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January 7, 2013

Ellen/Reid: It’s not until you go to clear out closets that you truly know how much of your stuff is stodgy, passé, embarrassing to have been worn at all and should simply be put out to pasture (aka, given to Goodwill).  I’ve been trying to clear out available closet space for Felicia, and even by my low standards, much of my garb was awful by any measure.  One thing that the total lack of a sense of style does is make the decision making easy when you think “bletch, this was just a fashion travesty.”  I stumbled upon some more sorry items in the garage this morning.  Those will go, too.

A seagull on braided 20 lb. test line…

Before any incriminating photos show up on Facebook, let me state for the record that, yes, I did catch a seagull in Florida on braided 20 lb. test line.

Bob and the three Dave’s: D3 (Bradley), D1 (Hemminger) and our host D2 (Dahlquist) on the beach for breakfast. Another in an unbroken string of glorious meals.

The bird, gull species unknown, put up an aerial fight for a few minutes just above the waves, but ever the sportsman, my prize was treated as a catch-and-release bird.  Only I, in an effort to catch something that swims, could catch something that flies.

D1 in the surf – if you can call calm water ‘surf’ – on our first morning. Rays, fish at the bottom of the food chain swimming for their lives, and birds are a good measure of a sea side environment.  We wondered how long it would stay that way before man permanently screws it up.

That was the low point in a guy’s weekend filled with high points on Anna Maria Island.  This is the third go-round with the three D’s and a Bob (all mentioned below).  With any luck it won’t be the last.

Ellen and Reid read all about it last week:

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October 9, 2012

Ellen/Reid: It was really a great few days in Florida with the boys (Dave H., Dave D. and Bob F.).  Fun golf, a nice beach, great weather, good time on the water and equally good food and drink at every turn.  You can’t ask for much more.  It was quite gracious of Dave Dahlquist’s mother-in-law to loan us her 3 BR condo on Anna Maria Island.  We could, and did, lounge during cocktail hour with an elevated fourth floor view of the water and the island beyond.  That was nice.  Our first morning I must’ve waded in the surf for nearly two hours watching the fish and other aquatic and bird life.  Stepped on a ray but it didn’t sting me although if this were the Olympics I might have won the high jump going away.

With Dave’s help we steered clear of most of the tourist stuff.  We did have our share of dives (Rod & Reel Restaurant) plus some nicer spots, but the R&R had some of the best fish & chips I’ve ever had.  It’s out on a pier and while the décor isn’t much, the rest of it was great.  Pretty much the whole environment rotates around the beach life, and we had breakfast on the beach, other dinners close to the beach, etc.

Yours truly, Bob, D2 and D1 at the incredible Concession Club. So tough we stopped keeping score, but we did count the rounds of G&Ts (3) on the 5 star veranda.

The golf was great but what really stuck out for me was the fishing.  We charted a boat with a guy named Cap’n Josh for a half day’s excursion.  He’s about your age Reid and he really knew his stuff.  After he tossed out his net and hauled in a couple of hundred bait fish, we set off for an artificial reef made of demolished bridge pilings that was about a mile and a half straight off shore from our condo.  We dropped the bait straight down to the reef, about 25 feet, and in moments you’d get nibbles from grouper, ‘grunts’ and snappers.  Snapper was what he was really after, and our largest was only about 2 lbs.

D2 smacks his patented power fade on a par 3. D2 and D3 swept this stretch of three 6 hole matches.

What was really fun was watching the sharks and the big cobia pick off the bait fish.  Josh would toss some bait behind the stationary boat, and the big boys would come in to feed.  I had a tough time hauling anything in but when Josh fished he had something on every try.  A cobia came through and Josh immediately hooked him.  He handed the rod to me, and the first thing that struck me was how strong the fish was.  It was incredible.  He stripped off line and before I could get my bearings, he tore for the reef and the line was shredded.  I guess that’s one of the tastier fish around, and there it was, I lost him.  Dave D. had hold of a reef shark, and that was something.  Since we had light tackle and weren’t using steel leaders, there wasn’t much chance that we’d land it, but it was still fun to see while the fight lasted.  As for the unfortunate seagull, it snapped up my bait as soon as it hit the water, and he flew off about 25 yards.  It put up a better fight than some of the fish, but Josh had seen all this before and got the bird off my line in short order.  I like to be on the water rather than in it.  This was a highlight, and Reid, we need to give it a shot somewhere.

Bob near the 18th at the Concession Club. 90 members, limited play, and an incredible experience.

The plane ride home was something else.  Lightning struck our 757, and fried some electrical component that had to be flown in on the next flight from Atlanta.  So that shoved the takeoff back a few hours, and then when we pushed off again, the part malfunctioned.  Back to the gate we came.  A lot of passengers bailed at that point but I wanted to move on in the event a seat might not be available in the morning.  We waited another couple of hours for another plane and finally got to Atlanta just after midnight.  Since my morning flight was at 7, I opted to stay in the terminal for the night.  A so-so choice at best.  I only had my golf clothes on since I came straight from the course, and it was cold in the terminal.  I tried to stay warm as best I could by covering my legs with newspapers.  About 3 a.m. I went for a walk to stay active and came across a couple of Delta Airlines blankets.  That made sleeping a little easier, but it was the incessant security announcements that really kept me awake.  I’m not cut out for sleeping on chairs in airports anymore.  Those days are behind me, and good riddance.  Travel just isn’t what it used to be.

My friend Mort…

My friend Mort and I go way back.  Way back.  Back as in college days.  Mort lives but a stones throw away in Atlanta and I’ve scratched my head wondering why it took so long to write him. 

But in the spirit of better late than never, Mort indeed got his first letter from me last week.  He is an incredibly creative writer who loves Nebraska’s Sand Hills even more than me (read chapters of  Ghost Dance at http://churnhead.blogspot.com).  He works hard at a craft the rest of us can dabble with at best.

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January 6, 2011

Mort: How is it that we have both ended up in the southland, you for more years than me but in roughly the same place and stage of our “careers”?   I still pinch myself – a form of self-abuse, I guess – many days wondering how the hell this has all come to pass.

I’m not one to overly beef about it, but as a recent convert to the “it is what it is” way of thinking, I can’t help but think of the daily reminder that is chief, but not the only factor, that keeps me here: the weather map.  It is just a hell of a lot nicer down here, on balance, than we might be experiencing back in the heartland.  I keep reminding Ellen and Reid that – rubbing it in, really – when it is 60F here it is likely -10F there.  You said the other day my blood must be getting thinner, but is there a way to make that happen to the rest of me, too?

There has to be a way to get you and Mike back down here.  Hill has to be going nuts, and taking Leann with him, as he twiddles his thumbs up there.  What would it take him to get to ATL?  A strong day and a half, max, to reach you?  Then it’s the short jaunt over here.  On my oath, I swear you would have separate rooms with clean sheets.  This is the sort of pilgrimage the two of you ought to make.  That, or I save you the gas – petrol and/or Mike’s gas – by jaunting over your way.  You make the call.  I can go either way.

I’m glad you liked the reference to the Sandhills.  The pioneers were probably smart to set up shop all those years ago near a source of water, the Platte, but if they’d only plunked Grand Island on the map a bit further to the north than that would’ve met my needs all that much better.  Pretty short-sighted on their part.  Must be the wind-swept appeal of those hills.  Kind of like New York; not sure I want to live there but I sure like to visit although a spot up that way could be fairly palatable if you had the right amenities like running water and Wi-fi.  A golf course within hailing distance would be a plus, too.  That round up by Chadron was one of the more memorable I’ve had although I can do without bunking at Ft. Robinson.  Have you read John Janovy’s book Keith County Journal?  Or was that you that turned me on to it?  Either way, it’s a good descriptor of that portion of the country.

On that score, I think you should plow ahead at flank speed with your book.  That you started it at all is sort of Lao-tzu – a journey of a thousand miles starts with the first step.  It’s just a matter of finishing.  I’ve been following that writer’s group you got me onto enough to know that the self-help stuff a lot of them promote is okay but hardly up to your standards.  There’s always room for a good oater.  Besides, you’ve come this far and there are lots of self-publishing situations that can help you bring it to fruition.  It’s all going online and e-book anyway.  I would volunteer as the necessary second set of eyes, and no doubt Hill would too, if he’s not already.

As for me, I’ll be content to trundle into the office every day and get done what needs to get done.  The last few months have been an epiphany on the work scene.  Some days I wonder about the long-term but then I look in the mirror and realize it’s me that needs to adapt and change.  I’ll keep the blog up and going since it is one of the few creative outlets at my disposal.  Readership is picking up bit by bit and that’s good enough for me.

Well, as Walkin and Mayeux used to say, it’s time to sign off.  Really, you and Mike butt heads and see what you can muster in terms of you coming here or me going there.  Either way, it is high time I got a chance to see you ruffians and to hear your old yarns.  Emphasis on the old.

Stewards of whatever is left…

Those little specks in the distance are wild turkeys west of Grand Island. For once it would be nice if a cell phone camera had a zoom lens.

I do like Nebraska and the plains states.  I don’t care much for those who don’t when they opt to despoil the countryside and roadways with their castaway bottles and assorted trash.

If there is one thing (among many) I want the kids to be, it is caring stewards of whatever is left of their environment.  It is well and good to have a big picture view of smokestacks and global issues, but on a day in, day out basis it is up to them as individuals to care for their little corners of the world.  Last week’s letter has a veiled reference to such social responsibility.

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December 28, 2010

Ellen/Reid: It’s lucky that we were able to travel at all after Christmas.  By sheer luck I asked a gate agent if there was room on a connector to Atlanta.  There was, and she stuck me in first class no less.  If I’d gone on to Cincinnati as I was perfectly comfortable doing, I would’ve met Ohio’s residency requirement by now.  Although I walked in the door about 2:00 a.m., it beat sleeping in some airport or a fleabag hotel.  Ellen, it was good you and Tim got to head west.

It was a good enough time in Grand Island.  Got to spend a lot of time with your grandmother.  The trips to see her were really snippets of time predicated on her ability to have guests; a half hour here, two hours there.  She just seems in a much better spot, physically and mentally, then she would’ve been had she stayed in Omaha.  But even so, she has slipped markedly.  Her mobility has all but collapsed.  Even last July she would zip around Lakeside.  Now, it’s everything she can do to stand and mosey behind her walker.  The tooth thing really threw her for a loop.  Your uncle says he thought she might die from the infection.  She cannot feed herself and, like your grandfather, she’s just not eating very much.  All her food is minced almost to puree status.  It’s hard to watch but she seems so even and happy.

Her memory is as you would expect.  I think she has purposefully shied away from what happened this summer.  She burst into tears several times as she criticized herself for forgetting her husband had passed away.  She asked me several times if her brother, my uncle Henry, was still with us.  I assured her he was but not a minute or two later she would ask me again.  It is just the degenerative nature of her disease.  It was humbling, and a little numbing, to watch her go through this although when you look at the other women at her care center, she is in much, much better shape.  It is a hell of a thing to lose your mind.  It was sad to know that for most of their lives, these women had been wives and mothers and lived active, involved existences.  Now, they are simply running out the string.  Your uncle thinks that mom might have a year or so.  It’s not for me to hazard a guess.

The rest of the time was fine, too.  I tried to be a good guest.  I made my bed and said the food was good.  The high points, beyond having some time with your uncle, were my walks in the country.  A quarter mile from their house and you’re in the sticks.  I really liked that.  There’s something about walking along a gravel road.  There was no noise beyond the wind whipping through cedars and the incessant tooting of the mile-long Union Pacific coal trains not far to the north.  Trains trudging east are laden with Wyoming coal, those headed west are empty and moving fast.  I watched for deer and wildlife and came across a field where, not 25 yards from me, were at least 100 wild turkeys foraging on spilt corn.  Because this part of Nebraska is in the Platte River flyway, there were lots of “V” formations of thousands of honking geese and ducks.  These are the wild birds, not the semi-tame Canadians that live year-round on golf courses and shit on the fairways.  A couple of times I walked into the adjacent corn fields trying to kick up a pheasant (unsuccessfully) in the weeds along the fencerows.  The only downer were dozens of plastic bottles and containers tossed aside by half-wit rural bozos.  I half-threatened to take a garbage bag with me to clean up their recyclable mess.  I wished, too, I’d been about 30 miles due north where the Sand Hills begin.  Now that would be a walk on the wild side.  When I was much younger and in running shape, I gave some serious thought about running the length of the state from southeast to northwest.  It would be a wonderful walk now.  The Sand Hills are special to me.

This morning I am in the office.  It is nearly barren of people and I’m trying to get some work done in relative peace.  Nice not to get inundated with endless piles of e-mail.  That can wait until next week.  And thanks for the incredible calendar.  It will replace the golf version on my cube wall.