AN IDIOT GOES FISHING

I am a perfect idiot: the Utopian Period; I catch the fish of my life, and risk my life taking Max fishing; My trusty flip phone gives its life for a worthy cause; I antagonize everyone who has called me in the past four year, and life returns to normal.

It was one of those times when everything was going well.  Yes, Dear Reader, they do happen, but only rarely and they don’t last.

On several occasions, complete strangers came up to me and asked if I used to be the “Forestry Man” in Kemper County or If  I was the man who used to work for the Forestry Commission. When I replied affirmatively, they would tell me that they remembered when I did programs for their fifth grade class, coached them on the FFA Forestry Judging Team, helped their parents plant trees, etc., and this was more than thirty years ago! I ran into some old friends from DeKalb that I had not seen in years.  They told me that I had not changed a bit, and I lied right back and said that neither had they. The editor of “Tree Talk, the magazine of the Mississippi Forestry Association, sent me the draft of an article they are writing about me, and it was actually complimentary! 

The storms and flooding that hit much of Mississippi missed my area, but we had plenty of rain with a few dry days between so I could get my garden planted and everything popped right up. My wife’s flower beds are  beautiful; the mechanic found the problem with my car and fixed it for only $150, and the owner of the huge oak tree that fell on my shop two weeks ago is making arrangements to move it, and promised me I could have it for firewood – for free!

In between the rainy and cool spells, the fish have begun biting in my little pond.  One day, in about  two hours, I caught eight bass, ranging from an “optimist” (the fish was only slight bigger than the lure) to some of nice filleting size.  A day or so later, I caught one of my biggest bass ever – I did not have a scale, but probably about six pounds – and a couple of days later a four-pounder!

  Casey hit a grand-slam homer in the bottom of the ninth and won the game for the Muddville nine, Dorothy clicked her hills and woke up in Kansas, and Lassie saved Timmy from the well once again, and I was drinking that free bubble-up and eating sunshine stew!

I thought, this is too good to be true; it can’t last!  It didn’t.

Now, let me pause to explain my family’s usual week-end arrangements:  My younger daughter, Heather, lives across town.  She is one of the assistants to the Chief of the Mississippi Band of Choctaw Indians, a job that requires her to be out of town on overnight trips occasionally.  If it is on a weekend and nearby (she goes to Memphis often), she takes her husband and son with her. My older daughter, Laura, lives in the little town of Collinsville, 23 miles south of Philadelphia.  Her husband, Luke, is a tow-boat captain, so he in on “the river” for a month at a time.  Since we bought “The Cabin,” Laura her son, Max, and my wife, Paula, often spend the weekend there, and I stay at home because everyone trying to get ready for church on Sunday morning would be a hassle.  Laura and Paula teach a children’s Sunday school class, and I teach an older-adults class, so they can plan their activities, and I can have peace and quiet to prepare my lesson. 

That is what we did this past weekend – the one that brought the time-when-everything-went-well to a screeching halt. Saturday afternoon, Max wanted me to taking him fishing in the paddle boat.  We had had a cool snap, and I knew they would not bite.  I checked them out by throwing some fish food from the pier to see if the hoard of little bream that live there would feed.  Nothing – just a few half-heartedly came up to investigate.  Max kept on nagging until I relented. 

Now, folks, you need to understand Max to appreciate the following:  He does things HIS way – not necessarily the customary, sane or safe way.  For some unexplainable reason, before casting he gives his rod tip a little flip, kind of like a golfer wagging his club before hitting a drive, which results in a lure with exposed hooks entangling the line or snagging the eye on the end of the rod.  His casting is about as accurate as my golf-ball hitting:  The lure goes straight up, hits the water about six-feet in front of the boat or, most often, lands in a tree about eight feet inland.  He likes to cast with about six feet of line hanging from the rod.  Having a lure with three sets of exposed treble hooks whiz, uncontrolled, past your ear is quite discomforting. 

Usually, I tie on a rubber worm with the hook reversed and the barb stuck in the worm (for your non-fishers there, when a bass hits it, the fisherman jerks suddenly, which forces the hook on through the worm and sets it into the fish’s mouth.  It works – trust me. It is a lot safer.) 

On these excursions, I don’t fish.  I paddle the boat and get Max’s lure out of the trees.

Since I had caught these two big bass on a “Rapala” lure, which has three sets of exposed treble hooks, I thought this might be the best choice, so against my better judgement, I tied one on and gave Max a stern warning about flipping the end of his rod and casting with several feet of line dangling behind.  I really want to keep my ears.

I got into the little paddle boat, untied it from the pier, but held it steady with one hand to aid Max in getting aboard.  He had a sudden bathroom urge and ran back to the cabin. I waited a while for him to return (Darn, I thought, I’ll bet his is sitting on the John playing a video game again) I forgot that I had untied the boat and turned loose of the pier, with my back to it. As I sat there, my back began to tire, so I leaned back against the pier for support.  The boat had drifted away and the pier wasn’t there, so I tumbled backwards into the waist-deep water.  Fortunately, I had left my wallet in the cabin, but my cell phone was in a holster on my belt.  It got soaked.

I went to the cabin, changed into dry clothes, set my phone out to dry, got Max off the pot, took away his video game and told him to get his tail in the boat because he had insisted on fishing, and by golly, he was going to fish!

I spent the next hour dodging hooks and removing lures from trees.  We did not catch any fish.

We ate supper at the cabin and played cards.  It was late when I got home.  I reclined in my “Lazy Boy” to watch a bit of TV and, as usual, went to sleep.  I awoke about mid-night, and decided it was time to go to bed, but first I need a bath.  I undressed, putting my soaked phone on the bedroom dresser, got into a tub of nice hot water, laid back and was enjoying a good snooze (Paula says I am going to drown some day) when the phone rang. Since it had rung several times before I was fully awake, I knew I had to get to it quickly.  A phone call after midnight is seldom good news.  I jumped out of the tub without drying off, ran into the bedroom and answered the phone.  There was no reply, but the “Minutes Talked” counter was running, as if I was engaged in conversation.  The “Calls Received” log indicated the call was from Paula.  I returned her call.  It rang a couple of times then stopped.  No one answered, but the “Minutes Talked” counter continued to run.  I hung up, took the phone into the bathroom and got back into the tub. Just as I began to relax, I got a text message.  It was from Paula, asking if everything was all right, that I had called her, but did not reply when she answered, so she called me and just heard static when her phone stopped ringing.  We decided the dunking had caused my phone to malfunction.

It was nearly one o’clock by the time I got out of the tub, mopped the wet floor and got into bed. I was sleeping soundly when I was awakened by a strange mumbling sound coming from my bathroom.  I went to investigate and determined that it was coming from my phone.  I opened the cover of my old-fashioned flip-phone and saw this message on the screen: “Speak your Command.” I did not even know my phone had this feature.  I hit the “Off” button and the phone dialed Paula’s number.  Evidently she answered, because the “Minutes Talked” counter started running.  The phone hung up and dialed Heather’s cell phone number; the counter ran for a few minutes and the phone called another number.  I hit the “Off button” and the phone began its power-down sequence, but came right back on and dialed another number.  After several numbers were called, I realized what was happening – it was going through my “Calls Received” list and returning all the calls!  And I could not turn it off!  I finally removed the battery.

Heather was alarmed, thinking something was wrong, so she called her mother, who had just gone back to sleep.  Everyone was bleary-eyed and cross all day Sunday from loss of sleep, It has rained steadily ever since and my garden flooded and everything died, the fish have stopped biting, and one erstwhile friend after another has called, giving me a good cussing for prank calling them at 2:00 a.m. Sunday morning. 

My life is back to normal.