Wordless Wednesday

A Fish Story

Hazel and Leah were friends, neighbors, fisherwomen and my grandmothers.

My mother's parents, Omer and Hazel, bought a small resort in Michigan on Little Platt Lake in January 1948 and named it Buckeye Resort. There were 9 cabins and a small store. My granddad worked on the boats and would take people out fishing while my grandmother and mother would mind the store and cabins. My father's parents, Casey and Leah, lived next door.

On a chilly May morning during trout season, Hazel shouted across to Leah to see if she wanted to go out fishing. Leah, always eager for any reason not to be in the house, agreed. They gathered their gear and met at the resort’s boathouse. Hazel pulled the cord on the Johnson motor and the flat-bottomed rowboat puttered away from the dock. They were headed across the lake behind the point. My mother watched them go and then started her day’s work.

She happened to be standing on the dock several hours later when they pulled back in. She reached down for the anchor rope and hauled the boat up on the ground. Both women were excited, talking over each other; they had had a good day of fishing. In addition to the mess of perch and sunnies, Hazel had caught an enormous brown trout. They were giggling like schoolgirls. On the way back across the lake, they had made plans for a big fish fry for both families and they would invite the Lillys from across the road. Leah offered to have it at her house. While making their plans, they decided to take the fish over to the Benzie County Record to see if it was record-breaking. Both Hazel and Leah had their pictures taken with the trout. But the paper got mixed up and only printed Leah’s picture with the trout and she got the public credit for catching it. That is the picture you see. I, would have been hopping mad.

In the end, 3 families had a wonderful fish fry with fried potatoes, baked beans and salad and no doubt there was dessert of some kind, knowing my grandmothers.

Odd, how things work out. What are the interesting stories in your family?

HHH

Ah, the 3 H’s--hazy, hot and humid. My 3 favorite words. Apparently, I, alone in the universe, love the heat. Summer is my favorite season. I love lying on top of the covers with the window fan blowing cool night air over me. I love summer’s warm embrace as I walk outside after work frozen from my chilly office. I love the hot blast of air ruffling my hair as I drive down the highway with all the windows down and the music blaring. I love sitting on the back deck with a sweating glass of gin and tonic listening to the tree frogs. I love watching the bats flutter through the air snapping up the biting insects on warm summer evenings. I love getting up before the heat rises and watering the garden in my housedress and that the neighbors think it’s OK. I love the cool feel of the tiles on my bare feet. I love a big bowl of icy watermelon for lunch. I love the sun on my head. There is nothing about the heat that I do not like. (Uh, well, I do not like sunburn. And I do not love sweating. And you have to make sure to dress for it. And I did think I was going to suffocate once in Managua.)

But having said all that, remember, I live on a mountain where it never gets hot enough to need A/C but every room has a ceiling fan. I leave folded comforters on the foot of the beds, because you will need to pull them up in the dead of the night, even in July. We often sit wrapped in blankets late on summer evenings around the fire pit roasting marshmallows or passing a bottle of Hypnotiq. It is never too hot to eat outdoors and the cold waters of the lake are down the road. Summer on the mountain is fleeting, but spectacular.

Emergency Intervention

I flipped on my left blinker to turn off my street, looking left, right, left…then right again. What is that? I squinted. On the street over by the mailboxes was a long piece of black tape and something wadded up. It looked like trash. I turned left and went two blocks then turned around. I had a sneaking suspicion.

I pulled up for a quick peek before heading off to work. I walked around the car to find out--it was what I thought—a full-grown black snake enmeshed in a wad of deer netting. Crap! I toed it with my black linen open-toed espadrille. It writhed. Double-crap!

I took a deep breath and exhaled heavily. I would have to do something. It was still alive. I happened to have a pair of scissors in the pocket of the driver’s side door. I never keep scissors in the car, but I guess I understand the parsel tongue of the snake gods and somehow knew I would need them.

I squatted on the street next to the snake. Its tongue flickered out. It was tangled from its head to about ¼ of the way down it body. Working my way toward the head, I eased a section of the black plastic filament away from its scales and snipped.

Snip by snip, square by square, I cut the snake out of the netting. The freer it got, the more it wiggled, until finally it was curling around on itself. I picked it, and the still attached mess of netting up, taking it up to the rock wall by the driveway. There on top of a gigantic boulder that I used as a table, I finished cutting it out. As I got closer to the head, around its throat and eyes, it stopped moving. When it was finally free and I pulled off the last piece, I nudged it off the rock and into the flowerbed. It slithered from view. I hope it returns the favor and hangs around. I need a few black snakes to ease the chipmunk over-population situation at my house. I am going to make a point of gathering up all of the deer netting anywhere on my property. I will never use it again. This is not the first time I have had to cut a snake out of it.

Wordless Wednesday

The importance of guests

I LOVE entertaining. Yes, I like to cook and entertaining gives me an excuse to do it; but more importantly are the guests. If the food is bad, you can manage around it if you have to, if the guests are boring, you are sunk. I invite people that are charming, witty, well-traveled, well-read, adventurous, playful, good storytellers and good friends. Parties at my house are frequent and some are annual events. There often is hilarity and sometimes singing and dancing far into the night. Occasionally there is sitting around the firepit with burnt marshmallows being pulled off sticks to be sandwiched between a piece of chocolate and graham crackers.

Once in a while visiting friends of friends get roped into the fun. This has happened a few times. This past weekend Michael and David were here. I met them years ago at a mystery dinner. They were as engaging as I remembered.


Menu
Deviled eggs (brought by a guest)
Pigs in a blanket
Pear martinis

The most amazing homemade mushroom soup (brought by a different guest)
Artichokes steamed in chicken broth with white wine and fresh herbs (same guest as the soup)
White wine

Marineated bison steak
Roasted corn on the cob
Potato salad
Green Salad with fresh herbs
Red wine

Strawberry Rhubarb pie with strawberry ice cream
French-pressed Coffee

Thank you all for entertaining me. The flowers are still lovely and the kitchen is finally clean.

Civil War Reenactment

Long Pond Ironworks hosted the 6th New Hampshire and the 12th Alabama regiments for a civil war reenactment this weekend. I popped in for a dose of history. While chatting with one of the officers about the heat and the need to always wear their wool jackets buttoned to the neck, he told me in a loud stage whisper that there was going to be a skirmish. One of the scouts had just reported some of the Rebs marching through the woods. I skedaddled to the killing fields, as it were. On the way, I shook hands with Abe Lincoln. He had come to see his boys in action. Pretty bold of him, I have to say.



The boys in blue marched down the hill toward the Alabama camp. On the barked order from their commander, they hid behind trees, stumps and a stone wall to prepare their guns. As the two sides fought back and forth advancing and retreating though the haze of smoke and the smell of gunpowder, I thought about all of those men that fought in that war. I have at least 2 great, great grandfathers that fought, one from each side: Granville S. Robertson and Jeremiah Wood. My father’s family at the time was living in Virginia, my mother’s in southern Ohio. Both of them made it through the war; came home, made babies and 140 years later, I am researching their involvement. I do not have pictures of either one of them, so I offer these from today’s event.



Did your family fight in the Civil War? On which side?