Sentimentally 1990

Here we all are, dressed the way our parents dressed us on this important Picture Day, some of us probably not too happy about it either. I see Clay in the back row though and while you can’t see the bib straps, we all know they are there, why, because it was cool, that’s why. I look at this picture and I smile, I see Casey and Bruce standing next to each other. Of course they stand next to each other, they probably just finished a belching contest, and as we all know those contests had no winner. I see Ashley and Adrienne in the middle and of course they are next to each other, you cannot possibly remember one without remembering the other. The fourth grade, when boys noticed girls and girls noticed boys. I remember how our romantic interests culminated in a couples’ skate at Marvic Skate center. I once wrote the incredibly brave ‘Will you skate with me? Check yes or no.’ note. There you would find yourself in your happiest moment to date circling the warped wooden floor, pinky fingers locked because your palms were too sweaty, gently bopping to the beat of Miley’s dad country crooning about his achy breaky heart. Or perhaps as more often was the case, just like Phil Collins couldn’t dance, you could not skate backwards, so you found yourself seated on the carpeted bench watching others undulate in the strobe light, lamenting your own achy breaky heart. Music more then than now ruled our lives and while I don’t recall anyone brave enough to show up at school with their clothes on backwards, we never missed an opportunity to ‘Jump Jump’ if Mr. Kriss or Mr. Kross asked us to. The toughest decision we ever had to make those days was whether to allow or disallow the dreaded “popcorn” move in a game of Two Square. Long before the American presence of Jackie Chan we would dangerously plummet from the upper battlements of the old wooden fort, free falling stories down, exploding pea gravel as we landed. Free running through monkey bars and chain ladders only to have the person you were desperately chasing clutch at the last possible second to the fireman pole and yell ‘Base!’ Ryan Turnball didn’t play tag. He played everything else, who here didn’t want to be on his team during Kickball. It was a sure win! That’s not a peace sign being flashed in the back row, Charlie Curtner our class clown is throwing up the bunny ears. My own kids don’t know how funny bunny ears can be. I see the two who are no longer with us. I remember them both and wish I could see them post how much they too love this photo. I distinctly recall being pleased after losing a game of chess with Greg Schreiber, I made it all the way to the end, just a few pieces left before he crushed me. He was the smartest person our age that I knew. I look into this picture and I wonder how Nick Feely’s Mother persuaded him to wear something other than his Motley Crue T-Shirt. I know when I picture him today…He’s wearing it. Kyle and Ryan are on opposite sides of the bleachers that must have been hard on them, no wonder Ryan looks bored, his best friend is in the back row. Rachel is laughing and Mellissa is probably preparing to do a backflip. I think about everything I want to do. I want to beat Chris Auckley in a race, I want to go to art class with Steve Carol and Isaac Hubbard. I want to do tricks on teeter totters and leap from a swing, most of all I want to find out why at west school is it mandatory to learn the xylophone. I mean, what the heck, why all the stress on xylophones? I can’t name everybody here, not without writing a book, what I will say is this… My watch phone just vibrated at me, I have an alert on my twitter feed, ( My how far we’ve come from the 5 and a half inch floppy drive game of Oregon Trail in Mrs. Henshaw’s class room) It says this, “The American Psychiatry Association states that if a person is friends with another person for seven years, then that friendship will last a lifetime.” While none of us today look at this 25 year old photo and see the face of a now bosom buddy, I believe that we all would call each other friends. I was at West school for 7 years and I know that there isn’t a face here, despite past childhood grievances, imagined or otherwise, that met on the street today I would not greet as an old friend.

The Destroyer

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The year was 1984. The Month, January. The Date 10. In a world where playpens are designed to contain children, in a small town hospital, the un-containable was born. Coleman the Destroyer came to be.

In this world where mortal children walk at the age of one year or later, The Destroyer walked at a mere nine months. His only Kryptonite is perhaps that he never truly mastered walking without falling down. Falling down a lot. Falling farther than any mortal man dare dream fall. In only another month’s time this child of destruction had mastered tipping his playpen fortress of solitude and wreaking havoc in dozens of domestic homes across the Midwest.

Thirty years later, doctors still scratch their heads in amazement. Emergency room physicians all across mid-Missouri lost great financial sums in local betting pools as no one had predicted Cole would survive to his 30th year.

Forces of man and nature attempted to bring about the demise of The Destroyer over the years. A basement coffee table attempted to blind him, missing gouging out his right eye by mere millimeters. A classroom-sized chalkboard dislodged both tooth and bone. A young aspiring angler pulled two more teeth with the aid of a wet bath towel. Yet The Destroyer lived on.

In the late 80s a towering set of ball park bleachers almost dispatched him at a local softball game, impaling his lip on his own remaining teeth. But The Destroyer survived to tell the tale and graduate from preschool.

A bowl of ‘La Casa’s’ tortilla chips poisoned him a year later. He vomited disease all over the late dinner crowd. Wiping the spittle from his youthful chin; he stared Death in the face and winked.

Even the well-intended vigilance of his very own two Grandmothers were unable to stem his proclivities toward chaos. For, was it not he who dropped his pants to “log a complaint” in the hedgerow at the state capital historical cannon exhibit? Was it not he, whose antics distracted his grandmother, causing her to get lost and purchase cheap souvenirs in the foreign land of Mexico? The Destroyer was especially fond of scorpions preserved in acrylic.

Where grandmothers faltered, there were those who were able to contain The Destroyer; these were mighty individuals indeed, although their successes were fleeting. Nothing daunted him. There was no chasm – neither swimming pool, nor Grand Canyon – into which he would not fling himself – no glass-strewn asphalt upon which we would not slide, for pain was as nothing and the specter of death was always laughing too hard to catch up.

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No doubt fearing the implications of his presence in their state, underworld elements sought to immobilize and contain him in the city of Albuquerque by stealing the family car. But, as with the playpens of his youth, he tipped the city over and escaped in the back of a rental car. The Destroyer even managed to hold onto his souvenir scorpions while his jealous older brother stared on in amazement, empty handed.

Even the trusted old driveway basketball goal got in the game. The Destroyer sliced a nostril. The Hise boys lost the pickup game, but Coleman lived on. He lived on, less congested.

In 1999, a mysterious infection brought The Destroyer to his knees. An entire western metropolis medical staff puzzled at the cause. Some say it was a genetically-modified superbug developed by the science department of a rival football team. Some say it was a terrible vengeance wrought by the gods of personal hygiene. In the end, neither the smallest bacteria, nor the largest high school goons could bring down the indestructible Coleman James Hise.

.

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Standing a mere 5’8” tall and weighing 150 pounds when drenched with his own pain-induced sweat, this icon of destruction is surprisingly unimpressive to behold. While most men’s hair simply turns gray, The Destroyer's hair began a mass exodus when he was a mere twenty years of age. We all miss that luxuriously thick Calvin and Hobbes hair-do; yet despite numerous scars and a receding hair line, The Destroyer's mystique remained.

I can honestly say I believed nothing could ever stop The Destroyer. I was wrong.

Coleman the Destroyer finally met his fate a few years ago. Destiny took the form of a petite and pretty gal who opened the world's eyes to The Destroyer's mortality. All that is left of the once-proud warrior is a thirty-year-old father of two. A responsible homemaker, cook, and duck hunter who can’t even bring himself to take more than one bird at a time. Just a husk remains of the manliest being ever created in the Bible-belt. It’s as if the maniacal disaster creator never existed except in the fevered imaginations of now-institutionalized babysitters. The passing of his manhood was marked in a quiet, private ceremony attended by Chuck Norris, the ghost of Wyatt Earp, and John Bolton’s mustache.

These days, whenever I see an over-priced, reinforced, Kevlar-impregnated playpen, I smile and think of the battles I witnessed. I think of Coleman The Destroyer.

The child is gone; only the man remains. Thirty. The world will simultaneously breathe easier and take you more seriously.

Happy Birthday little brother.

Written by the man and the man that made the man for the man’s little brother-man

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And now for something different

Once upon a Sunday morning, while I slept in, only slightly snoring,
My dreams of boats with two stroke engines, and Victoria’s secrets galore,
Were rudely interrupted by sounds of crapping, most flatulent crapping,
As of some Beagle quietly mapping, mapping her placement of morning spoor.
My wife will clean it, I hoped, quietly she will sweep and mop up the floor.
I rolled over and continued to snore.

I still had small hopes to spoon, after all it was the middle of June,
This day is Fathers day and for me, poor me, it’s times four.
I listened for mopping, impatiently waiting, hoping for spit swapping,
Yet instead I heard waking, waking toddlers, treading through canine spoor.
“Oh those kids, those loud kids, (thanks to my potency), times four,
Mopping will last forevermore!”

Brilliant light then came streaming, accompanied by toddlers screaming,
Panicked, afraid, I hid myself and prayed, ‘please no more!’
My prayer unheard, I smelled the Beagle turd, as on they came beaming.
“Not today!“ I cried, “Go away!“, I lied, “I’m asleep, close my door!”
The smell increased, they smelled long deceased, these children coated in filthy spoor.
It’s a nightmare, I wept, only that and nothing more.

I’ll escape, I‘ll fish all day, I planned, and up I jumped naked and tanned,
I stiff armed a child, and leapt over something piled, nearly missed avoiding some spoor.
Quickly, I dressed, tired, angry, and sexually repressed,
Yet If I hurried quicker, I might slip slicker out the back door.
“Children move now! Please I am begging you! I implore!”
Still, on they came, covered in spoor.

Failing to sleep in, spoon, or fish, I resigned to question the children four,
“Where is your mother?, HEY DON’T HIT YOUR BROTHER! The store?
“AAARGH!“, cried I, look at this sty, you’re all covered with disgusting spoor,
I sank to my knees, and begged them please, tell me I’m dreaming.
Then I heard a rumbling, as if something rolling and tumbling,
And I knew, it was the garage door.

Scared more than ever, I thought only of heather, or escape to a distant shore.
I knew my only chance would be to dash when SHE stepped in through the door.
While it may be a day for Dad’s, she wouldn't tolerate my letting these tads,
Crash and boom, causing destruction and doom through piles of Beagle spoor.
I braced myself for what was to come, I just stood there quiet, deaf and dumb,
I stared afraid at the garage door.

The door opened and there my wife stood, her features were fierce, not good,
I could see she was accosted by the smells that wafted anywhere wafting could,
So in an effort to avoid the incredible yelling and additional smelling in store,
I dashed forward half naked, kissed her cheek and then stated
Honey, my dear, I love you, I’m off to go fishing, I’ll be thinking of you.
By the way, for my Fathers day, could you clean up this spoor.
 
As I began to drive away, there came a cry of a feminine sway, “NEVERMORE!
YOU’D BETTER ENJOY TODAY, FORE TOMORROW YOU’RE BLOOOD AND GORE!!”
I smiled and laughed, my eyes dancing, soon I would be casting these cares away.
When came a new rumbling, louder this time, causing my good mood crumbling,
I turned back, giving up fishing with pain, I could plainly see, it was going to rain.
“Honey I am back, to help you wash the spoor.” (forevermore)

Kids aren't Bats, They are Dogs

Dear Dad,

               I would like to call your attention to a recent scientific study in Switzerland that deduced human children must actually be a species of bat. A bat that inevitably matures and evolves into a more primate like being. Swiss science has shown that while underdeveloped and unable to fly, most children still believe they can fly and will attempt doing so, often with disastrous ends. Numerous tests also confirmed that children must be blind as they constantly bump into objects, typically breaking them. The subjects studied emitted high pitched squeals that seemed to be an attempt to locate food sources. Subjects were often found sleeping with their heads hanging upside down over the edge of their beds. In a country wide test four out of every five Swiss children were observed eating bugs and it is speculated the remainder ingested their insects more secretively. Subjects were often awake in the middle of the night when humans are supposed to be asleep. The study is quite convincing.

               The only problem that I have with this study though is that bats have exceptional hearing! I think I can prove that human children do not actually hear. I believe that children have a mechanism in their brain that interprets sound waves based on decibel levels and then auto-react based on those interpretations. Actual hearing noise and understanding it doesn't happen until late adolescence. I have a story that I believe backs this up and thus disproves Swiss theory.

              As a parent I have noticed that my children do stupid things when I yell. They immediately react to my yells in a manner that has nothing to do with the words I am yelling. For example if you yell at a child to ‘COME HERE’ the child will run away. If you yell ‘CLEAN YOUR ROOM’ the child will sit down in the middle of said ‘dirty’ room and wail that they are thirsty. When I yell ‘CLEAN YOUR ROOM’ my four year old son gets thirsty and my five year old daughter immediately has to go to the bathroom. When I yelled ‘GIVE ME THE WRENCH’ to my son (ten at the time) he looked up at the ceiling and spun around in a circle. I can’t believe that all four of my children are mentally inferior, and since they are decidedly not bats, (no pun intended) I believe they must be reacting to sound levels interpreted by their small underdeveloped brains. They do not actually hear words.

            This is how I got a fish hook in my face! Let me explain.

            I took my eleven year old son fishing. To be a ‘cool’ dad, I let him steer the boat under the power of an electric trolling motor. Since it only propels the boat at 2 mph top speed, I figured what the heck.

           I spent the majority of the fishing trip yelling through clenched teeth over clenched butt cheeks.

“CAMERON TURN LEFT”

“CAMERON WATCH OUT TURN!”

“CAMERON TURN AROUND THE TREE, DON’T DRIVE THROUGH IT!”

“CAMERON THE BOAT DOESN’T WORK ON LAND, TURN IT!”

            You get the Idea. Naturally Cameron’s wee sized neural center associated my decibel level with a need to counter steer the boat. Later that afternoon my fishing line became snagged on a lily pad. I observed that the boat was headed strait for the snag. Good I thought, no problem here. As I leaned over the bow of the boat with my arm under water and my face close to the lake surface, I yelled over the wind at my son quite clearly, “CAMERON YOU ARE DOING GREAT, JUST KEEP GOING STRAIGHT!

             Cameron’s brain was very quick to deduce the boat needed to be turned sharply to the left. The fishing line tightened, the root of the lily pad gave way. My head snapped back from the force of the lily pad striking me, and dangling from my cheek was some new jewelry with the shape and texture of a rubber minnow.

             Cameron hasn’t been fishing with me for a few weeks now. His brain deduced from my decibel level that he should take up video games for a month or two before renewing his fishing experiences.

             Long story short the Swiss are incorrect. Children are not ‘bats.’ Children are also not deaf. They just don’t hear the way we do. It is obviously far more likely that children are dogs. My dog also only reacts to the tone of my voice, unless I say ‘Hot Dog.’ She seems to understand that. All four of my kids seem to get that one too.

Love,

          Your loud and newly pierced son.

Specifics Bob

Dear Dad,
                As my small town was surrounded and being attacked by spring rain storms, I spent this past weekend indoors. On Sunday morning to make myself feel gloomier, I decided to watch the weekly bass fishing highlights on ESPN. During what seemed a very long hour of watching men enjoy themselves out on the water, being paid to fish, it occurred to me that my life sucks.

               Watching what I like to call ‘Standard’ sports on television never gets me down. I know I could never have been a professional Football, Basketball or Baseball player. I am an average to smaller than average sized dude who can’t dunk, pitch or trade hits with three hundred pound men.

               I can Bass fish my butt off though. I’m actually quite good at it. I catch ‘trophy’ size fish pretty regularly everywhere I try. So I watched this ‘Bass Master Elite’ program on ESPN and began to get angry. Not jealous, just angry!

HO HO HO Now I have a machine gun!

Dear Dad,

               For Christmas this year I would like to give you the gift of the ultimate Christmas movie. You may be thinking to yourself that you have already watched it. Possibly you have witnessed Peter Bailey’s realization that all is well. You think you know that a BB gun is all little Ralphie needed to be happy. You cheered when Clark Griswald added twenty percent to his holiday bonus. Maybe you enjoyed Tim the Tool Man Taylor getting fat and growing a beard. Yet after all your holiday movie viewing you have yet to watch the one true Christmas movie. I am of course referring to the 1988 classic brought to us by ‘John McTiernan‘ starring ‘Bruce Willis‘ and ‘Alan Rickman.’ The one and only ‘Die Hard!’

               Bruce Willis not only provided us with an everyman type of hero, he also gave us a holiday movie with a real message. Let’s look at it shall we. The movie starts out with Christmas music and a giant teddy bear. The movie ends with Christmas music, a dead terrorist and a giant teddy bear. Our hero John McLane finds himself in the worst possible situation. His holiday hopes of wooing his wife back into his bed have come crashing down around his head. Visions of sugarplums are replaced by German terrorists with English accents and automatic weapons. Terrorists that turn out to be just burglars. Burglaring John’s holiday lay.

Missouri Hise and the Temple of D.M.V.

Dear Dad,

               It has been a life long dream of mine to own the cheapest versions of all the cool things rich people have. Over the years I have accumulated many ‘cool’ pieces of crap. Homeless people have long been envious of me. It’s to be expected, everyone loves a treasure hunter. I thoroughly enjoy my life as king of the lower middle class.

               I bought a boat this week. It is called a ‘Bass Raider 8.’ Not because it is the eighth model of a bad-ass bass boat, but because it is eight feet long. Essentially it is a rectangular canoe. It has two highly placed swivel seats and an electric trolling motor. While I don’t dock it at the local marina, I truly couldn’t be happier with myself. I can’t wait to do some raiding!

Flushed but Not Forgotten

Dear Dad,


               Too long have we men labored under the delusion that in our homes there lies in wait a throne. A cool porcelain seat, surrounded by four soundproof walls through which no nagging hails can pierce. A place of solitude and peace. A room where the magazines rule and time has no meaning. Well, it DOES NOT EXIST! This scrap of suburban lore has been smited like the dragons of old. The throne rooms of our forefathers are overrun by piles of dirty laundry and yellow bathtub ducks. Ducks that mock the precious few moments we have to ourselves. No matter how many times we gather the laundry and stomp on those ridiculous ducks, the next day will find more mildewing pairs of toddler whitey tighties and a smiling, squeaking, water squirting damn duck! A truer tale about man and his throne should be told.

In honor of the Halloween season I present you with 'A Trip to the Zoo'

Dear Dad,

               I decided to take advantage of my time in the great metropolis of St. Louis and invite my wife and children to join me at the zoo. Money is always an issue in my family and I felt that the zoo was the answer to my children’s complaints of never getting to do anything. The zoo is free after all. I called my wife from my hotel and made the arrangements. I would escort the five of them through the FREE wonderland that is the St. Louis Zoo!

               I stayed in St. Louis that Sunday. While my wife was getting the children ready and preparing to endure the two and a half hour car ride with four sleep deprived yet excited children, I slept in. At the last possible moment I drove the ten minutes to the zoo. There I paid eighteen dollars to park in the parking lot as opposed to seven miles away for the free pre zoo marathon so many others were partaking in. I called my wife and prepared her for the eighteen dollar lot entry she too would have to fork over.
My wife got there (late of course) and after she chewed a bit of my butt off for looking so chipper, we gathered the children and like Dorothy and her fellows we skipped into Oz hand in hand. Colton my three year old son informed me that he JUST WANTED TO SEE AN ELEPHANT!

Cinder Man 3, No More Leftovers!

Dear Dad,


               When you have children nothing lasts for long, let alone forever. Sometimes it seems as if every time I turn around something else is broken. In the summertime, when sound carries the best my neighborhood is full of dog barks, child’s yells and Fathers shouts of ‘Hey what the hell happened in here!”

                When I met my wife I already had one son from my first (practice) marriage. It was this prior experience that gave me the courage to mock my wife’s nervousness. I remember when she was about six months pregnant with her first child she brought me a bunch of white plastic trinkets and doo-dads. She said she wanted me to ‘Child Proof’ the house. I looked at that young sweet innocent face, and then I laughed. I laughed hard and long until her face didn’t look so sweet anymore. Sometimes when it is quiet outside in the dark of night and the wind picks up just a little you can still hear ‘The Man’ giggle a bit. I threw the plastic latches in the trash, drove down to the local national guard armory and purchased the things I knew we would need through a contact of mine. I reinforced all the studs in the walls with solid steel beams. I put auto firing turrets by all the breakables and reinforced deadbolts on the silverware drawers. This is what experience does for you.

Cinder Man and the Dishwasher

Dear Dad,

               My lovely wife still doesn’t believe I am always right! After years of marriage and countless offerings of proof she still insists that I am wrong from time to time. I don’t know how to resolve this issue with finality so I just continue to provide proof of my infallibility. One such opportunity presented itself with the replacing of the dishwasher. The boss suggested that I have professionals come out and take care of it for me. However since I had never before removed a dishwasher or installed one and since I wasn’t sure how the machine worked, I decided that the missus was wrong. I informed her that hiring someone to do the job would be absurd. Of course I can do it. Yes dear, I know what I am doing. No dear, you don’t have to leave the house. Of course I am not going to burn anything down. I know that is what I said about the deck last year.

               My argument went on for some minutes until she was thoroughly convinced I would screw up. I believe that fixing things that seem difficult to fix is one of the few arguments a man can win resolutely. All that is needed is some raw determination, a good hardware store and a thesaurus with an adult theme to help keep your swears original. (I find that the more original swears often make spouses believe a job is much harder than it actually is thereby increasing the reward factors exponentially!)

Cinder Man

Dear Dad,

               The ‘Honey do’ list is a document that I refer to regularly. Early in my marriage this infamous list of chores was often times full of things I wanted to do. There were Items on the list like, ‘Teach wife how to shoot pool‘, ‘Buy wife bigger television‘, or ‘Date night with wife’ and even ‘GET WIFE PREGNANT!’
              
               Somewhere along the way though the nature of the honey do’s dramatically changed. I didn’t notice it happening at the time. The slow graduation of tasks was artfully handled by a fiendish mastermind. Even my own masterful man skills couldn’t save me every weekend from the webs spun by the chore master. The fight wore on for some time but I am beginning to think I may have lost. My skin is pasty and white, my eyes are permanently adjusted to the grey air of the garage and tool shed. When did I become this thing you may ask. I suppose if I had to narrow it down it was probably around two children ago.

More Spaghettio's anyone?

Dear Dad,

                 Early spring nineteen eighty a beautiful woman gave birth to a relatively fat baby boy. Upon realizing the sex of the child as male, and associating that realization with the fact that the said child would never himself have to endure the pain of child birth, she did what all women in similar situations do. She cursed the child. She closed her eyes and prayed that some how, some way this infant male would be troubled by his own children in the future. Of course one silent wish alone isn’t a guarantee that a curse will stick. Mothers, in their infinite wisdom know this, so over the child’s next eighteen years the hex is reapplied with every minor indiscretion the boy commits.

                 As you know I have given you four grandchildren. What you don’t know is that I have succeeded where most men have failed. Apart from each child’s first few weeks home I have essentially avoided the dirtier parts of fatherdom. I am certain of this fact because my wife is very good at pointing it out to me.

                After so much time spent avoiding the effects of such a powerful curse, it only stands to reason that even I, ‘The Man’ would falter.

For the 29th Time...

Dear Dad,

                In 1982 you took my mother out on a date and you allowed a fat two year old to tag along.

                In 1983 you gave me a new last name, even though no one pronounces it correctly it is incredibly easy to spell, so kindergarten would be that much easier.  Thank you.

                In 1984 you gave me my first Spaghetti-O’s with meat balls.  I thought it was poop in the bowl. I still don’t like meatballs, much to my wife’s frustration.  You also gave me a little brother that year.  He would become my sparring partner, my best friend and my worst enemy.

                In 1985 you taught me how to ride a bike, and as if that wasn’t enough you also taught me to catch a Frisbee with my face.

                In 1986 I rode my bicycle directly into the side of your vehicle.  I remind you that you trained me.  You didn’t get too mad though.  After all this was only the first time I broke one of your cars.

               In 1987 you began making me pick up the monstrous large piles of dog poop in our yard.  I still do not like meatballs.

               In 1988 you taught me a few jokes that mothers might not approve of.  I would say you birthed my sense of humor.  Many people today hold you responsible.  You also made the mistake of sharing with me the rebel rock music of the 60’s and the 70’s.  I am sure the resulting attitude of my teen years was not your intention, but there you go, it’s your fault.

               In 1989 you gave me the responsibility of walking my little brother to school.  He does not become my best friend for some years yet.  We were at the time of course sworn enemies, so thanks for that.

               In 1990 you allowed me to have a paper route, and then you didn’t allow me to quit the first Sunday I had to get up at 6 am.  Thanks for the work ethic.

              In 1991 you let me take martial arts classes.  I used this of course to deter my brother from being a pain in the butt.  It did not work however.  I give you credit though for trying.

              In 1992 you evened the playing field by sending my brother for martial arts lessons.  Then you sent our mother so that she would be better equipped to separate the two of us.  As an adult and a studier of men, I now realize this was just a ploy to earn you more napping time.

             In 1993 you gave me a little sister.  Almost immediately she pooped all over me.  I will never eat a meatball.  Thank you.

             In 1994 I snapped the tree off the steering column of your car.  I understand it was quite expensive to fix.  You didn’t get too mad.  It was only the second car I broke.  You cut all my hair off that year too.  Thanks.

             In 1995 you never once embarrassed me in front of a girl, even though you promised to every day that year.

             In 1996 you bailed me out….sorry.  Oh yeah I also ruined the clutch in your car that year.  I believe it upset you a bit that time.  It’s not your fault, the third time is the charm after all.

             In 1997 you helped me buy my first car.  To my utter disappointment you also taught me the difference between a Pontiac Firebird and a Pontiac Sunbird.  It was still a wonderful car, and to this day remains my favorite.

             In 1998 you turned me loose on the world.  We said our goodbyes and you did a good job of not scowling at the hole I called my first apartment.

             In 1999 you moved away to Phoenix, Arizona. I stayed in Missouri and began my quest to spread your noble name.  I was having fun practicing for this task.

             In 2000 I succeeded in letting the world know how old you are by bestowing the title of Grandpa upon you.  I also married that year.

             In 2001 you met your grandson and shared in the joy with me.  You taught me the true value of a nap.  A value I have not been blessed with for some time now.  I am enrolling my family in martial arts this year.  Thanks.

             In 2002 my house was hit by a tornado.  You instilled me with calm and assured me that all was not lost.  Turns out you were right. (Rainbows are round though.)

             In 2003 I began what would inevitably become a divorce.  You assured me that there is nothing wrong with a practice marriage.  You pointed out in all your wisdom that greater men than I had trod that path.

             In 2004 I met the woman who would become my second wife.  Yes it was quick work, and while I would like to credit you with the genetic passing on of my good looks, I am afraid that has to all go to my mother.  You did give me the spirit that won the girl though. Sorry and Thanks.

             In 2005 I remarried and introduced you to my wife.  After our 3 day visit you declared her a mute, and I cannot blame you.  Although I assure you she talks as much as any woman we have ever met.  I believe that in your presence many young people find themselves speechless.  Take it how you will.

             In 2006 I gave you a granddaughter.  I know you were pleased.  Pleased to have a granddaughter and pleased that I would now suffer the burden of raising two children.

             In 2007 I bought my first home.  It still needs a lot of work.  I remember how good you are with tools, so I will take this opportunity to thank you for not helping.


              In 2008 I gave you your 3^rd grandchild. Another boy, to carry on the mispronounced name of Hise.  I had finally fully inherited the curse to be as burdened as you were with children.  Thank goodness I had such a great teacher.  Both my boys pick up the dog leavings.

               In 2009 I surpassed your burden and had a fourth child.  Another boy.  I am sure you are still laughing.


               In 2010 I turned 30.  It’s amazing how old you must be!

               Well Father it is 2011 and for the 29^th time I bid you a HAPPY FATHERS DAY!  You sir, are indeed ‘THE MAN!’

                                  Love,
                                           Your truly grateful and sarcastic son.

The One that Got Away

Dear Dad,

               The other day I found out that I would have to leave the state an entire month for work. It’s all part of the job so it doesn’t usually bother me, but this month happens to be snagging season. Not just snagging season but the first season I have participated in. I promised myself that I was going to catch a spoonbill this year and now with thirty days left in the season I only have one last opportunity. I got up this morning at five a.m. At five p.m. I was driving three hundred miles to my hotel room in Indiana. I knew this would prove to be a long day. I woke up my oldest son and we crept out of the still sleeping house. I knew that my wife would understand and I promised myself I would be back by eleven to spend time with her and my other three children. She had seen the gleam in my eye when my friend called and offered to get me out on the river one last time, she knew there would be no stopping me.

               My boy and I arrived at the river at 6 sharp. The sun was still down and it promised to be a nice morning. My buddy pulled up with his boat and away we went. I have spoken to you before about snagging. It is an interesting way to fish. Basically you just jerk incredibly large treble hooks through the water and hope for the best. You cannot catch a spoonbill paddlefish any other way. We did have a fish/depth finder so that gave us some idea of where to cast.

               Two hours into the adventure nary a bite (it’s still referred to as a bite, I don’t know why) had come our way. My son was starting to grumble of boredom and my nerves were a little frazzled. This was my last chance and I had bragged to so many people that I would land a monster. My friend suddenly perked us all up by shouting out that he had a fish on. Quickly I reeled in my line and passed my rod to my son. When the fish surfaced the first time, the clouds parted and a ray of sunshine descended upon our little boat.

                “It’s a spoonie!” came the yell, echoing across the water. We got it reeled into the boat, my jealousy subsided a little bit though as we put the tape measure to it. From the eye to the fork of the tail, this fish was only 22 inches long. That’s two inches too short. Bear in mind that a twenty two inch fish is still pretty big when compared to most freshwater fish that anglers keep. So in my mind even though we had to throw it back it was still pretty exciting. We decided to take a picture of it. I handed the fish to my ten year old son. I figured it would look bigger with him holding it, and I knew that his boredom would be almost permanently cured. Sure enough he was all smiles as he turned it loose.

               Now I had proof that these monsters of the deep were indeed lurking in my river, and with renewed vigor I cast back out. Perched up high in a rotating pedestal chair, freshly rewarded with evidence of fish, my deep sea rod held in my hands a bit of song escaped my lips. “Farewell and adieu to you fair Spanish ladies…“

               As we slowly worked our way closer to our starting point I finally received a thrilling tingle. It started somewhere in the deep and crept up my one hundred pound test line and vibrated down the fishing rod through my fingertips finally reverberating somewhere in the center of my brain. Without thinking I set the hook. Immediately the rod jumped in my hands three or four times.

               “FISH ON!” I yelled. I began reeling at a frantic pace. The line was dragging out as fast as I was reeling and the result was comical. In my head I envisioned smoke drifting out of the reel. Thoughts of Ahab and Captain Quint raced through my mind. I adjusted the drag and leaned back against the pull on the rod. Suddenly I was nearly ejected from my seat. It was if my line had suddenly become snagged on a submerged log or rock. For a fleeting moment I believed it. There was just no give at all.

                My friend laughed and said, “you’re snagged dude.”

                “No, It’s a fish!” I cried.

                Still chuckling, he replied “are you sure?”

                 I leaned back against the rod again. It bent to the near breaking point. Twenty yards off the bow of the boat a huge paddlefish surfaced.

                 “One hundred percent sure!” I shouted.

                 My friends jaw dropped and my son stood up in the boat craning his neck to get a better view. We could all tell this one was going to be big. The beast had rolled and my line was wrapped about it’s body several times. I was now dragging it against the current sideways accounting for the sudden difficulty. It was no snag. IT WAS A MONSTER. Finally we got it into the boat. I was shaking from the excitement and physical exertion. My cheeks hurt from smiling so big. I don’t believe that I have ever smiled that big. My heart was pounding in my chest. It was enthralling. We didn’t even bother with the measuring and weighing. I just hoisted it up and had the picture taken. We tied it up and I secured a knot around the pedestal chair on the bow. We slid the fish into the water and turned the boat around to see if there were more monsters lurking in the same spot.

                  As my friend piloted his vessel I leaned over the side and snapped another picture of the fish in the water. I planned on taking many more photos. As I was putting my phone back into it’s holster the fish began to roll head over tail. Right as I was looking, disaster struck. I don’t know if the animals flesh gave way or if the line stretched in the water and slipped through the snap hook. The spoonbill broke free of it’s tether and disappeared in a final ripple and tail slap. The line floated in the water unbroken. Before either my son or my friend even knew it happened they heard the noise of anguish. No swears, no tears no blaming, just a long guttural howl emerged the bowels of my throat.

                 “NNNNOOOOOO0000000oooooooooo…..”

                 Birds lifted in mass from their roosts, taking to the skies. The wind picked up and the waves lashed out at the boat. The sky grew dark and in the distance thunder clapped. My knuckles grew white as I gripped the side of the boat trying to comprehend what had just happened. These are the lessons we learn. I have had a lot of fun telling this story and the best parts of fishing are the catch, the fight and the photos. Still no spoonbill in the frying pan this year. Am I THE MAN, I believe so. I had the most invigorating fishing trip of my life. I left town for a month, but I left my oldest son with a smile on his face. I have a picture that I fully intend to frame, and there is always next year my friend.

                 Love,

                          Your traveling, nautical angling son.

Early Bird My Foot!

Dear Dad,

               You know how I know that spring is here?  It’s the trail of ants in my kitchen.  I came home from work today and my wife informed me that we have ants.  We get them every year.  I spray the perimeter of the house with a mild insecticide and the problem goes away.  It’s easy but tedious work that always turns into a day of honey-do’s.

                Today was my birthday though, and I didn’t want to work so I told the missus what I always tell her.  “Honey, I’ll take care of it on the very next nice weekend.”  I of course was referring to the weather, and since it snowed today, I figured I had bought myself some time.  The problem is I used this same excuse at least twenty times this winter.  The list of things I am going to have to do on the next sunny Saturday is getting pretty extensive.  I sat down and began devising a plan to further avoid all this work.

                Don’t get me wrong I love plying the handyman trade all around the house.  All men do, but we like to do it on our own terms.  Men don’t work well with deadlines.  I like to just wake up one day and decide, TODAY I AM GOING TO CLEAN THE GUTTERS.  When it’s my idea I have fun doing it.  Don’t believe me?  Think about it.  I get to climb on the roof, get dirty, live dangerously, and of course I have a high pressure water sprayer.  It has so much power that last year I had to replace a small section of gutter.  It was AWESOME.

               As I sat pondering this dilemma my eyes fell upon an old ‘Bass Pro’ catalog.  Quickly becoming distracted by the colorful lures and deer antler shaped furniture I drifted to sleep.  Two things occurred to me in my sleep.  The first is that I am finally old enough to enjoy an afternoon nap with out being hung over and the second thing was the simple solution to my problem.  As it turns out I realized that all men have this exact same problem and invented the fix for it years ago. 

               Fish bite ALL DAY long.  They bite all night long too.  All men know this, it’s why fishing trips last so long.  No self respecting man gives up fishing at ten in the morning because it’s not early anymore.  Hundreds of years ago, retired men working Saturdays in their wives’ flower gardens got together and created the legend - “The early bird gets the worm.”  They used this slogan to dupe women into thinking that if their husbands didn’t leave at the crack of dawn then the fishing trip would be ruined.  It’s perfect!  Why it works I don’t understand.  Birds eat worms all day long, and the word fish isn’t in the saying at all.  I guess older generations were smarter, because those guys made it work.  All winter long we promise to fix the chain link fence and spread the mulch.  We say we’ll spray for pests and do the spring garage cleaning, and we say we’ll do all these things on the first nice weekends.  Women are natural caretakers so they don’t really want us out in crappy weather anyway.  The ruse works.  Then on that fateful sunny Saturday, husbands everywhere slip out of the house before the sun (and the wife) comes up.

                Sorry dear, the early bird gets the worm, and then we don’t come back until dinner.  After dinner it’s dark.  Can’t work in the dark.  Sunday is church, brunch and visit the in-laws.  Thank you old men from history for being so dang smart.  Last weekend I actually spent a partly sunny day organizing my fishing gear and building a rack for my rods and reels.  I was way too busy doing that to get out and do any other work.  Now I am fully prepared to get on with some procrastination and avoidance.

               Dad, you might want to kill me for putting our secrets in print but the message to get across here is this.  Ladies need to let us think the work is our Idea and not only will it get done faster but we’ll have fun doing it.  Oh sure there will be the occasional emergency room trip caused by some over zealous power tool usage but the work will get done.  Don’t assign us work because we are way to good at avoiding it.  We will create a story so powerful it becomes a saying that stands the test of time.  WE ARE THE MEN!!
Early bird my foot, come on!  You actually bought that crap!  Now don’t go getting righteous on us ladies, I believe there is another saying about getting to the retail outlet store early also, because all the good deals will be gone.  Come on!  We’ve been in retail clothing stores.  They have four thousand of each shirt, skirt and flowered flip flop on the racks plus extras stored in the back.  Tit for tat.

               Now while I don’t mind ruining lies for you, I would appreciate it if my wife never read this letter.  I really do have some fishing to do.  Thanks.

               Love,
                        Your scheming low down sneaky son.

A Tale of Two Grills

Dear Dad,

                March is here and we have had our first week in the seventy to eighty degree range.  My wife has begun to drop hints about barbecuing, and she is making promises to the kids.  I am probably going to grill some burgers and dogs tomorrow night, just to break in the grill after it’s long winters nap.  In preparation I’ll have to clean the grill inside and out, check and probably replace the propane tank.  All this work for hotdogs and cheeseburgers seems a little crazy and uncharacteristic for me but I like to give my grill a little spring training every year.  You can’t expect your grill to wake up and just knock a brat or steak out of the park, you have to coach it a little.  Send it back to the minors for a day and let it work out any issues it may have.

                All types of grills have their shortcomings and a lot of people scoff at the propane grill calling them less manly and complaining that they can taste the propane.  These same people use microwaves all winter long, so they’re pretty much full of crap.  Besides the charcoal grill is a single mans tool specifically designed to entertain the ladies.  Oh yes, that’s what I said!  Entertain the Ladies.  First the young buck invites them over.  He reduces the standard female inhibitions with alcohol, he arranges the briquettes showing her that he could have been an engineer if he wanted to.  He lights the fire with a match, maybe singeing the hairs on the back of his hand and earning sympathy and hopefully some nursing as well.  Now he gets a half hour of guaranteed time she has to spend with him.  That’s thirty minutes of beer drinking and chit chat all aimed at one goal.  Then he gets to dazzle her with his culinary skills and feed her as she has never been fed before.  If he’s smart he ensures the coals stay hot by adding some more right after the food is done.  This way when dinner is over he can roast her a marshmallow over the white coals and make her a smore.  (That is a freebie for all you youngin’s taking notes.)  Ah yes the charcoal grill is an excellent tool not to be underestimated by young men or for that matter by the young ladies.

                 After marriage and children (4 in my case) a man is in a hurry when cooking out.  First you have to do the dogs for the children.  Then the real food for the adults.  There is more food to make so you need a larger grill.  It doesn’t work to use a charcoal grill to try and hide outside and avoid household chores.  A wife is smarter than that and she just sends the children out to play.  She sticks her head out the door and casually says something like ‘honey keep an eye on them while your staring at those coals.’  Listen close enough after the door shuts and you can hear her laughing softly as she slides into a fresh drawn bubble bath.

                 Needless to say ‘THE MAN’ cannot be fooled.  I purchased a large propane grill several years ago.  Now I produce barbecued animal flesh at an assembly line speed.  I’ve always maintained that married men strive to do everything (except one thing) as fast as humanly possible.  It’s an excellent grill, and if you use sauces and seasonings and good meat then that is what you will taste.  I recommend hickory.  If you're tasting propane then either you're doing something wrong or you need to see a doctor about your mutated taste buds.

                All this barbeque talk reminds me of an incident early in my marriage.  I always used the same Webber grill and employed all the tactics previously mentioned.  Those tactics will work on a wife too if you're still newly weds with one child or less, and you replace the beer with margaritas.  You need a little more kick now, because she knows that if you get what your wanting, she might have to go through labor again.  I picked up a travel size mini grill for free at a garage sale one day while I was on my way home.  When I got home it was a pleasant enough day, so I figured I would use it instead of my classic Webber.  I set it down on the deck and loaded and lit the coals.  I wondered why it wouldn’t come with legs.  Seemed to me that you wouldn’t want to set a grill on a plastic deck table.  I just assumed that the mini grill was manufactured not to conduct heat to the lip the grill’s bowl rested on.  I walked away from it and went inside to my television.  I’ve been married too long to employ the chit chat tactic and I was out of margarita mix.  Ten minutes later my wife came running into the room telling me the deck was on fire.  I rushed outside and picked up the mini fire starter from hell.  I set it on top of my Webber grill and turned to stare at the perfect sphere of scorched deck where the travel p.o.s. had been sitting moments before.  I started swearing and grumbling, I blamed the manufacturer for not putting a larger lip around the bottom of the stupid thing.  I yelled out to the heavens “No wonder it was FREE!”  I shouted to my wife “There should be legs or something on this dang thing!”  Later that night after we ate and the stupid defective grill had cooled down, I carried it down to the trash.  I was even more upset when I noticed that because I had set it on top of the Webber, I also melted the plastic knob of my only other grill.  I felt the same way about that Webber grill as Tom Hanks felt about his volley ball.

                 “WEBBER!!!”

                 As I turned away from my trashcan to head back inside I saw the underside of the nemesis grill.

               There folded inwards, were three extendable legs.

               It’s been years and my wife won’t let me forget about it, neither will the deck.  It reminds me every summer day by winking a giant perfectly spherical black eye at me. 

               It’s OK though, my sweet wife has given me permission to build a new, larger deck as soon as I can afford it.  What she doesn’t know are my plans to drop a hot tub into the middle of the new deck.  Oh yeah!  Who needs tactics when you’ve got a hot tub.  I’ll get to spend hours in hardware stores.  I’ll get to buy new tools and spend half a summer stretching that project out.  No diaper changing, no ‘honey do’ list. Just me, a hammer and my deck.  I also got to purchase my new baby, the propane giant that’s been feeding us for years now.  I can’t wait to attack my wife’s defenses with evenings spent in a hot tub.  So as you can see, even when I am not the smartest man, I AM STILL THE MAN!  Guys need to remember to turn their dumbest mistakes into the greatest of victories.  Also keep several fire extinguishers in the house.

                 Love,
                          Your singed & smoky, super crafty son.

Snagging the West

Dear Dad,

               I would like to break from tradition and talk about something a little broader than just my family and my successes in the realm of manhood.  I have an annual tradition coming up that is as important to me as opening day of deer season is to a hunter.  You know of course that I love to fish and I live very close to the Ozarks.  The Ozarks are a hilly place surrounded in mist.  ‘The Waltons’ lived there I think.  Nowadays the Ozarks are full of boozed up college kids and party yachts.  Fifty year old divorced men from Chicago with too much money, pounding down Busch beer and filling my lake with urine.  Still on the quiet side of the lake and on down past the damn in the rivers, we MEN gather to forage for food and entertainment.  There around the bend pointed south you will find me ‘THE MAN’ searching for the elusive.  I am of course talking about the great Spoonbill spring spawning.  Trout fishing is for weenies and city slickers.  If the fish doesn't weigh more than my children I’m throwing it back.  Snagging is what my friends and I do.  What is snagging you ask?  Let me explain.

               Missouri is a state populated primarily by the great-great-great grandchildren of lazy frontiersman. Few people can admit this, but it is wholly true.  A lot of people will talk about the outlaws that ran amuck around the state.  They will claim to be the descendants of Jesse James or Coleman Younger.  They will tell you that while he shot up New Mexico, Billy the kid spent his childhood in Missouri.  They will point out that Wyatt Earp grew up in Missouri and The Clantons he shot also were from Missouri.  They shout about Bonnie and Clyde and the hills that sheltered Ma and Pa Barker, Pretty Boy Floyd and Dillinger.  Well that is but a small percentage of the population, I assure you.  Most Missourians are far too lazy for bank robbing and such.  That is a lot of work. Let me tell you how Missouri actually came to be.  In the days of exploration and westward settlement, St. Louis was the ‘Gateway to the West.’  Settlers would travel by train to this burgeoning city and purchase the needed supplies to mount their expeditions.  From there they would set off across the Great Plains in search of the perfect piece of land.  They wanted nice flat land with black soil and plenty of clear water.  They searched for the blue skies and purple mountains majestic they sang about back east.  They wanted to toil and work and build their futures with their own two hands; or with the hands of their children who were building character.

               The people who settled the town I live in drove their wagons a mere one hundred and fifty miles. The land was hilly, but they were tired.  There was only an inch of red clay atop hard limestone, but their feet were already sore.  The water was muddy and brown and dangerously fast and large bodied, it tasted like limestone, but the sky was growing dark.  The weather changed every day and the only native wildlife were squirrels, opossum and raccoon.  Still they thought it tasted good with enough salt.  Salt they had plenty of, so they stopped forward progress, and declared themselves westerners.  One man made it an extra twenty miles and named his town California.  As if that would fool anyone.  I figure this is my ancestor.

               We hail from the ‘Show Me State.’ People always ask me what that means, they think it means that Missourians need proof of a thing before they will believe it.  That’s not true.  We believed we were in the wild west and there was irrefutable evidence against that position.  ‘Show Me’ means show me an easier way to do what those other states are doing.  We’re great at it.  Missouri, the land where the mobile home was born.  The beginning of moonshine and hillbillies.  The state where goats have almost completely replaced the lawnmower.  The land of the free, the home of fish that are caught with ease and eaten in great quantity.  I love it here.  I may never leave.

               Missourians have a rich and proud heritage of being lazy.  That is why we invented all these new ways to fish. We cast aside our fly rods and throw nets. Soon rods and reels too went away.  Even regular cat fishing became too tiresome, I mean you have to watch the tip of that rod all night long.  It’s exhausting! Jugging, Trot lines, limb lines and outright arm noodling replaced sportsmanlike fishing in this fine state. I love it!  There is nothing better than setting your lines or floating some jugs, taking a nap and then crossing your fingers and seeing what you've got.

               Now it is snagging season, it is time for me to get prepared. To snag the spoonbill or ‘paddlefish’ we still need rods and reels. We use very heavy rods rigged with salt water sized reels and tackle. We attach a large weight on the end of the line. Three giant treble hooks are spaced apart on the line behind the weight. Next, like police searching for a body in the river the lines are cast out from a boat and said boat is driven at three to five miles per hour. The forward motion of the boat pulls the lines trailing behind it off the river bottom. The cow like fish that hover in mid water eating plankton become ’snagged’ in the hooks and line. These poor fish don’t even have to be enticed to swallow bait. Oh sure every now and then you have to recast and the line is heavy. The lines will get caught on underwater obstacles and that is a hassle. If you do get a fish they are very hard to bring in weighing between thirty and one hundred and twenty pounds. It’s impossible to get rid of all the difficulties. Primarily though you just tool back and forth along the river or lake at a leisurely pace. It’s so easy it should be Illegal. Maybe we are outlaws but if so we are lazy ones. The season opened on the fifteenth and I am itching to get out there. Spoonbill is a delightfully good tasting white fish that goes great with batter and a deep fryer, (goes pretty good with beer too.) Wish me luck.

               Love,
                        Your lazy countrified outlaw son.

NAVY MAN

Dear Dad,

               Your two boys are all grown up now. Two men spending their time doing manly things. There is a difference though between the family mans’ and the unhitched military mans’ activities. These differences slapped me in the face when my little brother came to visit me this past week. I had an assortment of things planned to occupy our time. We went to the shooting range, we went fishing on the second largest river in the country, we even visited the hardware store. Of course that last one was because my wife also had an assortment of things planned to occupy our time. Her list greatly resembled the list of things around the house I haven’t yet fixed. My brother also wanted us to devote some time to our favorite video games and a strategic ‘World War 2’ board game. He also wanted to get out and visit a bar, like he said ‘He’s’ still single. I had four days to make all these things happen.

               We went to the shooting range first. He had just gotten a new pistol and he wanted me to shoot it. I set him up with my favorite exercise. Three shots from three yards, three from seven, three from fifteen, and a final shot from twenty five yards out. It’s a great exercise for scoring targets and improving your ability. We both went through it once with our .40 caliber pistols. I walked towards the targets to see how we did. I hit seven out of ten. That’s not bad, that means I missed two at fifteen yards and the one at twenty five. Oh well, it was just the first set. I looked at my brothers target. There was only one hole in it. That means he missed twice at three yards. Ouch. I figured pistol marksmanship must not be too important in the Navy. He must have known what the results would be because he shuffled towards me with a sheepish grin on his face.

               ‘I think there is something wrong with the sights’ he said. I looked at him a little sideways, a different kind of grin on my face.

               ‘Let me see that thing’ I half laughed it and half growled. I feigned disgust as I snatched it out of his hands. I raised his gun and stepped towards a beer can on the ground. Yes, as unsafe as it sounds there are always beer cans on the ground at the gun range. It’s alright to have a drink at the range, just watch out for a man saying, ’Hey you guys watch this!’ If that happens set your beers down and leave. I loaded five rounds into the clip and let them chew on the beer can. When I was done there was just one gigantic hole in the top half of the can. Four out of five of my rounds hit the can in the exact same place. I AM THE MAN. I handed the gun back to my kid brother.

               ‘Seems to be OK to me.’ The smile on my face couldn’t have gotten any larger. It was a delicious moment and I let the sarcasm drip from my words. My brother is a man though and he took it in stride. I gave him some pointers I inherited from my friends and soon he was hitting the target as often as myself.

              We went fishing in my friends boat later that week. My brother learned what ‘jugging’ was. We taught him one of the laziest fishing methods there is. We tied lines to empty two liter bottles. Hooked them, baited them and sent them floating down the river, we floated after them nursing beers and soaking up the quiet. The way jugging works is simple. The line ties around the neck of the liter bottle or ‘jug’ and when you get a bite, the jug stands straight up and down in the water. Then you just motor over to it and pick it up. At one point in our river trip we stopped to bank the boat. A line was tossed to my brother so that he could tie the boat up. He hesitated and asked me how to tie it off.

               ‘Aren’t you in the Navy?’ I said.

               ‘Yes, but it isn’t my job to tie off the carrier.’ He made a good point. He was always quick witted and even I laughed out loud at that one. So I showed my Navy war veteran brother how to tie a bowline knot. Despite his witty retort, I thoroughly enjoyed every second of tying and retying that knot.
                He whipped me pretty bad those evenings back at home at the video and board games, I have come to realize that I am not as hip to those things as I once was. He drank his beers faster than I did too. The next day I had to go to the hardware store. Things were broken and the Missus wasn‘t having it. The front door wasn’t locking. I had to get a part for it. I already knew how to fix it and what I needed. She wanted me to get a new dead bolt for the door too, but I told her I couldn’t do that until I got a new router and routers are expensive. My wife conceded, and I grabbed my brother and we went to the store. While I was there I looked at some deadbolts and chains and such, but I didn’t see any that I wouldn’t need a router or at least a special bit kit to install. I bought the part I needed and headed home. When we got back my brother told my wife that I almost got her what she wanted but I changed my mind. He thought he was doing me a favor letting her know that what she wanted was on my mind. I saw the frown on her face though. I pulled my brother aside. I had to explain to him that you don’t tell a woman about the gifts you didn’t get her. That just makes her think about it. She’d already forgotten about it. I was in the clear. What a goof ball move. I shook my head, he’s got a lot to learn.

               I’ve been picking on my brother a lot in this letter but there is one more thing that happened. Everywhere we went, women behaved weird around my brother. I couldn’t put my finger on it until one day we made five stops and at each store there was a woman behind the counter. They were flirting with him. It’s been so long since I have seen flirting, I actually thought they were being rude or something. They were out of their minds with the need to get his attention. I thought it was amazing. We look alike, we sound alike, why the hell weren’t they flirting with me. The answer came to me in Wal-mart. We were walking down a main aisle when a young lady stepped from between two displays and slammed right into my brother. In keeping himself from falling down his hand landed on her shoulder, or from my angle her right breast. Whatever though, he says shoulder so I’ll say shoulder. Now most men would auto react with an ‘excuse me ma’am’ or ‘I’m sorry’ or just an ‘oops’ and move on. My brothers automatic, instinctual and immediate reaction was to say… ‘How you doin‘?’ WOW! Well that explains it. It’s the ’Kavorka.’ Pure animal magnetism. ’Kramer’ from ’Seinfeld’ , ‘Joey’ from ‘Friends’ and My Brother. Long story short, while we may be different kinds of men, My brother is definitely also THE MAN.

               Love ,
                         Your hip shooting, lazy fishing, less appealing son.


               P.S.     My wife read this and decided that from this point forward my
                           Brother and I cannot go out unless a female chaperone joins us. 
                           Being THE MAN is tough.

              .

Moving Buddies

Dear Dad,

               One beautiful Sunday the sky was a cloudless blue. The birds were singing and I’ll bet the fish were biting. There was even a gun show in town I was thinking on looking into. The temperature was a perfect seventy degrees, and I had nothing on the immediate ‘honey-do‘ list. So naturally when my buddy called to tell me he was moving I decided to give up my day and help him out.

               I agreed to meet my friend at his house at one o’clock in the afternoon. I got to spend a good portion of the morning moving all my work gear out of my truck and stacking it up in the driveway. I had my ten year old son meet me at the truck. I thought this would be a good character building experience for him. Boys need to learn to work and it seems to me that sweat is the only character building tool in a fathers repertoire. Every now and then you have to make your kids do stuff they don’t want to do, isn’t that right Dad?

              We got to my friends house right on time. The street was a parking lot of suckered men with pickup trucks. All of us marveling at the fact that this was the first nice weekend day of the year and we were going to work instead of play. After the ceremonious milling about and joke telling it was time to get down to it. There were supposed to be four trucks there, we only had three. Someone was probably attending my gun show, or catching my record winning fish.

               The very first thing we had to move was a couch and loveseat combo. Right away we discovered they didn’t fit through the door. Now I am an expert furniture manipulator so I took charge and we turned and twisted that couch every which way possible. Finally I decided to remove the door. After making that decision My buddy said something like, “Yeah, that’s what we had to do to get it in here.“ I was about to hit him a good one upside the head when I saw him fumbling with a small screwdriver. He had already started working on the first hinge. Quickly I went to my truck and grabbed an 18.8 volt cordless drill. It’s difficult to always have the right tool at home and on the road, but I work hard to be prepared. So in my truck is a drill with 3 batteries and a charger.  I strode onto the front porch, my drill resting in it’s patent leather holster on my hip.  Neighbors and local shopkeepers rushed to get indoors as I lightly fingered the handle. An array of bits dangling from my left hand sparkled in the sunlight.  The high afternoon sun cast my shadow over the door. The wind whistled through the trees and my friend feeling the eclipse of manhood, turned and cowered before Craftsmen engineering and glory. I asked him to put his ‘little tool’ away as I brushed him aside. I removed twelve screws in three seconds flat. The doorway was widened.  Angels sang and church bells tolled. Finally the sofa yielded to us (men and boy) and was carried artfully to the bed of my truck. I AM THE MAN!

               After that it was all down hill. We loaded all three trucks and I dug out my tie down straps. At first I couldn’t find them and the impending embarrassment of asking the others for an extra strap loomed on my horizon. As I searched the same bed box for the third time the straps presented themselves. There was no need for panic, I AM STILL THE MAN. I lashed everything tight, and checked the other two pickups. One of the other guys was lashing down his load and the third truck had a strap on the ground waiting to be utilized. Feeling good about my own load and knowing where the destination was, I left well ahead of the convoy. After three miles on the highway I did my due diligence and pulled over to retighten my straps. It struck me as a little odd that no one passed me as I did this. I mentioned it to my son. I knew he would be paying attention to the traffic. Boys love to be in the leading vehicle of convoys. He confirmed it for me, no one had passed us yet. Good, I thought. That means everyone else is being as careful as I was.

              I arrived at my friends new residence and we were indeed first. Ten minutes later the second truck got there, but no third truck. I got out and threw my hands into the air, as if to say “what the hell fellows!” I was then quickly informed that the driver of the third truck neglected to use straps and he lost a box spring mattress on the Missouri River bridge. The absolute worst place for that to happen. I knew that meant the mattress was gone. If you’ve ever seen furniture hit the highway at high speed you know it turns into splinters and shredded cloth. I lowered my head and nodded it slowly side to side. We have talked about preparedness before. Let the judging begin. The driver with the mattress load decided that the strap wasn’t needed. The owner of the mattress agreed with him. The real owner of the mattress (his wife) was pleased to get the leverage she needed for the incredibly expensive bed she had been bugging her husband for.  I offer this up as a lesson to all men that our little mistakes will always cost more than we can realize at the time.

             Of course the door at the new house had to be removed also and the couch still just barely fit. There was only one trip left to make and that was primarily for the big screen television. Considering the mattress fiasco, I decided to volunteer my services. My friend gladly accepted. A man’s television is an important thing afterall. Priority wise it goes Wife, Children, Other Family members, Television. They should make cradles for TV sets, I believe a lot of men would rock them while they are still new. 

              My son and I avoided the highway taking back roads, we even stopped for a second strap check and a soda. Needless to say the television arrived unscathed, and as I headed home for the evening I lectured my young son on the importance of doing something right. He paid heed and nodded at the right moments. I believed I had finally gotten through to him. He will be a Man. When we pulled up in front of the house, he jumped out of the truck while it was still running, ran across the street without looking and tripped on the stairs, scraping his knee. Normally I would yell at him but today I just smiled. Boys will be boys. Whether they are thirty or ten.

              I could use a new television, I think when it is time to move I will have my son and the driver of that third truck come help me out. Sixty inch L.E.D. Sanyo 3-D gateway to heaven here I come! If you want his number give me a call, after all who couldn’t use the extra leverage to get their spouse to agree to buying something new.
           
                       Love,
                                Your tool toting, strap packing, truck driving son.