Sadly Happy

From Loose Laces

Today would have been my friend's 64th birthday had he lived, but he was taken from us when still in his youth at age 33 years. We miss you still, Fred. I miss your Texas cowboy hat and your western boots, but most of all I miss your sense of humor and your genuine friendship. Today is also the birthday of Fred's daughter, Vanessa. He didn't live to see her grow into a beautiful woman, but he was proud of her and would have been even more proud of his grandchildren. To top it all, September 19 was Fred's and Alice's wedding anniversary. Always acknowledging that he was a bit lazy, he felt it was best to get as much as possible of the important stuff done in one day. Happy Birthday my friends Fred and Nessa, and Happy Anniversary Fred and Alice. Alice is another of my friends who reads this blog each day, but we hardly hear from her.
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As promised, we drove to the market on 107 and down the river road between the Nolichucky and huge fields of freshly picked tomato plants. There are still many tomatoes left on the vines, mostly green, but first hard frost will kill the plants and the tomatoes will freeze and rot on the ground. I am talking thousands of lbs. of usable fruit. It is a huge waste in my estimation, but is how the U.S. agri-business woks these days.
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We drove into JC and decided to torture our arteries with fast-food burgers, wonderful salt-encrusted and fat-saturated french fries, frozen apple pie things that were nuked to piping hot, and deliciously sweet but very weak tea.
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The daytime temps here are once again reaching toward the 90°F mark, and thought the sun is producing long shadows as autumn nears; it will still cook unprotected human hide in just a few minutes. Four days until equinox and then I can begin my countdown to the solstice of winter 2010-2011.
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Have a good Sunday!
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Carps and Colts

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?
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I will give you my thoughts on men and fishing later on. Size matters.
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The Smoking Gun's Mug Shots of the Year!