Bull Ridin'

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The Boys See the Elephant

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There was an expression in the Old West to describe what it was like for a tenderfoot to come west and see firsthand the grandeur and enormity of the country, and of life in it. He was said to have "seen the elephant." And once you've seen the elephant, well, it puts everything in its proper perspective.

Sunday was warm and beautiful, and the boys were aching to get back to the bass lake. It was business as usual: a little fishing, catching those jewel-like Bluegill that swarm around the dock in clouds...

And a lot of swimming.

Then it happened. They saw the elephant. This guy came in with his buddy and hoisted up a nice bass for all to see. This is the biggest bass the boys have seen taken out of this lake, and it proves that they're in there.

The boys were all eyes. So I'm wondering whether they'll be content after this with those tiny Bluegill, or whether they might get the sudden urge to venture out and find their own elephants. Especially after learning that these guys had caught a mess of little Bluegill, too, which they were going to use that night as bait for catfish that run way bigger than that bass.


Once you've seen the elephant....

Founder's Day Parade, 2011

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I love small town life. It was time again on Saturday for the Founder's Day Parade. I was disappointed that there were no horses in the parade this year, but a fatal horse virus making the rounds dictated that horses be left at home. So the Rodeo Queens rode in trucks. But there were still the marching bands, the tractors (one of which stalled out and had to be hand-cranked back to life), the vintage cars, the kids scrambling for candy, the trick riders on their vintage Harleys, Smokey the Bear, and, of course, the Wild Women, whose motto is "Well-behaved women don't make history." They helped make this parade another one for the history books.

flymage, June 2011

One of the good ones.

flymage

Trout Lake Report: On Trout Time Now

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Lake uncrowded for a Friday evening; higher than ever; channel is windy, fish are down; wind sits down at dusk, a few fish reluctantly get up; lose a fish, catch another in channel on Flashback Hare's Ear; chase rises down the channel into north lake; find several pods feeding eagerly; stay with Hare's Ear, find if can manage to plunk fly right in middle of exploding rises, take is instantaneous; net two more nice fish in short order; pods spread out, catching slows; paddle out thinking it's still early, get home later than ever; on trout time now.

"The Fish," by Mary Oliver

THE FISH

The first fish

I ever caught

would not lie down

quiet in the pail

but flailed and sucked

at the burning

amazement of the air

and died

in the slow pouring off

of rainbows. Later

I opened his body and separated

the flesh from the bones

and ate him. Now the sea

is in me; we are

risen, tangled together, certain to fall

back to the sea. Out of pain,

and pain, and more pain

we feed this feverish plot, we are nourished

by the mystery.

"The Fish," by Mary Oliver, from American Primitive.

Happy Birthday, Walt

Walt Whitman has been a great influence on me, as someone who celebrated life, the joy of simple things, and the value of all living creatures, unflinchingly spoke the truth as he perceived it, and called out the hypocrisy and oppression of societal dogmas. I remember discovering him when I was a young college student in the turbulent late Sixties, and it was like a rope to a drowning man. I have fond memories of reading Leaves of Grass one beautiful Spring, out loud, savoring every word.

Happy birthday, Walt. May there be many more like you.

This text is from the The Writer's Almanac:


It's the birthday of Walt Whitman (books by this author), born in West Hills, Long Island, New York, in 1819. He worked as a printer, and then a journalist. During the 1860s, Whitman worked as a clerk for the government, although he was fired from his job at the Indian Bureau when the director found out he'd written a collection of "indecent" poetry; Leaves of Grasswas published in several editions beginning in 1855, and was controversial for its frank treatment of sex and sexuality.

Whitman loved transportation and transportation workers; he would ride the ferry endlessly, going back and forth for the sheer pleasure of it. In his poem "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry," he wrote:
"Now I am curious what site can ever be more stately and admirable to me than my mast-
hemm'd Manhattan,
My river and sun-set, and my scallop-edg'd waves of flood-tide,
The sea-gulls oscillating their bodies, the hay-boat in the twilight, and the belated lighter."

He enjoyed great camaraderie with the omnibus drivers and conductors, and he'd ride the whole length of their route just for the company. He got in the habit of visiting the Brooklyn Hospital to look in on these friends when they were injured. As the Civil War got under way, he began to see more and more wounded soldiers filling the hospital beds, and he would listen to their stories, write letters for them, and give them gifts and whatever measure of comfort he could offer, "to help cheer and change a little the monotony of their sickness and confinement," he wrote. He became friends with the doctors and even assisted them in surgery from time to time.

In December 1862, his brother George's name appeared in the list of war wounded, and Whitman left New York to journey to Virginia. After a search of 40 hospitals and a trip to Fredericksburg, he found his brother, who had suffered only a mild facial wound. But Whitman couldn't turn away from the horribly maimed soldiers, "a heap of amputated feet, legs, arms, hands, &c., a full load for a one-horse cart," he wrote in his journal, "human fragments, cut, bloody, black and blue, swelled and sickening." He stayed in Washington to help the wounded and dying soldiers, Union and Confederate alike; he wanted to be their arms and legs, often staying late into the night, moving between the rows of cots to offer a comforting touch. "What an attachment grows up between us, started from hospital cots, where pale young faces lie & wounded or sick bodies," he wrote; "The doctors tell me I supply the patients with a medicine which all their drugs & bottles & powders are helpless to yield." Whitman visited tens of thousands of soldiers through the course of the war, and he developed close friendships with several of the men, particularly a young Confederate soldier from Mississippi. He took a job in the Army paymaster's office, and used whatever little money he could spare to buy gifts for the soldiers. He also wrote poetry about the war, but about the after-effects of battles, not the battles themselves. His collection Drum-Taps was published in 1865 and was eventually incorporated into a later edition of Leaves of Grass.

He was in New York, recuperating from exhaustion, when the Confederate Army invaded the capital, and he was there again, visiting his furloughed brother George, when the war ended and Lincoln was assassinated. At his mother's house, he wrote, "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd" for the fallen president:
"Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities,
Amid lanes and through old woods, where lately the violets peep'd from the ground, spotting the gray debris,
Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes, passing the endless grass,
Passing the yellow-spear'd wheat, every grain from its shroud in the dark-brown fields uprisen,
Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards,
Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave,
Night and day journeys a coffin."

The Next Round of Athletic Glory

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No more soccer.

Lidia will probably still mess around with her friends at the soccer field.

But Isaiah is moving on. Summer basketball started last week, and Spring Practice for high school football begins today. Ah, the big time.

He even got a new haircut. He wouldn't have, but he bet with one of the coaches that the Bulls would beat the Heat in the playoffs. He lost, so he had to get himself a mohawk.

He was vigilant,  making sure that Mom didn't get carried away.

Looks good. Bring on the next round of athletic glory.