The Old Man and the Bay: August 2011

Day One (morning): I knew if I were going to land Ol' Charley, the monster of Choctawhatchee Bay, I'd have to start early. Ol' Charley doesn't tolerate dawdling and many an eager Panhandle fisherman has gone home disappointed and broken because he got a late start. The alarm went off at 4:30 am but it was unnecessary. I had already gotten up to check my gear. It is well known in these parts that Ol' Charley looks askance at the slovenly handling of gear. First I inspected the rod. What a graphite beauty! Brand spanking new from Walmart.Thick at one end and thin at the other, just like I wanted it, with little eyelets all lined up perfectly. Then the all-important reel, my beautiful mechanical advantage over this creature. Really, when you think about it, the reel is my ONLY advantage over this magnificent beast. He swims much better than I do. His dental work is better. He can change direction in an instant. I usually have to watch "Meet the Press" to do that. Truth be told, most people would say he smells better.

But he has no reel. And if he did, what would he do with it?

Nothin', that's what!

Whereas, I have this little Daiwa beauty that goes in two directions, out and in. Granted, sometimes when I want the line to go out, it ends up in a horribly tangled mess at my feet, forcing me to call off that day's adventure and spend the rest of the night with a magnifying glass, a crochet needle, and good pair of scissors.

Day One (evening): I put down the magnifying glass and grabbed the crochet needle.

"What are you going to do with that, Captain Ahab, harpoon the poor thing?"

Some questions don't deserve a response. I blithely ignored Kate and simply went about my business untangling the four or five hundred yards of monofilament that lay in a bizarre mess on the living room floor like a gigantic plate of angel hair pasta. During this procedure I managed to "catch" Coco, the neurotic Shih Tzu, a lamp, and my latest edition of Field and Stream. Not a bad haul, but not what I was looking for.

Kate headed off to bed thankful she too hadn't been hooked, and I continued getting most of my line back on the reel.

As I brushed my teeth and practiced my casting, I couldn't help think that the next day Ol' Charley and I would finally be face to face...and I would be the more disgusted one (by a little).

Day Two (morning): My day of destiny began with the perfect fisherman's breakfast: strong coffee, a burnt bagel and some cod liver oil. I needed the scent of my prey on my fingertips. Surprisingly, Ol' Charley is alleged to smell like burnt bagel (poppy seed) and not cod so I probably could have eliminated the cod liver oil. But I was into it, know what I mean?

As I negotiated the five minute walk from our new rented home to the bay, I began happily whistling the "Andy Griffith Show" theme song. Would this day end with my strutting around like a triumphant Sheriff Taylor or would I feel closer to sad sack Deputy Barney Fife? To tell you the truth I've always felt a little something for Aunt Bea, but that's neither here nor there.

I couldn't have been more confident. After all, this wasn't my first rodeo, as they say. I took up fishing back in my teens. Armed with only a rickety dropline, a bag of sea worms, and a hard salami sandwich from the G and G Delicatessen, I used to bravely navigate the waters of Quincy Bay with several other Aardvarks from the YMHA-Hecht House in a rented boat from Hurley's Marina in Hough's Neck. Five or six of us outdoorsmen would take up space in the sleek craft, nicely equipped with a 15 horsepower Evinrude. Rough seas, numerous equipment issues, and hooks stuck in one's fellow fishermen as opposed to actual fish were just some of the problems we had to learn to overcome. Another problem many of us had was a strong aversion to the taste of fish; however, this hardly ever posed any difficulty since the only way many of us could actually catch anything was to have the fish place themselves on the hooks and, as we all know, fish have no hands.

Adding to the problems on these fishing expeditions were the aforementioned hard salami sandwiches from the G and G Delicatessen. Under normal circumstances these beautiful, hand-crafted extravaganzas would be considered works of art; however, when combined with the inevitable motion of the boat and the smell of sliced sea worms...well, let's just say that when our boat was a-rockin', you definitely didn't want to come a-knockin'!

Admittedly, there has been about a 50-year gap between fishing experiences for me. I think it was probably that last hard salami sandwich fiasco that contributed to this hiatus, but, now, as George Costanza would say, "I'm back, baby!"

As I carefully tied on my special lure, a thing of beauty which closely resembled Warren G. Harding if he were a minnow, I must admit I felt a tiny droplet of remorse. After all, this could well be Ol' Charley's last day in the Bay. After today, he will undoubtedly spend eternity stuffed and mounted above our new fireplace. No longer would he frolic in the depths of Choctawhatchee Bay. No longer would he lord it over all the other creatures living in the bay and most of the creatures floating in boats above it.

The end of an era and I would be the one responsible. It kind of made me feel a little like Curt Schilling, if you know what I mean.

I carefully surveyed the watery tableau before me. My eyes had been trained to interpret every ripple or disturbance on the surface. Ol' Charley had no chance against my knowledge and cunning.

(Full disclosure: I wouldn't know the meaning of a ripple or disturbance if Moby Dick himself were surfacing...I just like the way that previous paragraph sounded...and now back to our true story)

I determined that a cast of about 60-63 feet to a point sou'/sou'west would do the trick. Using all my skill I whipped the rod back and forward and cast my lure exactly where I had determined Ol' Charley to be.

(Full disclosure: If I could cast this stupid thing within a half-mile of my intended target, it would be some kind of fishing miracle, worthy of the New Testament!)

Anyway, I knew it was just a matter of time. My fingers were on alert. Like 10 tiny seismographs, they have been trained to detect the slightest tremble.

(I'd do that full disclosure thing again, but I assume you're tired of it.)

Charlie hit that Warren G. Harding lure with all the force of an early Mike Tyson uppercut. It was all I could do to hang on to the rod. Believe me, I had no intention of letting my entire $21.96 investment get swallowed up beneath the waters of Choctawhatchee Bay. As I struggled to get control, I remembered Hemingway's timeless story of Santiago and his fish. Was I worthy of this fish? Have I honed my skills to a razor sharp edge? Do we have enough milk at home? Why am I having so much trouble sinking 4-foot putts? How funny is Louis C.K.? What's my favorite stringed instrument?

These and other questions too numerous to mention swam around my head as I struggled with Ol' Charley. Daylight faded into twilight and still our dance of death continued.

"It's you or me, Charley," I thought, "and I'm here to tell you that I intend to fish here for many more years or at least until this lease is up, so I guess that means it's you."

And just like that it was over. Don't blame Charley. He knew his match and he had too much dignity to try and escape. He faced his responsibilities like a man...er...fish, and I shall never forget him.

Let the photo of me and Ol' Charley serve as a testament to what a man can do if he has enough resolve and determination.

Or, you could use this blog to wrap fish in.

Ain't life grand?
J

43 Years Ago Today: August 2011

Ada and I were married exactly 43 years ago today. I felt like writing a little about that day and the 43 years that have followed in the blink of an eye, so with your kind indulgence...

August 25, 1968...Temple Emmanu-El, Marblehead, Massachusetts. It was the hottest day in recorded history. Anywhere. The temperatures topped off at 296 degrees as I remember. If there were any air conditioning at the Temple, I sure don't recall. At the last minute we changed our vows and inserted: "...in sickness and in health, whatever the heat index happens to be..."

Not to be gross but I clearly remember sweating right through my rented tuxedo during the reception. Yes, I was some catch. Ada, of course, was quite beautiful and unflappable. She was determined to have an enjoyable and fun wedding, whatever the weather. Ada was the opposite of a Bridezilla.

It's weird but I don't remember too many details from that day other than the general impression that we all had a good time despite the heat. There were no dramatic or embarrassing incidents to be relived through the years; just a lot of good friends and relatives who were all quite comfortable with this very expected union and were free from any stress over what might transpire at the wedding. Ada and I had been going out quite steadily since we were 15, so there were no real surprises here.

We had been thoroughly vetted, as they say these days.

Our honeymoon was, shall we say, less than extravagant. After the reception, we hopped into our 1968 Rambler American Coupe (similar to the one pictured above, but dark green in color) and headed north to New Brunswick and Nova Scotia. We boarded the ferry (I can't remember if it was Portland or Bar Harbor) and made our way to Canada for the next week or so. Mostly we just rode around enjoying the rocky coastline. It's hard for me to imagine now, but I don't believe we had any kind of itinerary. We just winged it in our hot little Rambler.

With the advantage of hindsight, I can see now how this honeymoon kind of symbolized much of our wonderful life together. There was absolutely nothing glamorous about it or about us. Every place we visited was grounded in reality: farms, lobster pounds, rocky coves, fishing villages. These were hardly all-inclusive resorts, but, then again, we weren't the all-inclusive type. (Seinfeld aficionados, please insert: "Not that there's anything wrong with that!") We were 21-years-old, quite unsophisticated, the opposite of worldly. The Maritimes were about as exotic as we could muster at the time. It would be much later before we would venture out "deeper in the pool" to fairytale places like England, Aruba, or Cohasset.

When we returned from our honeymoon, we set up our first apartment, in the Montclair section of Quincy, MA. It was a miserable, tiny place with a weird layout. I chose it because it only cost $100 a month. Like I said before, I was some catch! If Ada was disappointed in it, she never let on. Eventually, we left there for a nicer place in Waltham after the landlord became angry over our attempt to bring in a dog. Ada would soon begin her teaching career in Newton while I was working as a reporter for the Quincy Patriot Ledger. As I think about it, we must have shared the one car for both jobs. I was on the 4 to midnight shift, so I must have waited for Ada to return from school before I could get to work. Our first salaries were in the $5,000-$6,000 range, but with both of us working, we did fine other than the fact that we hardly saw each other most days. I'm sure that not having me around only increased our chances for a happy marriage.

We lived within our means. That was our style. Our cars, clothes, houses, vacations, and entertainments were always sensible. I don't ever remember making a conscious decision to live this way; it was just what both of us were comfortable with. We put up with a little personal discomfort rather than spend "wastefully." I guess we both felt that we were all meant to "suffer" a little; it built character. One way in which this attitude manifested itself was in the notion of never, ever, ever paying to park in Boston. If we had to walk 10 miles to get to the ballgame/movie/concert, so be it. Paying to park was an example of the kind of "luxury" we chose not to indulge in. Also, we never had a home with any kind of air conditioning. It was better to suffer ten or twenty nights a year than to give in to this indulgence, we thought.

We didn't consider ourselves heroic or particularly strong-willed and we certainly didn't mind what other people did. (Actually we tried to cultivate as many "air-conditioned friendships" as we could because our freakin' house was completely unbearable!)

Did we "miss out" on some enjoyable adventures and opportunities during those early married days? Of course. Did we mind? Not really. It's all about finding out what lifestyle makes you comfortable and being happy with that. I think by and large, we succeeded. When the boys came along, we were able to raise them comfortably if not extravagantly. I don't think Josh or Matt would say they felt deprived in any way.

Of course as the years wore on and we both kept working, we found that we could comfortably afford more so-called luxury items. At one point, I even consented to buy sunglasses. That was a big step for me, friends.

During our nine wonderful retirement years together, we certainly didn't hold back. Thankfully, and owing to our earlier fiscal conservatism, we didn't have to.

Tomorrow will be August 26th and I will stop wallowing in the past and will look forward to Kate's return from Jacksonville and our October move about ten miles from here to a lovely rented house right near Choctawhatchee Bay in Santa Rosa Beach.

But today was made for memories.

Ain't life grand?
J

A Vote for Mediocrity: August 2011

I would like to take this opportunity to announce my candidacy for the office of President of Most of the United States.

I haven't completely figured out which states I won't be President of should you honor me with a victory, but when I know, you'll know. That's a promise.

Oh heck, I can't stand the suspense any more than you can. Here are some of the ones that are going to be allowed in my new Republic and the reasons why:

Massachusetts: I know my way around and I speak the local dialect.
New Hampshire: No sales tax...people like that.
Pennsylvania: I know how it got its name and I love the Pirates' uniforms.
Rhode Island: Such a little cutie; low maintenance.
South Carolina: Great golf.
Maine: Lots of storage space; the whole top half is like a giant walk-in closet.
Minnesota and Louisiana: I haven't decided about the middle of the Mississippi River, but I want the top and bottom of it.
Colorado: I need at least one square one.
New Mexico: Plenty of parking.

Here are some of the ones I don't want in my Union:

Vermont: Too pretentious and a bit of a bully to New Hampshire.
Connecticut: Too hard to spell and can't seem to make up its mind between the Yankees and Red Sox.
New York: This is fun.
North Carolina and North Dakota: Sorry, but I don't want any Norths. I know it's a bit arbitrary, but sometimes you have to keep the citizenry guessing.
Texas: Their governor has said he might secede anyway; this way it's my decision.

Wow! It just occurred to me that doing it this way, I probably only need about 50 electoral votes to win. Jump on board, people, 'cause this train can't be stopped.

As far as my qualifications go, I have a long and illustrious history of public service. I was elected to the Boston Latin School Class Committee in 1963-64. To this day I have absolutely no idea what the purpose of the Class Committee was, but I served out my entire term which is more than some people can say. I was elected treasurer of the YMHA-Hecht House Aardvarks in 1963 which necessitated my keeping track of all the dues that people claimed they couldn't pay at each weekly meeting. I was also responsible for determining what we would have spent the dues on had I been able to collect any. Come to think of it, this makes the recent round of crazy deficit negotiations seem sensible. As an undergrad at Temple University in Philadelphia, I served as a floor leader in the Johnson Hall men's dormitory. Some of my responsibilities were cleaning up vomit and making sure no one had sex. The two jobs seemed to go hand in hand, although I'm pretty sure Kenny Rosenthal was able to...never mind, we'll just call that Executive Privilege. In my 31 years as an educator in Hingham, MA, I served on numerous committees. Sometimes I even went to the meetings. At Eastman in New Hampshire, I was the Tournament Chairman of the Golf Committee for three years and never managed to win a golf tournament. This speaks both to my sense of fairness and my lack of golfing ability.

I could go on and on, but I think it's best to let the rigors of the campaign reveal my true nature. Speaking of the campaign, I'm sure some of you are eager to volunteer in this grass roots effort or, more importantly, contribute cash to this historic movement. I'm not going to lie to you (yet!). We're strapped for dough, so strapped I had to let my campaign director go. It was both a financial and a philosophical decision. This guy wanted me to attack my opponents personally, focusing on old acne scars and remnants of lisps. I preferred to make this campaign about the important issues of the day like “Is Islam contagious?” and “Is there such a thing as too much caliber?”

There are some who have said that my religion might make me unelectable. After all we haven't had a Jewish president or even a nominee, although many people would be surprised to know that Dan Quayle originally spelled his name Kvell. (You'll just have to ask someone if you don't understand!) To put everyone at ease, I've decided to kick off my campaign with a giant prayer meeting at Dorchester's Franklin Field. The evening will feature some of the most inspiring prayers ever heard including “Would it have killed you to have made Israel bigger?” and “Hey, Noah, let's open a window and let the mosquitoes out, waddaya say?”

Finally, there is the question of party affiliation. To be honest, I haven't exactly been thrilled with any of the usual suspects and I may have to start my own. I'm toying with the name “Dependent” Party. It's kind of like an Independent Party with bladder problems.

Our motto could be “We're Number One!”

Sorry,

Ain't life grand?
J