A Special Thank You

The Old Man needs to spend a serious moment with you. For those who may not be aware, the town of Bedford lost more men per capita than any other community in the country at the D-Day invasion of Normandy in World War II. 21 out of 35 men from Company A from Bedford lost their lives. You will read much more about this in a special post marking the 65th anniversary of the invasion.

Of those who returned, the last of what have become known as "The Bedford Boys" was laid to his final rest today. Elisha "Ray" Nance was the last man standing. He was 94.

I simply, on behalf of my free family, want to say "Thank you, Mr. Nance, and Godspeed to your reunion with Company A."

No Doubt, Scout, It's About Trout

The Old Man gets to feeling a little nostalgic around this time of year. While I haven't stayed current on fresh water fishing regulations, I remember that the "opening day" of trout season usually happened in our area in April. I believe my dad lived all year for two events; the day his garden was plowed, and opening day of trout season.

Dad would spend hours going over his plans, poring over lunar tables, checking his equipment, and listening to agricultural reports that told of stream stocking schedules. We would ride up into the mountains around Bedford and just stare at North Creek and Jennings Creek from all angles to see if we could find any clues. I vividly remember walking through the woods and feeling in my best Dan'l Boone mood, complete with my genuine coon skin cap. Ah yes.....boy against nature.....the stuff of adventure dreams.

We were a fishing family. Mom loved it as well, so "opening day" was a family event. The evening before, lunches were packed, the cooler was filled and the equipment was checked and double checked. A word about that cooler; it was a metal monstrosity with thick walls. Red with white lettering emblazoned on the side, Conan the Barbarian would have been challenged to lift it comfortably when it was filled with ice and sodas.

Pre-dawn the house on Park Street took on life. Scurrying became the order of the day with Dad issuing instructions at break-neck speed. The old Dodge finally loaded, off we chugged.

It was about 15 miles or so up to the target. The road was narrow and parts were not paved, but rather were gravel surfaced. Trout season didn't open until the stroke of noon, so in theory, there was no need to rush. In theory. In actuality, Dad felt compelled to get there early to "get the best spot". To save time, Dad chose to drive with his waders (or as he called them, "hip boots") on but rolled down. Not realizing that his "feel" for the pedals were greatly altered by the boots, we barrelled into a 90 degree curve on a graveled portion of the road. The old Dodge wasn't much, but she had enough zip in her to shoot into a fishtailing slide. Dad was scuffling to control the car, Mom was raising holy hell, and I was in the back seat going, "Wheeeeeee".

Somehow, the old Dodge righted herself and things calmed. Undeterred, Dad forged ahead until we reached our creek. Serenity had taken a sabbatical. Every trout fan in 3 counties were lined up on the banks. Dan'l Boone now had an army. About 11:30, every one had flies on their rods and were holding them up waiting for the gunshot that signaled High Noon. Boom. Lines dropped, casts were made, curses were heard from fishermen catching each other, and slowly a look of peace and contentment spread across Dad's face. It was as if he was truly in his element, and you know what? He was.

I don't remember that we caught many if any "keeper" trout. We caught plenty of a strange little fish called a "Horny Head", but we threw them back too. Even in my 10 year old mind, I think I wanted Dad to catch a citation trout. It never happened, but I treasure the memories of his trying.

I still have Dad's old tackle box, his last fishing license, and that red cooler is still in the family. And to my dying day, I'll remember the sound of that gravel flying and "Wheeeeeeee".

Confirmed: It Was The Suit

The Old Man is not a fan of confinement. Before the days of cell phones and when blackberries came off of a thorny vine and in a wizard named Alma's hands, morphed into the finest cobbler known to mankind, I spent more time in phone booths than Clark Kent. I was a salesman, and as such, was away from my office most of the day. My only form of communication was the phone booth. Stifling in the summer heat and freezing in winter's chill, they served me as well as could be expected, but they also gave me the willies. I sometimes felt as if I were in a glass walled casket. Confinement personified.



For a spell, we had a houseboat. It wasn't much to look at in the yachting world.....a camper mounted on pontoons. It did, however, have all the facilities needed to get by. The shower/toilet was about the size of those phone booths. Pretty ingenious use of space, though. You could shower, brush your teeth, and ...well, you know, all at the same time. From time to time, while you were in there, some fool would go by wide open and the wake from his boat would throw you against the door spilling your naked, tooth-brushed self out into the hall, while the shower hose flopped around like a python juiced on Red Bull. At least the confinement would end at that point and the others on the boat would discover real amusement.



But perhaps the scariest period of confinement I can recall occurred "up in the country". We would go to visit relatives who lived on a farm outside of town. They were (and still are) "salt of the earth" people. They lived according to the old ways; raising most all they ate, mending, repairing, making do, and doing what they could to earn a living. They farmed, ran a sawmill, and hunted wild game. They were a tough lot; hardened by necessity and by their environment. I love the memory of those who have gone, and love the contact with those who are left. They are among my heroes. Into this culture came yours truly. I lived in town. Already, I'm two strikes toward out. I didn't have to kill my own chickens. Strike three. Upon striking out, my cousins decided to lock me in the outhouse. In I went for the most innocent of purposes, and the next thing I knew, from outside, giggling spilled over into guffaws and I realized I was stuck. They had bolted the door. Now, forget about the modern Port-A-John concept. At the very least they have that nice blue chemical that works to deodorize for the first hour or so. No such with an outhouse; no Scrubbing Bubbles, no Tidy-Bowl. It was as I recall, a "one-holer". One hole with no mystery as to its contents.



After about a half hour of me beating on the door, they finally relented and let me out. Of course, I stormed off with righteous indignation flying off me like water drops off a Golden Retriever. They were practically clutching their sides laughing.



I had a conversation with one of them just a few weeks ago. I playfully jibed her for her role in my confinement and she said, "You probably had on that white suit." It was as if I had suddenly discovered the meaning of life! No wonder all those years ago, they had attempted to teach me a lesson. Without even realizing it, I learned in that outhouse the penalty for arrogance. I had unintentionally sent the message that I may have thought I was better than them. In my own defense, however, I had help. I didn't choose the white suit.



But now, 60 years later, I understand.

Renewal

The Old Man never tires of Spring. Nature refreshes herself and trots out the colorful finery the Almighty has provided in her closet. Here's what awaited us when we returned from Margaritaville!