Writing for the Sake of Writing

You know, I really have no clue who will be reading this blog, or if anyone will really be reading it.

It's been months since I've had anything posted here. Sometimes I feel like I'm letting someone down by not writing as much. When I think about it, I guess the one who should be disappointed in my lack of writing should be me. I doubt if anyone else has noticed. Writing never was something I used to like sharing.

So I've been busy. I'm just coming off a long wrestling season full of late nights, early mornings, and little free time. On top of that, I've have a bear of a year dealing with grading issues. When I do have free time, the only thing I want to do is have fun with my family -- definitely not isolate myself so I can write. I've got a wife who is absolutely amazing with how much she supports me and a son who is developing faster than I can keep up with him. My wife and son have so many other qualities that I can't even come close to describing them here, but that's a blog entry for another day.

All in all, I guess that this blog is not for anyone else other than myself. If I knew that I had a solid following, I'm sure I would have made time to write. If I had that pressure, I would follow through with my obligation to post regularly.

I like to write, but most of the things running through my mind these days aren't things I should be writing and posting online. Things that might offend others (politics), get me in trouble at work (professional frustrations), or reveal a little too much about how sensitive I may or may not be (getting ready for a major change).

I tried looking up some ideas for blogs on the web, but nothing really sounded that interesting. So I thought, "Why not write about not writing?"

When I write, I feel like I try too hard to sound like "a writer," which gives my notes a forced, artificial sound. I can't stand reading high school or college journalists try to sound like Dave Barry or some other witty and talented pro writer. Hell, so many of the newspaper columnists sound just like that, too. I get started on a piece and then I get sidetracked, asking myself, "What would this idea sound like to so-and-so?"

I've got 40-some notes saved on my Blackberry, but none of them are really worth posting now. Maybe some day I'll post them, but most of them have either passed their time (reactions to current events) or have completely derailed. They're good to keep around, though. Sometime down the road, maybe I'll be able to salvage some ideas for new writings. I have a half-dozen notebooks at home that are full of writings from my college years up to today. It's pretty cool to look back at them and just read the random things I wrote then.

So what will I think when I look back on this entry? Was it just a filler? Was it a rambling batch of nonsense? Does it have anything worth salvaging? We shall see, down the road.

A Writing Drought

Some random thoughts as of late:
...Haven't been able to finish a blog in about a month, even though I have started 9-10 new ones
...Been fostering some serious doubts about my coaching and teaching abilities lately -- students and athletes don't seem to listen to instructions these days
...A broken nose is a real pain, especially when I have a cold and a toddler who loves to flail around when I hold him
...Speaking of Brody, he must be in training to be a soccer hooligan -- he's getting down the head-butts and screeches pretty well
...Spending nearly 3 hours driving every day takes a toll on my niceness
...I can never watch enough Kung-Fu Panda, Shrek, or Toy Story!
...Waking up at 5:00am on my day off is a-o-k with me, just as long as Brody is alternating between his ultra-snuggly and hyper-goofball modes
...I can't wait for some snow! I wouldn't even complain if it happens during the break and I don't get a snow day for it
...Christmas decorations really can make the season feel like Christmas -- I just love pines covered with lights, holly wreaths on the front door, red bows and golden strands of garland!
...Some time away from my wife and son really puts things in perspective and helps me remember how much I love them
...All this hype about Josh Selby / KU and Jacob Pullen / KSU basketball gets kind of annoying, and I don't think it's just because I'm a wrestling guy
...Some people's political posts on Facebook are glaringly ignorant and really annoying... even some of the "conservative" ones (I'm not just hating on the libs)
...I really need to get to the theaters to watch Tron Legacy, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, and Voyage of the Dawn Treader.
...I've got a John Irving book that I really need to read... just haven't had the time or means
...Listen to books on CD has been awesome in making my daily commute fly by quickly
...I could use a weekend fishing trip soon
...Better yet, I could use a week of sitting around with Brody and Emily, just lazing about and enjoying each other's company
...Emily has been a blessing, especially this past semester. I don't know how I'd ever get through things without her

Well, that's it for now! Maybe I'll get another entry finished soon!

Shoes

The other day, my wife asked me to read a moving article about a young man named Nathan Stiles, a Spring Hill football player who collapsed while walking off the field and later died as a result of previous head injuries.

It was an article from ESPN; its primary topic was not the injury and its circumstances, but rather the legacy of this 17-year-old young man and his family's experiences and the direction in which they are now moving after his death.

Nathan's parents started "Nathan Project" to spread the word of God. According to the ESPN article, his father, Ron Stiles, wears his son's size-12 Nike high-tops to every Nathan Project event. Ron has size 10 feet. He told the journalist writing the article, "I'm never going to fill those shoes, [...] But I'm going to do everything I can to walk in them."

I really don't know how I made it through that article without my eyes watering and releasing a torrent of tears. Maybe I was just too tired to experience a fully cathartic moment.

Almost immediately the article got me thinking about Brody. I don't know how I could ever cope with any tragedy happening to him, and I have so much admiration for Nathan's parents because of their extraordinary strength. Would I be able to muster the fortitude to stand so strong in such an incredibly difficult situation? Before I can come close to being able to imagine what I'd do, I have to consider who I am as a father right now.

Just a month ago, we dressed Brody in a wrestling singlet for his 18-month pictures. One shot had him standing in my wrestling shoes, the tops of them almost coming up to his knees. An adorable picture!

Ron Stiles had talked about trying to walk in his son's shoes. In a proud moment, I had just had my son try to walk in my shoes.

What will Brody end up doing in his life? Will he be a strong Christian? Will he be a wrestler or soccer player? A musician or scholar? A gentleman who'll champion the happiness of others by standing up for the little guy?

I wonder what kind of relationship I'll end up having with him. Some of my most personal conversations -- the ones where I'd revealed my deepest emotions -- have been with my own father. It took a while for me to open up to him, but it finally happened when I was in my early twenties.

I think my problem was that I never understood his life or what it had been like walking in his shoes. The only shoes I remember seeing him in are penny loafers, cowboy boots, or hiking boots. His feet have carried him so many places, both good and bad. He's been to places so dark that I hope I -- or Brody -- never have to follow. He's been to places so bright and magnificent that I hope I do get such a chance.

He's stumbled and fallen, he's splashed in life's puddles. He's followed the map, and sometimes he blazed his own trail.

I haven't always picked the best shoes myself, so there are definitely times I hope Brody doesn't try to walk in my shoes.

If he does, however, I hope he tries on the flip flops so that he can relax and enjoy life, the cowboy boots so that he can step lively and proud with each resounding step, the wrestling shoes so he can experience competition and success as a product of hard work, and the loafers so he can walk with an air of a professional.

And there will be times that I hope he goes barefoot so that he can feel the earth and grass on his toes as he makes his own path.

He'll buy new pairs of shoes he won't wear often, and some for special occasions only. Some he'll wear daily and get his money's worth right away. I hope he finds a comfortable pair or two without having to search too hard.

I can't always tell him which pair to go with, but I can be there to advise him. He may want to try a pair just like mine, and I may have to tell him early on that he has no choice in the matter and that he has to wear certain shoes.

For right now, he's switching off and on between a nice pair of Stride-Right shoes and his boots with the flashing lights on the side. I hope that he listens when I try to give advice and that he's able to imagine what it's like to walk in someone else's shoes without having to directly experience it for himself. I pray that God gives him the opportunity to enjoy every step in life, and I pray that God gives him the strength to endure when the path becomes rough. Most of all, I pray that, like the old "Footprints" poem says, Brody allows God to carry him through the dark times on his journey through life.

Happy Thanksgiving!

You should know what you're thankful for, especially when celebrating a particular day of the year that has been set aside specifically for giving thanks. This morning at church, Pastor Seth asked for some volunteers to share their favorite Thanksgiving memories. The first thing to pop into my head (which is logical because wrestling season has just started) was several years of going without mass quantities of food on this holiday.

It was a self-imposed, single-serving, no gravy, not-even-dreaming-of-pie kind of sacrifice. I was simply moderating my intake -- and by "moderating," I mean nearly Spartan. I'd burned plenty of calories at practice that morning and then the day after I'd be able to burn off however many calories I'd picked up from the night before. I just wanted to make sure that I didn't have to start the season very far above my targeted weight class.

I had to shoot straight with myself, especially after hearing the stories told by members of the congregation. One gentleman talked about traveling great distances to see relatives he hadn't seen in years, and one woman talked about driving from California to Oklahoma with her father, who had just returned home from serving in WWII, to see her grandfather, who had feared he wouldn't live to see his son and granddaughter come home to their Oklahoma.

I then remembered the Thanksgiving my freshman year in college when I helped serve dinner at the Lawrence Homeless Shelter. It had been a requirement for a class that I perform some community service, but I had no idea how much this experience would strike me. I'm going to keep this short of becoming a sermon about philanthropy and obligation to serve, and I'll keep that topic for another day.

The question of my own true sacrifice and the things for which I was truly thankful hadn't been a pressing issue until the last few years. It took some maturing, but I began to see things much more clearly. What about those who have no choice in going without? What about those who had lost their closest loved ones or those whose husbands, sons, and brothers were overseas?

I think the purpose of Thanksgiving is to remind us all not to take everything in our lives for granted. For a holiday like this one, certain preparations need to be made in order for it to go well. It seems as though all the emphasis is placed on the location of the meal, the quality of the menu, and the relatives who make (and don't make) the guest list. There are all sorts of "priorities," such as making it to the airport on time, watching whichever football game, spending x-number of hours with such-and-such relative, and so on. The sad thing is that words of thanks and prayer are few and far between with some families.

I've come to notice that frustration becomes a dominant emotion around Thanksgiving. People begin to ask themselves pointless questions such as, "Why did I put forth so much effort?" "Why do I have to do all the work?" "Why does my family have to be the ones to travel so far?" Well, to put it simply, you don't have to do anything on these days. Host the dinner, make the food, travel the great distance because of love and the true reason for this holiday: to remind you of what's important and of the things in your life for which you should truly be thankful.

These thoughts were bouncing around in my head when Pastor Seth brought our attention to the story of Martha and Mary from book of Luke. These two women hosted Jesus for supper; Martha slaved over the preparations as a good hostess and Mary sat attentively and listened to every word from Jesus' mouth. In this scripture, He indicates that Mary had made the right choice and that Martha should not be upset at her sister. He's only a guest and will not be there very long, and she's hearing His word while she still can. Time is finite and life goes on. Hospitality is important, but one mustn't let it impede the truly important things.

Similarly, I realized, time with family is limited. We should make do with what time we do have together. We will never know for sure when will be the next time we all sit down together as a family. We would be missing the point of the holiday if we were to let trivial matters distract us.

In our lives, do we end up tending to take the road of Martha when we should be taking the road of Mary? In the little picture, Mary is in the wrong and Martha is doing the right thing in prepping for dinner. One is shirking her obligations and taking the Tom Sawyer route while the other is toiling and remaining true to her duties.

In the bigger picture, however, Mary is right.

I'm not trying to say that Martha had it all wrong; on the contrary, she does have the rare gift of hospitality, which is often neglected, uncultivated, and under-appreciated. She put all her efforts into the preparations for their guest, which was to be expected. After all, the ancient Greeks believed firmly in the law of hospitality as being one of Zeus's chief concerns. The tale of Baucis and Philemon tells us of the potential for extreme punishment should one be negligent of hospitality, and who would want to risk their homeland being flooded by two vengeful gods?

The myth from the Greeks exists as an intriguing antithesis to the moral of the story of these two women. What is it that makes the memory of a special visit from important guests? What is it that makes a holiday like Thanksgiving so meaningful to us? It isn't always the turkey or pumpkin pie, but oftentimes it is the people with whom we share the meal(s). It's the variety of loved ones, and not just the variety of delicious dishes. There are so many wonderful things that make up this holiday, and we all could do well by making room in our hearts for all of the diversity.

When I really think about my own memories of Thanksgiving, particularly those from my high school days, I don't remember how much actually I went without. Sure, at the time it was as though I were eating as little as an impoverished person, but I've long since made up for it. I now have seven years of eating two Thanksgiving dinners instead of one.

That's two families to enjoy, and two families with the same incredible kind of diversity presented by the holiday menus. Two families' worth of brothers and fathers who are always willing to impart their wisdom; sisters and mothers who thrive at organizing and executing great family dinners; and plenty of children who are the metaphorical whipped cream atop the slice of pumpkin pie.

It's a funny thing: in the rush to get something written and posted up on my blog, I went and committed the very faux pas I was trying to warn against. Forgetting to mention the two most important things in my life, I went and wrote something that omitted direct mention of my wife and son.

I guess it just goes to show that we're all guilty of taking things for granted. We want the small things to be so perfect -- a meal for some, an article for me -- that we don't see the bigger picture. I'm never going to be one who claims to have achieved perfection, whether it's in my writing, my daily "goodness," or my teaching or coaching. But I do recognize and I am truly thankful for the perfect feeling of happiness I get from my wife Emily and son Brody.

There's so much for which I am thankful, but the important things that mean the most aren't material possessions, trivial matters pertaining to work, or abstract memories of the good ol' days. They are my family. Emily and Brody, I love you with all my heart!

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Escaping from the Crib

This past weekend, the last thing I expected to see at 1:00 in the morning was Brody walking toward me, crying, and holding his arms out for me to pick him up, yet when I was dragged from a deep sleep by the sound of distant crying, that's exactly what I saw. It turns out that the distant sound of his cry was due only to the depth of my sleep state, and not the actual distance between his room and mine.

I picked him up and set him down on the bed. Emily, who'd been sleeping just as deeply, had this look of confusion on her face. It was the look that clearly said, "I have no idea what's going on!" I didn't have any clue, either. I stumbled downstairs to see what I could find out. I must have still been asleep, because one of the first thoughts I had was that I was slightly annoyed because someone had let my toddler out of his "kennel" (honestly, we do have him sleeping in a crib, not a kennel). Then, when my consciousness began to surface and I realized that it was son, not a dog, I went to make sure that there hadn't been a malfunction with the side of the crib or that he hadn't broken it with his massive toddler strength.

I found nothing. He simply stretched one leg up over the edge, slid over, and fell to his feet below. Climbing out of his crib last night must have taken some serious goal-setting and determination. I'm proud of the little fella; his daring escape from his crib was much like the escape of the Count of Monte Cristo or the escape of Andy Dufresne, except without the unjust imprisonment.

The next morning, after trying to figure out whether or not it had been a dream to wake up and find that Brody had climbed out of his crib and up the stairs to our bedroom, I found myself sitting in church hearing a sermon about goals. It seemed to be a fine coincidence. Our pastor addressed the idea of goals and how everyone should have them. Goals are the things that provide motivation for us in our daily lives. Life is truly made of dreams, for without dreams or goals, what is the point of it all?

Our pastor based his sermon on Paul's epistle to the Phillipians (3:12-14). In this letter, Paul writes of how he is always pressing forward in his pursuit of "perfection." As Christians, we are all constantly pursuing the same goal of a relationship with Christ. Each of us may get closer and closer at various points in our lives, but none can truly achieve our goals. The question isn't so much of can we, but should we ever be able to reach our goal of a relationship with Christ? What would we then do, once that ultimate goal of all goals had been attained?

Being a coach sitting in church listen to a sports-minded pastor, I has an easy job understanding the exact metaphor he was giving us. Pastor used baseball as the basis of his comparison, but with baseball being a sport with which I'm not all that familiar, I find myself able to discuss it in terms of wrestling. I can't take credit for the originality of this metaphor; it's just my personal take on an incredibly pertinent sermon.

Essentially, there are three types of wrestlers: those that make it happen, those that watch it happen, and those that wonder what the heck just happened. The first group are those who set goals and pursue them passionately. The second group are those who may have some talent and may have seen some success, but mostly, they have seen a lot of luck. The third group are those who are simply utterly clueless; perhaps they don't care about their participation that much.

All three groups co-exist in any sport, but the common thread between them is not necessarily just their respective sport, but more importantly the presence of a coach.

In the same way athletes make errors in matches, we make errors in life, but it is Christ who allows us to recover. It doesn't matter if we're the type of person who makes things happen, watch things happen, or wonder what just happened; Christ loves us all and acts as the coach to whom we all should listen.

To further adapt the Pastor's metaphor, life is like a wrestling dual -- one team against another. Most people think of wrestling as being an individual sport, but once a person becomes involved in wrestling, it is clear how strong the team element really is. In this metaphor, there are three things to remember:

1) We're all on a team, so each of us needs to be a team player. Whereas life isn't an individual effort, we all do our individual parts to win the competition. Each move in each period of each match contributes to the overall team score.

2) We have a coach, so we need to listen to him. The Pastor asked a great rhetorical question: "Why call him 'coach' if we're not going to listen?" It's when my wrestlers stop listening to me and they begin doing their own thing that things typically fall apart -- technique wanes, frustrations soar, and strategy goes right out the window, along with the probability of winning the match.

3) We may get hurt in the match, but we need to get over it. The idea is to hop up and shake it off, and we must know the difference between an "injury" and an "ouchie," to quote Coach Kit Harris. Pain is as much a necessary element to the sport as is the mat, the shoes, the singlets, and the headgear. The same goes with life.

These comparisons between life as a Christian and being an athlete serve to remind us of our humanity, as well as our intended purpose in life. Sure, there will be errors along the way; we won't always be team players, at times we'll fail to listen to our Coach, and we will frequently feel the sting of injury.

The Apostle Paul discusses the pursuit of perfection. In setting this goal, he steps forward on a journey of growth and shows us all how one should seek atonement with Christ.

It's easy for me, as a coach, to understand this message from the Bible, especially with how clearly the pastor has conveyed it. However, it's not always going to be that clear to me, and it's not always going to make sense to my son Brody, especially in his early years. The other night, he achieved his previously-set goal of escaping from his crib. He had no team to consider or to cheer him on, he had no one coaching him along the way, and surely he must have felt something painful when he landed, yet he met his goal (and put his parents in a panic to find him a suitable toddler bed).

Goal-setting is as much a part of life as is breathing, eating, and sleeping. We have been programmed to do this from the very beginning. Christ enables us to start off enjoying the game on our own, but sooner or later, we all have to discover the rules of the game. We can go through life wondering what happened -- that is, why we achieve some goals and why we fall short of others. We can also set our goals at a minimum level, hoping that our low bar is easily overcome. Or we could set our goals high and do what it takes to achieve them.

In order to fully achieve our earthly goals, and to then be able to set focus on our goal of perfect relationships with Christ, we must work together, heed our coaches, and bounce back from whatever adversity tries to keep us from our dreams, whether it's escaping from the crib or finding true happiness in life.

Guys Night

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.

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.