The Beginning – and End – of My Fishing Fancy

Ah, serenity! Well... almost.
Photo source

My parents are nutty about camping. Seriously, I don’t know how I ended up with such distaste for sleeping, cooking, eating and bathing in the out-of-doors, considering my parents are such fanatics. Here’s just a sampling of phrases you’ll never hear come out of my mouth:

Bring on the mosquitoes!

Mmmm... hot dog on a stick!

A thin layer of nylon is all I need between me and the elements – and the bears!

Unfortunately, my parents were as adamant about exposing their offspring to the wilderness as I am about staying out of it. Clearly, there was a major conflict of interest and opinion in regard to how my childhood vacations should be spent.

That difference of opinion is how I ended up stuffed into a tent in an eastern Washington campground while it rained for something just shy of the fabled forty days and nights. I think I was about nine years old at the time, though I could swear I was six when we began the trip. When the rain stopped falling, Dad asked if I wanted to go fishing with him. “Heck, yes!” I shouted. At that point, I would have followed him into a sewage treatment facility, if it meant getting out of that tent.

Dad grabbed the poles and led my brother and me approximately eleventy million soggy miles (on foot) to “this fishin’ hole I know about.” It turned out to be a secluded waterfall, with a wide pool at the foot. My brother and I half-heartedly cast into the pool, while Dad headed closer to the waterfall, expertly landing a cast at the base.

A near-eternity passed, with none of us getting so much as a bite. I didn’t mind much – it was better than being cooped up in a tent the size of my closet. The sun warmed my shoulders and danced on the water, sending blazing starbursts of light in every direction. The waterfall crashed into the pool, its song echoing off the rock walls.

Ah, sweet serenity.

“Hey... Hey! I got a bite!” The peaceful scene was shattered by Dad’s yell. He was pulling hard on his fishing pole, reeling and straining for all he was worth. Below the falls, the tail of a massive salmon breached the surface of the pool, fighting and twisting in an effort to escape.

It was a battle of endurance, and I wasn’t laying money on either one as the clear favorite – man and fish appeared evenly matched. Dad struggled for several more suspenseful minutes, then landed the monstrosity.

Well... almost.

“Sonofabeaver! He spit the hook!”

Leave it to Dad to teach his progeny the ever-important vocabulary of fishing. I believe that particular phrase is actually mandated by federal law – and enforced by game wardens – anytime a nice catch spits the hook.

“No, Dad — LOOK!” My brother pointed to a cluster of rocks a mere yard from Dad’s feet. The fish’s thought stream must have read something like this:

Puh-toooie! Yeah! I’m off the hook! I’m flying... flying... Look out, water! Heeeere I COME! Yeah, baby! Oh, crap.. SONOFABEAVER! I’m gonna fall, headfirst, into those rocks!

The fish landed, head wedged between two large stones. For a moment we all stared, dumbfounded, at the furiously wriggling salmon, which was determined to squirm its way back to the pool.

“EEEEEEEIIIIIIYAAAAAAAAAAH!” Dad’s battle cry could have splintered wood. He launched from the ground—head lifted, arms and legs spread, leaping toward the fish. (For a moment, he resembled a five-pointed star, flying through the air, surrounded by golden glimmering starbursts darting off the water’s surface.) With both hands, he reached for the fish tail as his feet hit the ground. With puma-like instincts, Dad bent down to get more leverage and...

RIIIIIIP!

Jeans split from zipper to back belt buckle, but Dad didn’t let the phenomena of his underwear suddenly becoming outerwear deter him. He yanked the fish from the rocks and hefted it backward, over his shoulder. The salmon smacked the rock wall. I expected it to be stunned or killed, but the battle only seemed to make it stronger.

For a nanosecond, I wondered exactly how far we were from the Hanford nuclear facility, and if the government knew about the radioactive, mutant-powered salmon running amok in the area.

Dad, too, seemed to draw strength from the war, and he spun around, pouncing on top of the flailing fish. He pinned his opponent for a full three counts, proving once and for all who the champ was.

Talk about poor sportsmanship... Instead of graciously accepting his belt and title, Dad drew his hunting knife and began thwacking the fish’s head with the heavy handle end. Over and over — thwack thwack, thwack... thwack... until there was no more fight in the enemy.

Then, all was silent. Well... almost. One angry, horrified little girl sobbed and hiccupped and cried out through the quivering fingers held over her mouth, “Dad? How COULD you? How could you DO that? How could you beat that POOR FISH like that?”

The girl turned and ran in the direction of camp, followed by a small giggling boy and a bewildered man who muttered, “Poor fish? Are you kidding me?” as his boxer shorts flapped behind him in the breeze.

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Getting Your Garden Ready

Photo source

What I don’t know about gardening would just barely cover the Pacific Ocean. I wasn’t born with a green thumb, and my severe allergies to pollen and bees pretty much ensured I’d never develop one.

Anything I’ve tried to cultivate has spitefully funneled its energy into dying—quickly, and with abandon. So, I mostly adopt a hands-off approach when it comes to things growing in my yard or garden. Sure, I have the kids or Mr. Wright mow the lawn, but I try not to mess with the flowers too much.

I may not know a weed from wisteria, but one thing I do know when I see it is “ugly.” Brown, dead foliage is ugly, and I always assume, since it’s already dead, I can’t do much more damage. I took an antihistamine and ventured into the out-of-doors a couple days ago. Brave, I know. The flowers in the back yard had updated their spring palettes and opted for ostentatious displays of lemon-yellow, bright fuchsia and violet.

There was also a lot of dead stuff. Broken, crisp leaves and decaying flowers crowded around the bottoms of the plants, and I started plucking them by the handful. I got jabbed and sliced by a few thorns, but the ease with which the lifeless branches and shoots pulled away from the living stems entranced me, and I kept going, throwing the expired material into a pile.

It took a few hours, and when I was done, all that was left was color. Beautiful, glorious flowers topped vivid green stems and nestled among the bright leaves.

Did I mention it took hours? I had a lot of time to think about things I don’t spend much time thinking about—like myself. I’ve been a busy, busy bee lately, and I’ve lost a bit of focus. I’ve taken on a lot of projects, people and plans; and something has to give.

As the flower beds became tidy and de-cluttered, it was clear to me that life is much the same way—dead things fall easily away from the living root, figuratively speaking. I don’t mean it’s going to be easy once your beloved dog is dead, or Grandma passes on. I’m just talking about the spiritually dead things we fill our lives with.

I struggle with giving up activities, projects and people I feel obligated to serve or have invested a great deal of time in. I agonize over letting go of things because I erroneously believe they define me. I’m a member of (fill in my favorite club/group/organization du jour), or I hold the title of (insert my current occupation), or I’m known for being really dedicated to (plug in my passion of the moment).

It’s time to clear away the dead stuff. You know, the standing monthly lunch date with the friend who criticizes; or the sport you keep playing, even though it’s beginning to feel like a burden; or the volunteer work you feel like you can’t refuse, even though it makes you resentful?

If we walked away for a month, would those things easily fall away, like dead leaves? Or would we miss them, aching for their return? Are we allowing dead things to define us? I’m speaking figuratively, of course. The happy Elvis impersonator is, by necessity, defined by a dead thing. I’m not talking about him.

Let’s talk about the birds and the bees. Don’t worry—I’m not going to launch into a human sexuality lesson. I mean the literal birds and bees. While out in the flower beds, the birds were singing and flitting about gaily, as if urging me along in my purging project, while the bees angrily buzzed around me, as if saying, “Get out of here. Leave well enough alone.”

I, for one, have too many bees in my life, and sometimes their buzz drowns out the song of the birds, encouraging and praising me. I do believe I’m in the market for a course on insect extermination. Figuratively speaking, of course.

How’s your garden shaping up?

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Gonzo Parenting Zine: Volume 2, Issue 1

The new issue includes some awesome writing and photography! We've got:

• "A Tale from the Trail: Mt. Townsend" by Len Kannapell
• "Confessions of a Failed Earth Mama" by Christina-Marie Wright
• "Jules, Death, and the Rock/Frog" by Rose Norton
• "Oh, No - Not More Squirrels!" by Maureen White
• "The Beginning - and End - of My Fishing Career" by Christina-Marie Wright
• "Brief Encounters with Nature" by Rose Norton
• "The Princess and the Frog Rescuer" by Christina-Marie Wright

PLUS:

• Awesome photography by Lasára Allen, Rose Norton, Len Kannapell and Christina-Marie Wright
• As always, the "Because I Said So!" column by Christina-Marie Wright
• And... *drumroll*... humiliating photos from Christina-Marie's childhood, like this one:

For the record, my shirt had
Spiderman comic panels on it, and it ROCKED.

It's three bucks. $3.00. Triple smackers. Less than a venti mocha at Starbucks. Go for it.

Orders, trades and contributor's copies will ship around the end of next week.

Here's a sampling of the contents, to whet yer whistle - or whatever you need whetted... I'm not judging.

The Beginning – and End – of My Fishing Career
by Christina-Marie Wright

My parents are nutty about camping. Seriously, I don’t know how I ended up with such distaste for sleeping, cooking, eating and bathing in the out-of-doors, considering my parents are such fanatics. Here’s just a sampling of phrases you’ll never hear come out of my mouth:

Bring on the mosquitoes! 

Mmmm… hot dog on a stick! 

A thin layer of nylon is all I need between me and the elements – and the bears!

Unfortunately, my parents were as adamant about exposing their offspring to the wilderness as I am about staying out of it. Clearly, there was a major conflict of interest and opinion in regard to how my childhood vacations should be spent.

That difference of opinion is how I ended up stuffed into a tent in an eastern Washington campground while it rained for something just shy of the fabled forty days and nights. I think I was about nine years old at the time, though I could swear I was six when we began the trip. When the rain stopped falling, Dad asked if I wanted to go fishing with him. “Heck, yes!” I shouted. At that point, I would have followed him into a sewage treatment facility, if it meant getting out of that tent.

Dad grabbed the poles and led my brother and me approximately eleventy million soggy miles away (on foot) to “this fishin’ hole I know about.” It turned out to be a secluded waterfall, with a wide pool at the foot. My brother and I half-heartedly cast into the pool, while Dad headed closer to the waterfall, expertly landing a cast at the base.

A near-eternity passed, with none of us getting so much as a bite. I didn’t mind much – it was better than being cooped up in a tent the size of my closet. The sun warmed my shoulders and danced on the water, sending blazing starbursts of light in every direction. The waterfall crashed into the pool, its song echoing off the rock walls that enclosed the pool.

Ah, sweet serenity.

“Hey… Hey! I got a bite!” The peaceful scene was shattered by Dad’s yell. He was pulling hard on his fishing pole, reeling and straining for all he was worth. Below the falls, the tail of a massive salmon breached the surface of the pool, fighting and twisting in an effort to escape.

It was a battle of endurance, and I wasn’t laying money on either one as the clear favorite – man and fish appeared fairly evenly matched. Dad struggled for several more suspenseful minutes, then landed the monstrosity.

Well… almost.

“Sonofabeaver! He spit the hook!”

(Leave it to Dad to teach his progeny the ever-important vocabulary of fishing. I believe that particular phrase is actually mandated by federal law – and enforced by game wardens – anytime a nice catch spits the hook.)

“No, Dad—LOOK!” My brother pointed to a cluster of rocks a mere yard from Dad’s feet. The fish’s thought stream must have read something like this:

Puh-toooie! Yeah! I’m off the hook! I’m flying… flying… Look out, water! Heeeere I COME! Yeah, baby! Oh, crap… SONOFABEAVER! I’m gonna fall, headfirst, into those rocks!

The fish landed, head wedged between two large stones. For a moment we all stared, dumbfounded, at the furiously wriggling salmon, which was determined to squirm its way back to the pool.

“EEEEEEEIIIIIIYAAAAAAAAAAH!” Dad’s battle cry could have splintered wood. He launched from the ground—head lifted, arms and legs spread, leaping toward the fish. (For a moment, he resembled a five-pointed star, flying through the air, surrounded by golden glimmering starbursts darting off the water’s surface.) With both hands, he reached for the fish tail as his feet hit the ground. With puma-like instincts, Dad bent down to get more leverage and…

RIIIIIIP! Dad’s jeans split from zipper to back belt buckle, but he didn’t let the phenomena of his underwear suddenly becoming outerwear deter him. He yanked the fish from the rocks and hefted it backward, over his shoulder. The salmon smacked the rock wall. I expected it to be stunned or killed, but the battle only seemed to make it stronger.

For a nanosecond, I wondered exactly how far we were from the Hanford nuclear facility, and if the government knew about the radioactive, mutant-powered salmon running amok in the area.

Dad, too, seemed to draw strength from the war, and he spun around, pouncing on top of the flailing fish. He pinned his opponent for a full three counts, proving once and for all who the champ was.

Talk about poor sportsmanship... Instead of graciously accepting his belt and title, Dad drew his hunting knife and began thwacking the fish’s head with the heavy handle end. Over and over—thwack thwack, thwack… thwack… until there was no more fight in the fish.

Then, all was silent. Well… almost. One angry, horrified little girl sobbed and hiccupped and cried out through the quivering fingers held over her mouth, “Dad? How COULD you? How could you DO that? How could you beat that POOR FISH like that?”

The girl turned and ran in the direction of camp, followed by a small giggling boy and a bewildered man who muttered, “Are you kidding me?” as his boxer shorts flapped in the breeze behind him.

* * *

Upcoming issues will take on "Working Parents," "Pets & Animals," and "Adoption." Be as literal or figurative as you like.

We'll also be doing another "Text-osterone" issue soon, so get to work, daddies!

Be sure to check out the submission guidelines before sending me your genius. Thanks.

Bad Gratitude Monday: WEEDS

That's right - I said it.

I'm grateful for weeds.



Ordinarily, I try to ignore them. I tend to adopt a "live and let live" principle, and I've even been known to opine weeds are just flowers that no one wants. Unfortunately, Mr. Wright does not share my opinions.

So, this morning, I took an antihistamine and ventured out to the jungles of the flower beds.

Sometimes the Lord blesses you with abundant crops and fragrant blooms; sometimes he blesses you with weeds. I learned several lessons from the little green demons this morning:

• From the weeds I'm sure I pulled before: Persistence.
• From the weeds with deep, deep roots: Sometimes, getting the job done means getting my hands dirty.
• From the weeds with sticker-y barbs: Look out for yourself, and don't surrender easily to defeat.
• From the weeds growing among the intended ornamental grasses and shrubs: We CAN all live together.  (Of course, I was out there, ripping them up by their roots - but the lesson was still valid.) 
• Also from the weeds growing among the intended plants: Don't be afraid to surround yourself with greatness, and consider yourself worthy of greatness in your own right.
• From the weeds that refused to release their roots, but broke off at ground level: Don't give up! I may feel broken, but as long as my faith remains rooted in fertile soil, I can grow to be strong again.

What unexpected lesson are you grateful for today?

Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/robotography/2722477781/

The Princess and the Frog Rescuer

Being married to an animal rights hobbyist takes its toll on a hunter like Mr. Wright. I’d go so far as to say it serves to make him the subject of abject ridicule among the gun-toting Bambi stalkers who used to invite him on weekend outings.

I say “used to” because many of Mr. Wright’s hunting buddies suspect – perhaps with good reason – that he may, at any time, endeavor to liberate the prey.

In San Francisco, I found myself in tears while visiting a waterfront vendor, shocked by the boxes filled with crabs stacked one upon the other; fifty to a box. “Look at all those poor, dead crabs,” I said.

“They’re not dead,” Mr. Wright corrected. Sure enough, the shelled creatures were pinching and waving their arms in a futile attempt at escape. The person ahead of us pointed to a plump crustacean and the vendor plucked it from the box, tossed (tossed!) it on the scale, backside down, then plopped it into a pot of boiling water.

“Noooooo!” I shrieked. The vendor, alarmed, asked, “Was it the wrong one?”

I turned to Mr. Wright. “I want a crab.”

“Sweetheart, you’re vegan. You don’t eat crab.”

“No, I want to save a crab.” I used that tone that tells Mr. Wright I mean business – if you can call saving animals a business. “You’ve got to be kidd—” he began, but knew it was useless.

I selected my crab – one of the small ones at nearly the bottom of the box. Surely, he was young and had a full life ahead of him! Besides, hadn’t he been through enough, being on the bottom of a box?

The horrified look on my face when the vendor roughly tossed my rescued friend onto the scale was matched only by the horrified look on the vendor’s face when I said I wanted to take the crab, alive.

We headed for the wharf and quickly realized that throwing a crab from the dock’s elevation would serve only to shatter his shell on impact, thus voiding any good intentions. I began calling over the dock’s edge to boatmen. “Say, I’ve got this crab, here, and he’s away from home. Could you help me out by motoring him out a bit and letting him go in the water?”

As I parted ways with the third boatman to get a crazed look in his eye, while licking his lips and drawing a pot full of water, I saw Mr. Wright, climbing down an access ladder to the water, crab in hand. He reached the bottom, gently set my friend free, and began ascending the ladder.

By the time he reached the top, I was in tears. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “I let him go. I did what you wanted. Do you realize I just paid ten dollars a pound for something I risked falling into the water to set free?”

“But,” I wailed, “I didn’t get to say goodbye!”

Recently, Mr. Wright and I were driving home through a certain community on a golf course after dark. Suddenly, he brought the car to an abrupt halt. There, in the headlights, was a frog. Never one to needlessly kill a critter, my husband got out of the car, picked up the frog, and carried him to the grassy median.

“That was sweet,” I said as he got back behind the wheel and put the car into gear. We didn’t make fifty feet of progress before he stopped again.

Switching on the high beams, we saw the entire roadway, dotted with ribbiting revelers of the night. “Maybe you’d better drive,” he said.

I got behind the wheel and inched the car along as Mr. Wright rescued frog after leaping frog from certain doom beneath a set of Goodyears. All told, at least twenty found themselves in the cool, moist grass covered in evening dew.

As he climbed back into the car, my dear husband said, “You know, I really hope those frogs weren’t in the road because the grass was recently sprayed with lye. I hope I didn’t just send them back to third degree chemical burns.”

Well, at least we didn’t shatter the crab.

Photo credits:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/chilledsalad/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

http://www.flickr.com/photos/foxypar4/ / CC BY 2.0

Bad Gratitude Monday: Thanks for the Global Warming, Mr. Gore!

Last Monday, due to the holiday, both the school and the daycare were closed. Fortunately, the weather was glorious and most of the snow had melted. I took Curlytop and Snugglebug to the Japanese garden for a little run-around-a-lot-because-Mommy-wants-us-to-take-a-nap time.

For once in my life, I had my camera with me and planned on posing the girls for some sweet pics in the garden. They, on the other hand, had other ideas. Every time I got the perfect shot lined up, they took off running. As a result, I got a lot of pics of the backs of their heads and bodies.

When we got home, I uploaded our pics to Facebook with a toddler on each knee, and let them describe what was going on the photo. Instead of my boring commentary, I used the girls' words for the captions. Here are some of my favorites:

Snugglebug: Look! I silly, climbin' on a rock!

Curlytop: Snugglebug wearin' shoes, Mommy!

Snugglebug: I go on there, Curlytop. I go, one, two, three... I go on there!

Curlytop: A biddge [bridge]!

Snugglebug: I's running!

Curlytop: Is a car! It not Mommy's car...

Me: A car? Is that what you see?

Curlytop: Yes, Mommy. A car. It not you car, okay?

Curlytop: A yock [rock]. Is a big yock. A real big yock.

Curlytop: Heeeheeheehehah! Look, Mommy! Boots [pointing to Facebook ad for Uggs in sidebar]!

Me: *sigh*

Curlytop: I lookin' at songun [something] on the ground...

Today, we woke up to this:

What a difference a week makes.

This Monday, I'm grateful for:

• The warm weather that allowed us to play comfortably in the fresh air last week
• The snow we have this week, which is essential for our agriculture
• Friends and family

What are YOU grateful for today?

Sins of the Mother: When Animals Attack

I’m hanging all of my hopes for absolution on my daughter’s future career as a veterinarian. Perhaps, through Princess’s dedication to helping and saving animals, I will be forgiven by the animal kingdom for whatever sins I have committed in my previous lives.

I’ve always clung to the belief that animals know, instinctually, who is out to get them and who, conversely, is truly an animal lover that means them no harm. Why, then, has my life been littered with random attacks by wild and quasi-wild animals? I’m a vegan. I don’t eat animals. I try not to wear animals. I don’t steal their eggs, don’t subject them to naked humiliation by shaving them to spin their wool…

Obviously, in some previous incarnation, I was a hunter. Or a trapper. Or, simply, an animal hater.

How else to explain the unprovoked attack by a swan when I was three? That’s right – a swan. I was walking in the park with my mom and brother when a swan charged me and bit me. Perhaps my pre-vegan toddler breath smelled of chicken nuggets or eggs. Whatever the reason, the swan found my presence offensive and targeted me.

When I was five, I was attacked by a swarm of bees. In the bees’ defense, I did tromp over their home, but it was an accident that occurred during a rousing game of Follow the Leader through the woods near my friend’s house. She led, I followed… right over the top of a nest of bees. Her feet shook the bees up; mine angered them so thoroughly that they attacked, en masse, the little child attached to the intruding feet. The neighbors stripped my clothing down to my underwear to get the bees off while I screamed. My mother arrived in short order and, without access to a car, called the hospital instead of rushing me to the emergency room. She was told to pull the stingers out with tweezers (she stopped counting at 50), give me Tylenol, and watch for any alarming symptoms, such as a temperature over 105 degrees, paralysis, or death. Should any of those symptoms occur, she was to call 911 immediately. That’s right… if I died, she learned, someone should call 911.

At the age of six, I was bit by a ferret. Ferrets are interesting creatures in that they don’t bite and then let go. Instead, they bite and hold on, chewing the meat free. My six-year old screams were heard throughout the neighborhood, and the fingerprint of my right middle finger is permanently altered by a V-shaped scar through it.

In junior high, my face was scarred by Bambi. Not the real Bambi, of course, but a relative closely resembling the original friendly forest creature. Family friends had been feeding a little deer that visited their home, and I was fascinated by how tame he appeared. The sweet little guy was so cute, with his little budding antlers and big eyes. I fed him a carrot, and then wandered off to talk to my parents. Suddenly, I heard my name called, along with a loud “Look out!” warning. Alarmed, I turned around to see what the danger was, and found myself facing Bambi, reared up on his hind legs, hooves raised, ready to beat on my head. Instead, his hooves gouged down the middle of my face. As I raised my hands to my bloody face in pain and disbelief, someone explained to me that young male deer “play” with one another by beating each other on the heads with their hooves. How delightful.

Equally delightful was the experience of actually having to tell my friends at school that the deep, scabby trenches down my face were caused by the real-life version of a Disney character.

I fully expect, once Princess graduates from vet school and begins saving the animal world, whatever sins I’ve committed against nature will be fully atoned for. In my opinion, raising a veterinarian is a small price to pay for being able to walk out my front door without fear of being jumped by a gang of angry squirrels.