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First coffee is gone and I’m thinking strongly about “second coffee.”
The only sounds in the house are the purring cat on my lap, the ticking of the clocks, yes I’ve still got some that you wind once a week, and coming through the windows, the yelling crows outside chasing each other around the neighborhood. It is a false spring here in Ely, after the first big thaw that makes us antsy. Ants in your pants, my grandma used to say when I couldn’t sit still. Once we see grass in our yards in Minnesota we start thinking about starting seeds inside and making sure our grills have enough propane in the tank. We’re tempted to put the snow shovels in the garage but we suspect that would be the kiss of death dontcha know.
Or maybe it’s for real. We have been golfing in Ely in April before.
We’ve also been shoveling after an 18-inch deep snowstorm. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.
That was my theme for a busy and anxiety-filled week that was full of plenty of tasks that had to get done and plenty of unknowns that arrived just on time -- all at the same time.
Some of them, most of them, worked their way to conclusions so good that I couldn’t have imagined the endings.
To be honest, I didn’t come close, and so, coming up with nothing but one possible disastrous result after another, I shut down the worst-case-scenario factory and pressed the hurry-upand- wait button.
I guess that’s the great thing about learning to be more patient.
There are endless opportunities for improvement. I haven’t seemed to change much in this area since I was a child and my Grandma would have me pull the cane poles down from her garage rafters. I’d dig for some crawlers and we’d raid Dad’s tackle box for some hooks and bobbers. She’d pack some fried egg sandwiches and a couple of cold fried chicken legs and some Grape Nehi or Orange Fanta and we’d head off in her little sky-blue Ford Falcon to Mud Creek where I’d catch an old boot and maybe snag a turtle but no catfish, no carp or longnose gar.
Of course I didn’t then, and I have trouble now, taking my Dad’s advice.
“Let your bobber sit.” I just wanted to fish like he did when we went below the dam on the Rock River or like I remember him and his dad doing up in Ely: casting a gold Mepps Number 2 or a Shannon Twin Spin over and over near the riffle of current and reeling it back in fast. I want action, yearn for conclusion, and need to know the outcome. As a result, the moment can be, and many times has been, lost.
The sitting. The watching of the bobber. The listening. The quiet except for the songs of the crows, the ticking of the clocks and the purring of the cat. The moment. The heat of the day, the way the creekbed collected the rays of the sun. The silver sides of the minnows and the Jesus Bugs walking across the surface. The drone of insects and the pieces of song from the cardinal and the rough cowbird. A Baltimore oriole weaving her upside down basket nest or a thrush digging frantically at the side of the bank. The way Grandma sat with me in one of her yellow or blue sundresses right on the ground and didn’t care if she got dirty. How she brought extra salt in a little folded aluminum foil envelope and a candy bar that I didn’t see her pack. Thinking about how long those cane poles had been in the rafters and where my Grandpa, who died before I was born, might have used them last. Watching the bobber drift past us like the bright afternoon until both were lost to the lengthening shadows that wrapped around us like the arms of the burr oaks and red elms themselves.
Hmmm. Maybe I listened to Dad a bit after all.
