This is a topic that I'm sure every father either thinks or writes about: the evolution of the time-honored "guys night."
Once upon a time, it was all about spending the night at a buddy's house as we played video games, munched on Doritos, and drowned ourselves in Mountain Dew (because it was cool and it allowed us the normally taboo caffeine high, which exceeded that of normal caffeinated drinks). Later, "guys night" became a gathering at some's apartment as we played darts or pool, noshed on cheese fries, and guzzled beer. Now, "guys night" has become one of my favorite things to do with a pretty cool little dude: we spend the evening playing with mulch or flowers or plant stalks in the flower bed, chowing down on fish sticks, and drinking Diet Mountain Dew (me) and milk (Brody).
My, how things have changed!
"Guys night" has gone from involving good buddies, "bestest" friends, drinking buddies, and "bros" to my best little buddy, Brody.
Tonight, Emily is enjoying a much-deserved evening out with a good friend, and I'm pretty well entertained just watching as Brody stomps around making myriad odd noises. Every note from his mouth is full of glee, but from time to time these noises have a trace of frustration, most likely due to his inability to grasp the concepts of nature at this point. When he sees Billy the dog pressing his nose against the window, he barks back at him; he doesn't go up to the window and interact, he just goes about his business and utters, "woof-woof-woof." Some of his other noises are nonsense syllables, but my heart melts every time I hear him say "Daddy" or "Dada" and he gives me that adorable toddler's toothy smile -- his mommy's smile.
He busies himself by making scattered piles of mulch, all the while looking back at me, as if he's making sure that I'm as proud of his work as he is. At one point he sets down a large piece of mulch at the top of a pile and looks up to me, squeals from a huge smile and claps his hands. He trots back and forth around the landscaping bricks, playing some new game that only he understands -- and it's only important that he understands it, not that I do. He then starts climbing up the front step only to turn around again and step off because he now knows how to do it without falling down and he wants to show off.
Brody now goes about picking more and more of the stalks from the flowers... Only the green stalks, though, and not the dead ones. I wish he knew the difference so that he could help with the gardening. He casts the stalks down into a new green pile -- he won't mix the green stalks with the brown mulch -- and then stops to stare at it. Maybe he's unhappy with his creation, or maybe he's just having fun being random and chaotic, but he then sweeps his pile with his hands and scatters green and brown all over the gray concrete sidewalk.
He's so full of smiles and giggles that it breaks my heart to take him inside, but it's getting cold and he's refusing to put on his sweatshirt. I ask Brody if he wants to go inside. Nope! What do you want for dinner? Nope! (It wasn't even a question that warranted a "yes" or "no" answer.) Just the same, he only wants to play around outside. He cries and whimpers as I carry him in, but at my mention of Mickey Mouse, he forgets all about his woes. Our biggest concern now is which Mickey Mouse cartoon we'll watch tonight.
Soon, we'll go up to the kitchen to get something "yummy" to eat and then we'll chill in the basement. I'm just amazed at how things have changed so quickly -- how "guys night" has evolved over the years. It certainly wasn't an overnight change, but I wouldn't have it any other way.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Monday, October 18, 2010
Standing in Cold Branson Water
I close my eyes and listen to everything happening around me. The water rushes past and its roar can be heard above all else as it cascades down into the main channel. Because of the higher elevation of Branson, Missouri, my ears are still clogged and popping periodically, so it really is all I can hear. I open my eyes to see that down in the water below, the rainbow trout are swimming all around me no browns are visible, just rainbows. An older man wades into the water a dozen feet from me, but I can't hear his splashing; I only catch the movement out of the corner of my eye. Out here, there's an aroma of purity in the air. There's no stagnation from standing pools, nor is there any trace of dead fish, fish food, or stink bait. Little beads of mist are all around me as I take in great breaths of that fresh air.
The setting seems to be just right. Even though there's a little bit of a crowd and it looks like more will be joining us as the day goes on, I feel great about the upcoming fishing. The atmosphere is perfect, but for some reason I start back up with my fishing doubts.
I think that I have all the necessary gear. I have the waders, the vest, the forceps, the clippers, the fly boxes, the angler's bag, the reel case, the Ketchum release tool, the polarized sun glasses, the net, dry flies, wet flies, terrestrials, etc. Pretty much the only thing I still "need" is a boat of my own. The waders do just fine for now. I'm decked out in all my gear; anything I need is in one of the myriad vest pockets and the rest is stowed in my bag. I look like a pro, like I belong out there, yet I feel slightly off kilter.
Then it dawns on me that I have no clue what I'm doing out there on the water. I feel like it's my first time fly fishing again, waiting for Dr. Gene Decker to walk by and make some recycled joke about my technique. "I've never seen someone catch a fish with their fly in the air like that!" "Are you trying to whip the trout to death?" "There you go, catch some brush on the bank, take it home and eat it while the rest of us catch some fish."
As I glance up and down the channel, I see what looks like scores of veterans, young and old, who appear to know what they're doing. Teenagers and twenty somethings, guys my dad's age and fellows who must have been fly fishing since before my dad was born.
I've got a gray scud tied on, just like Darryl, a family friend, had instructed me. Having just switched from a buckskin worm that had done me no good, I'm feeling even more doubt. I wade out a little bit, creating a new eddy around me the trout are supposed to flock to the new structure in the water wait for a moment, and then back out. I'd been told to dip my line, let it float, keep my sights on the strike indicator, and then set the hook at the slightest disturbance. The only disturbance I feel, however, is my presence in this cluster of easy fishing.
It's such a beautiful scene. Fog covers the river, and mist rises up from the water. In the background all I can hear is the rushing of water as it cascades down into the river.
All it seems I can do is just sit there, pretending to know what the heck is going on and pretending to know what I'm doing. I stop to look out of the corner of my eye and observe the others. There's a little outlet coming from the hatchery into the bigger river, and scores of trout have gathered around the structure. Lots of anglers have gathered there, too. They each have no more than twelve feet of line out, including their leaders, dipping their flies in the water right where outlet meets river. Every once in a while, someone snags a trout, but usually it's nothing worth keeping, though. It looks so easy, like shooting fish in a barrel.
This type of fishing just doesn't seem right to me. It's not that the others are doing anything wrong; it's just not what I think of when I imagine fly fishing! Where is that artful strategy and technique of fly fishing that I've been reading about in books and watching in videos? I'd been hoping to see artists at work with their perfect casts set to tempos in the metronomes of their minds. What I see is too much emphasis on catching. It seems that the day's worth will be measured by how many fish have been duped into taking easy flies, and not on casting, understanding the fish, and careful observation. It's easy pickings for the anglers. They strap on their waders in the parking lot, tromp down to the riverbank, carefully walk in, and go to work. The first few people have scads of luck, but the rest are just standing by, waiting for someone to move on so they can take their shots.
Across the channel, however, I see something that gives me hope, something that redeems the fly fishermen in my mind. It looks like a real fly fisherman out in the waters off an island. I wondered how he got out there on that island with the units running from the dam and the water flowing rapidly. He casts, back casts, shooting the line forward. The current catches his fly as he makes a quick mend. Down the channel it goes. He picks up his line and casts it back up the water. No one is around him no one sight fishing or looking for the easy catch. I watch for five minutes and he's caught nothing. It doesn't matter. He's in the open, he's casting. It's so peaceful that it makes me want to stomp on across the channel and to go out there, too. Forget the current and the depth of the channel I want to be away from the rest of this fishing and to join a true artist.
You have to understand something about me. I've got this natural tendency to glamorize and romanticize things in my life. I wouldn't say it's a problem, but sometimes I build up these prejudices in my mind; prejudices created from reading books and magazines, watching movies, and plain old daydreaming. Because of a lack of exposure to what fly fishing really is, I have all of these fancies flittering about in my head and they are much different from the reality I'm watching in front of me.
So, what is there to do about it? Hopefully I will be able to go back and fish these waters. Someday soon, I hope to make a trip to the wilderness, having to hike miles to a naturally stocked stream, like Ernest Hemingway does in "The Big Two Hearted River" or in The Sun Also Rises.
Maybe someday in the future I'll be able to get out to the Appalachian Trail, to hike it through, like my father has done. I'd carry a box of flies, a rod and reel, and some minor tools on my pack. Each state I entered, I'd be sure to buy a fishing license and whatever tags were required by law. My "trail name" (moniker used while thru hiking to identify who you are) would have something to do with fishing.
I've found that fly fishing brings me peace, isolation, concentration, and repetition many of the same things I love about the sport wrestling. However, it seems that I can gain these things from fishing without the bloodshed, pain, and need for a partner. It's the therapy I sometimes need to help me exorcise ghosts. Could regular fishing provide these things, too? Who knows?
I've been looking forward to this vacation for months now, allowing myself to build up great expectations for lots of good fishing while down in Branson. It dawns upon me later in the trip that it's not the catching of fish that I've been looking forward to; it's the taste of life, the refreshing slice of life that I'll be getting out there.
The setting seems to be just right. Even though there's a little bit of a crowd and it looks like more will be joining us as the day goes on, I feel great about the upcoming fishing. The atmosphere is perfect, but for some reason I start back up with my fishing doubts.
I think that I have all the necessary gear. I have the waders, the vest, the forceps, the clippers, the fly boxes, the angler's bag, the reel case, the Ketchum release tool, the polarized sun glasses, the net, dry flies, wet flies, terrestrials, etc. Pretty much the only thing I still "need" is a boat of my own. The waders do just fine for now. I'm decked out in all my gear; anything I need is in one of the myriad vest pockets and the rest is stowed in my bag. I look like a pro, like I belong out there, yet I feel slightly off kilter.
Then it dawns on me that I have no clue what I'm doing out there on the water. I feel like it's my first time fly fishing again, waiting for Dr. Gene Decker to walk by and make some recycled joke about my technique. "I've never seen someone catch a fish with their fly in the air like that!" "Are you trying to whip the trout to death?" "There you go, catch some brush on the bank, take it home and eat it while the rest of us catch some fish."
As I glance up and down the channel, I see what looks like scores of veterans, young and old, who appear to know what they're doing. Teenagers and twenty somethings, guys my dad's age and fellows who must have been fly fishing since before my dad was born.
I've got a gray scud tied on, just like Darryl, a family friend, had instructed me. Having just switched from a buckskin worm that had done me no good, I'm feeling even more doubt. I wade out a little bit, creating a new eddy around me the trout are supposed to flock to the new structure in the water wait for a moment, and then back out. I'd been told to dip my line, let it float, keep my sights on the strike indicator, and then set the hook at the slightest disturbance. The only disturbance I feel, however, is my presence in this cluster of easy fishing.
It's such a beautiful scene. Fog covers the river, and mist rises up from the water. In the background all I can hear is the rushing of water as it cascades down into the river.
All it seems I can do is just sit there, pretending to know what the heck is going on and pretending to know what I'm doing. I stop to look out of the corner of my eye and observe the others. There's a little outlet coming from the hatchery into the bigger river, and scores of trout have gathered around the structure. Lots of anglers have gathered there, too. They each have no more than twelve feet of line out, including their leaders, dipping their flies in the water right where outlet meets river. Every once in a while, someone snags a trout, but usually it's nothing worth keeping, though. It looks so easy, like shooting fish in a barrel.
This type of fishing just doesn't seem right to me. It's not that the others are doing anything wrong; it's just not what I think of when I imagine fly fishing! Where is that artful strategy and technique of fly fishing that I've been reading about in books and watching in videos? I'd been hoping to see artists at work with their perfect casts set to tempos in the metronomes of their minds. What I see is too much emphasis on catching. It seems that the day's worth will be measured by how many fish have been duped into taking easy flies, and not on casting, understanding the fish, and careful observation. It's easy pickings for the anglers. They strap on their waders in the parking lot, tromp down to the riverbank, carefully walk in, and go to work. The first few people have scads of luck, but the rest are just standing by, waiting for someone to move on so they can take their shots.
Across the channel, however, I see something that gives me hope, something that redeems the fly fishermen in my mind. It looks like a real fly fisherman out in the waters off an island. I wondered how he got out there on that island with the units running from the dam and the water flowing rapidly. He casts, back casts, shooting the line forward. The current catches his fly as he makes a quick mend. Down the channel it goes. He picks up his line and casts it back up the water. No one is around him no one sight fishing or looking for the easy catch. I watch for five minutes and he's caught nothing. It doesn't matter. He's in the open, he's casting. It's so peaceful that it makes me want to stomp on across the channel and to go out there, too. Forget the current and the depth of the channel I want to be away from the rest of this fishing and to join a true artist.
You have to understand something about me. I've got this natural tendency to glamorize and romanticize things in my life. I wouldn't say it's a problem, but sometimes I build up these prejudices in my mind; prejudices created from reading books and magazines, watching movies, and plain old daydreaming. Because of a lack of exposure to what fly fishing really is, I have all of these fancies flittering about in my head and they are much different from the reality I'm watching in front of me.
So, what is there to do about it? Hopefully I will be able to go back and fish these waters. Someday soon, I hope to make a trip to the wilderness, having to hike miles to a naturally stocked stream, like Ernest Hemingway does in "The Big Two Hearted River" or in The Sun Also Rises.
Maybe someday in the future I'll be able to get out to the Appalachian Trail, to hike it through, like my father has done. I'd carry a box of flies, a rod and reel, and some minor tools on my pack. Each state I entered, I'd be sure to buy a fishing license and whatever tags were required by law. My "trail name" (moniker used while thru hiking to identify who you are) would have something to do with fishing.
I've found that fly fishing brings me peace, isolation, concentration, and repetition many of the same things I love about the sport wrestling. However, it seems that I can gain these things from fishing without the bloodshed, pain, and need for a partner. It's the therapy I sometimes need to help me exorcise ghosts. Could regular fishing provide these things, too? Who knows?
I've been looking forward to this vacation for months now, allowing myself to build up great expectations for lots of good fishing while down in Branson. It dawns upon me later in the trip that it's not the catching of fish that I've been looking forward to; it's the taste of life, the refreshing slice of life that I'll be getting out there.
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