corn-beams for a situation.  Now, I catch myself  dropping the old jokes.  Remind myself they're not my lines. 

A life-long friend popped down on a cross-country trek with his sweet dog, Haley.  We had a great time visiting over Vino's Pinnacle IPA and pizza.  I guided a tour of LR, and then we sat up with H past midnight catching up on everything.  Talked over the Charlie Brown Christmas album.  After college we had lost touch but about five years ago, reconnected and have seen each other almost twice a year since.  Between visits we don't talk on the phone, don't email. There is the occasional joke-text and reply, but that's it.  This time, a conversation topic was the nature of our friendship.  We tried to define it, not too hard understand.  We were too busy chuckling.  Haley, his sweet, road-weary dog fell asleep on the couch between H and me with her head in my lap.

When he was leaving this morning over scrambled eggs, toast, O.J. and coffee, I hugged him and said, "Man, come back sometime when you can't stay so long." 

Merry Christmas Skidz.   Thanks for the visit,

MJF      

Dad tried to tell me

"Pound for pound babies, you know mobile babies and toddlers, pound fer pound are the best athletes in the world."  

I had no idea.

--MJF

These are a few of my favorite things

from The Old Man and the Sea

by Ernest Hemingway

"Your stew is excellent," the old man said.

"Tell me about baseball," the boy asked him.

"In the American League it is the Yankees as I said," the old man said happily.

"They lost today," the boy told him.

"That means nothing, the great DiMaggio is himself again."

"They have other men on the team."

"Naturally. But he makes the difference.  In the other league, between Brooklyn and Philadelphia I must take Brooklyn.  But then I think of Dick Sisler and those great drives in the old park."

"There was nothing ever like them.  He hits the longest ball I have ever seen."

"Do you remember when he used to come to the Terrace?"

"I wanted to take him fishing but I was too timid to ask him.  Then I asked you to ask him and you were too timid."

"I know.  It was a great mistake.  He might have gone with us.  Then we would have that for all our lives.

"I would like to take the great DiMaggio fishing," the old man said.  "They say his father was a fisherman.  Maybe he was as poor as we are and would understand."

"The great Sisler's father was never poor and he, the father, was playing in the Big Leagues when he was my age."

"When I was your age I was before the mast on a square rigged ship that ran to Africa and I have seen the lions on the beaches in the evening."

"I know.  You told me."

"Should we talk about Africa or about baseball?"

"Baseball I think," the boy said.  "Tell me about the great John J. McGraw."  He said jota for J.

"He used to come to the Terrace sometimes too in the older days.  But he was rough and harsh-spoken and difficult when he was drinking.  His mind was on horses as well as baseball. At least he carried lists of horses at all times in his pocket and frequently spoke the names of horses on the telephone."

"He was a great manager," the boy said.  "My father thinks he was the greatest."

"Because he came here the most times," the old man said.  "If Durocher had continued to come here each year, your father would think him the greatest manager."

"Who is the greatest manager, really, Luque or Mike Gonzalez?"

"I think they are equal."

"And the best fisherman is you."

"No.  I know others better."

--MJF

Destiny's Bike

The other day in 2B during the evocation of Urania in "The Fall of Satan" from Paradise Lost [that is, the very-opening-lines], Teara asked if she were to pick a kid off the Angel Tree in the mall and put it up on my board would I take donations.  There was an immediate and overwhelming sense of urgency to do it, and I said of course so she chose 8 year old Destiny's angel and brought her back to class the next time we met. Destiny told Santa that she wants a bike and socks. Last week Teara's class [many of which need an Angel Tree] raised about $100 cash and brought dresses and  High School Musical trading cards and bracelets and teddy bears and bags of hot fries and candy and underwear and socks and tried to bring make-up but I said no on that, and they piled it all up at the front of my room.  My A day classes [Advanced Placement] were so moved that they had to get in on the fun too.  They grabbed 7 year-old Shanta and raised $200 in one day.  They were kind of late getting around to it.  Used it to buy her a karaoke machine and $50 in instrumental soundtracks of everything from "Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It)" to "Somewhere Over the Rainbow."  Finally, this afternoon, my Creative Writing class spread the loot out all over the room and composed 8 year old girl stories for the girls' stockings about a character named Destiny and a character named Shanta and about all of their adventures in biking and singing in new, stylish clothes and jewelry that Santa had left for them on Christmas morning.

 It has been my experience that the best teaching moments are stumbled-upon, not planned, and they usually happen when the kids are behaving as if I do not exist.  And it is usually unclear as to whether I'm the one doing the teaching or the learning.  

Teara instructed me to deliver Destiny's bike to the drop off center by Tuesday evening, 6 o'clock.  "It's the only thing you have to do Mr. F.  Don't be late."    

--MJF

Ain't Nothing But A G Thang, Baby

So a couple of people have already responded with horror at the thought of this situation.  I should probably make a couple of clarifications:

1) I want this blog to reflect my thoughts and attitudes towards parenting, teaching, life, art, nature, politics, etc.

2) I write fiction sometimes.

Whether this is a true story or not doesn't change the fact that if someone were to report a situation like Big G's to the authorities, and the appropriate authorities actually were to do some concrete thing about it (which would be very unlikely by my experience) if someone were to do that something very bad would happen to him.  

So now tell me what to do.

--MJF

That's What's Up, G.

A kid I know  sells bricks.  He's a bona fide hustla.  Says with a smile, "pimpin' ain't dead; ho's just scared."  On the first day of school, he walked in 15 minutes late, walked across the room in front of me and looked down on Marcell who grabbed his stuff up and moved to another desk.  I kept teaching, and he's since decided I'm cool enough to speak with bluntly about his daily business affairs, petty crimes as a ranking member of The Bloods street gang in Little Rock.  He's 18 and Blood is in his blood; he's a legacy.  For his initiation 10 or so half-brothers, cousins, and homeboys jumped him and beat the fire out of him.  He knocked four cold before they really got into him.  It's on YouTube.  Dad's in the video too, but he didn't know it at the time.  Now he does.  This kid is getting up in the ranks now by what some kids say.  He's almost earning as many biosurvival tickets as I am.  He drives a nicer car than I do.  He doesn't sell crack or sherm, "only weed Mr. F."

Gang activity has been swelling here for the last 10 years, my whole career, 80% of which has passed during the current, lame duck, administration.  So here's my question:  how and when does Change reach Big G?  Cause right now here in a bit if something doesn't Change, he's headed to jail for 8 or 30 years where he'll re-evaluate his life and come out wanting to do right but won't be able to find someone to give him a chance he can believe in.  So he'll know, "Dad will."  He says he's listening to me, but the best advice for a change that I've summoned up is, "try and be cool and level-headed and save up 30 or 5oGs to disappear with this June after I help you graduate."  He ain't goin' to college.

--MJF