Gulf Fritillary on Zinnia
Last night as I lay awake with a vile sinus headache, I thought about some of the other things I've done in my life to cause me to suffer such discomfort. Besides nasal congestion, I suppose being hit on the head has given me the greatest discomfort. An alcohol hangover rates close to the top, too, especially ones from drinking malt liquor. Thinking of malt liquor sent me down memory's back alley to the nights of fishing from the banks of splendidly polluted Boone Lake. My uncle and I would spend virtually every warm Saturday night along the crud encrusted shores of the lake, fishing not for bass or crappie or other edible fish, but for carp, the much maligned bottom feeders who's flesh tasted like the mud from which it scavenged its meals. The big joke about eating carp is in how it is prepared; go into a pasture field and collect fresh cow paddies, fillet the fish, cover them with cow poop, and place them on baking sheet. They then go into the oven for broiling and when the flesh is tender, remove the delicacies from the heat, throw the fish away, and eat the crispy poop. Never-the-less, they were fun to catch because they were so big. We used whole-kernel corn for bait, and hooking 20 pounders or larger was our goal but most of them weighed around 10-12 pounds. It was all catch and release.
My uncle wasn't known for his drinking. He was a very quiet man whom did a lot of reading and had written a novel length manuscript which was rejected by the first publisher he sent it to; he never again attempted to have it read by a professional. He also wrote simple poetry which was thought provoking in the angst he managed to deliver, and he was a pretty good self-taught artist. He had been married and raised two boys, but at the time was living alone on a dead-end street in a quiet neighborhood. I suppose I am more like he was than anyone else in my entire family.
On summer Saturday nights, I would go by his house and we would proceed to the beer store and on to the lake side. I don't know what got us to drinking Colt 45 malt liquor, but we became fond of the taste and for an entire season it was all we purchased for our outings, and we bought it in 40 ounce bottles. From dark until well after mid-night, we would fish, philosophize, and swap stories. The last couple of hours I usually slowed my drinking so I would be "sober" enough to drive us home where I usually crashed on his sofa 'til morning when I would awaken with a master headache all over my body. You know what I'm talking about, don't you?
----
I will give you my thoughts on men and fishing later on. Size matters.
----
The Smoking Gun's Mug Shots of the Year!
Last night as I lay awake with a vile sinus headache, I thought about some of the other things I've done in my life to cause me to suffer such discomfort. Besides nasal congestion, I suppose being hit on the head has given me the greatest discomfort. An alcohol hangover rates close to the top, too, especially ones from drinking malt liquor. Thinking of malt liquor sent me down memory's back alley to the nights of fishing from the banks of splendidly polluted Boone Lake. My uncle and I would spend virtually every warm Saturday night along the crud encrusted shores of the lake, fishing not for bass or crappie or other edible fish, but for carp, the much maligned bottom feeders who's flesh tasted like the mud from which it scavenged its meals. The big joke about eating carp is in how it is prepared; go into a pasture field and collect fresh cow paddies, fillet the fish, cover them with cow poop, and place them on baking sheet. They then go into the oven for broiling and when the flesh is tender, remove the delicacies from the heat, throw the fish away, and eat the crispy poop. Never-the-less, they were fun to catch because they were so big. We used whole-kernel corn for bait, and hooking 20 pounders or larger was our goal but most of them weighed around 10-12 pounds. It was all catch and release.
My uncle wasn't known for his drinking. He was a very quiet man whom did a lot of reading and had written a novel length manuscript which was rejected by the first publisher he sent it to; he never again attempted to have it read by a professional. He also wrote simple poetry which was thought provoking in the angst he managed to deliver, and he was a pretty good self-taught artist. He had been married and raised two boys, but at the time was living alone on a dead-end street in a quiet neighborhood. I suppose I am more like he was than anyone else in my entire family.
On summer Saturday nights, I would go by his house and we would proceed to the beer store and on to the lake side. I don't know what got us to drinking Colt 45 malt liquor, but we became fond of the taste and for an entire season it was all we purchased for our outings, and we bought it in 40 ounce bottles. From dark until well after mid-night, we would fish, philosophize, and swap stories. The last couple of hours I usually slowed my drinking so I would be "sober" enough to drive us home where I usually crashed on his sofa 'til morning when I would awaken with a master headache all over my body. You know what I'm talking about, don't you?
----
I will give you my thoughts on men and fishing later on. Size matters.
----
The Smoking Gun's Mug Shots of the Year!
2 comments:
As you know I have major sinus problems and like this this morning I also have sinus headache.
They are like having a hangover. It actually makes it hard to think.
Do you have your uncles manuscript?
My sinus thing has eased over the past year, but I don't know why; everything else has gone to hell. I can commiserate with you on the headaches.
I think my uncle's son who lives in Beckly W.Va. has the manuscript. I rarely see him, and when I do, I don't think to ask. We are not a close family and I don't have his address, email, or number.
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