Hi all, and welcome back. Like I’m the Big Cheese Greeter around here, or something. But it’s always good to see you. And it’s always good to be seen.
I was thinking this weekend, so that’s what the smell was. Don’t worry, it’ll clear out soon. I have the windows open. I was thinking of my Special Friends. I have two now. My first Special Friend is Snickers. You can tell she’s my Special Friend because I always use my special nickname for her. It shows I care. I also use a special nickname for Puddin’ too. So I guess she’s my Special Friend too. I have a new Special Friend now. Just this weekend scout1222 became my Special Friend. So I have three Special Friends. And they’re all chicks. Ain’t life cool?
I think I have a bunch of pals around here. Jester’s my pal. And so is Astroboy, even though I kid him. A lot. ShibbOleth, and Spritle, and Carina, and deepbluesea, and Ice Wolf. They’re all my pals. At least I hope so. And BunnyGirl and thinksnow too. And Mangetout and Bumbazine and SexyWriter and xizor and Bad News Baboon, and Another Primate. (Even if I haven’t seen Sexy and deep in a while.) Lots and lots of pals. (If I missed anyone, let me know. I’ll make a public announcement of our pal-ness.) You can never have too many pals.
My old pal Esterhazy William was back in town. That reminded me of the time he took me fishing. It was a great day. We got up at the crack of Oh-My-God-It’s-Still-The-Middle-Of-The-Freaking-Night. The traditonal time to leave to go fishing.
He rolls into my driveway and beeps his horn. Only horns don’t go “beep beep”. Some go kinda “wheenk wheenk”, but not really “beep”. Esterhazy’s honk went “WHIONK! WHIONK!”. Not something you want to hear in the middle of the freaking night. But off I go.
I’d like to say we went fishing in a pristine mountain stream. I live in Ohio. No mountains. The highest point in the county is the landfill. When the landfill becomes the highest point, does that mean it’s a landfull? No mountain stream, but we went to a lake. Far away from the landfill.
“Yer ever climb a mountain?” That Esterhazy, you never know what he’s going to say next. Actually, he doesn’t say much at all. You could call him phlegmatic, taciturn or laconic. You could, but I don’t recomend it. It might cheese him off. He’s a Rodeo Clown, remember? He’s got a ton of pissed cow trying to stomp him. That’s what he does. He doesn’t have a lot of time for metaphors and florid words. He might think you’re making fun of him. “Never make fun of a Rodeo Clown.” I try to live by that credo. And never call him “bifurcated”. While technically accurate, it’s sure to put you in a World of Hurt. Now you know. You could call him dyspeptic if you want. He’d go with that. He only drinks Coke.
What’s climbing mountains have to do with fishing? Well, appearantly there’s the guy in the lead, and then there’s the Sherpas. Esterhazy lead, I sherped. He was Juan Valdez to my Pepe the Burro. A big tackle box, that seemed normal enough, but what’s this big wad of rubber? It had me uneasy. A leaf rake? Bike pump? The cooler needed no explaination. Never fish sober, someone will die. I sherped it all.
When we got to the Secret Fishin’ Hole, (which looked like any other part of the stinkin’ lake) we (that would be “me”) got to work. The wad of rubber were three truck inner tubes. Which would also explain the bike pump. A little duct tape and we had a boat. Of sorts. Esterhazy got the right tube (or “starboard”), I got the left (or “the other one on the end”), the cooler and the tacklebox were in the middle (or “tweenus”). We kicked and paddled this “boat” out into the lake. “Where’s our poles?” I asked, innocently.
“Huh?”
“Fishin’ poles?”
“Huh?”
“For catching fish? Fishing poles? Where are they?”
“Oh them. Don’t use 'em. We gotta rake.”
“We’re just going to rake fish out of the water? Just like that?”
“Kinda.”
“Oh.”
“Here. Ya need one-a these.”
“What? What’s that that I need?”
“Cigar.”
“For fishing?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.”
Esterhazy gave me a big ol’ green cigar. I stuck it in my mouth and felt like Clint Eastwood. Then I lit it. I felt like Clint Eastwood about to chunder in the lake.
“Mebbe you should just use the lighter.” That Esterhazy, always looking out for me.
“Why are we fishing with a lighter and a leaf rake?”
He opened the tacklebox for me.
“Oh.” I had nothing more to say. You know when people say “Tacklebox”? What do you think of? Lures and hooks and line and stuff? Yeah, me too. I don’t think, automatically, of, say… DYNAMITE! Good thing we had that cooler.
Esterhazy took a stick of dynamite and lit it off his cigar. He watched the wick burn down, might I say, a real long time. When he tossed it out into the lake… KA-BOOOOM! The water gysered up and splashed back down. Then the fish floated to the surface. We scooped them up with the rake. We got a bucketfull the first go.
“All done.” said Esterhazy.
That was fine with me.
-Rue.
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