Fishing With Grandpa

He was one of those men that no matter how closely you looked at him, you couldn't really tell what he looked like.  It had something to do with his obscured glasses, his nondescript mustache, toupee, and cowboy hat, that all aligned made him not really look like. . . himself.

My earliest memories of my grandfather include mostly him sitting in his green armchair in the middle of the living room and dining room, barking things at my grandmother, with a vile little chihuahua named Fred who snapped at us even if we just looked at him.

He was a cowboy in his younger days, a real live Idahoan cowboy named Roscoe Raymond. He was gruff, and he shocked us little ones by saying bad words occasionally.

He scared me.  I much preferred my kinder, gentler, smaller grandmother, even with her whiskers and hair that always ranged from orange-pink or pink-orange, and her obvious lack of hygiene.  Looking back now, though, I can tell that Grandpa loved us, because every summer he would take on a day-long expedition to the mountains far to the north of Idaho Falls, to go fishing.

After a late night of nightcrawler catching in the vegetable garden in his front yard, Grandpa would wake us up early and load us up in green Chrysler Cordoba (which bore rusty spots sprayed over with spray paint from a can purchased at Woolworth's) along with all of the fishing supplies and a picnic lunch.   Sometimes he would take his guns and soda cans for target practice after fishing, other times not, but the one constant besides the fishing was a 6-pack of V-8 juice.

After what seemed like hours and hours, Grandpa steered us into his special fishing spot high in the mountains, with a tiny cold stream that wound and meandered through bushes and marshy areas and thick growths of dense shrubbery.  We always started with a review of how to squish the nightcrawler onto the fishing hook by threating it from one end of it, up the hook, all the way out the other side of it, while it wiggled and squirmed and slimed in agony.  After assisting us with a couple practice casts into the darker, deeper sections of the stream, Grandpa would take off on his own for the rest of the morning, always to return with a pouch packed with glistening rainbow trout, some still twitching, all still staring up out of the pouch with vacant, fishy stares.

Meanwhile, we were left to fend for ourselves.  Usually it ended up being my sister, Katrine, and me, although eventually Ray joined us on the trips.  Dad would stay close by, but allowed us plenty of space to figure things out on our own.

Once as Katrine and I were creeping through the underbrush trying to find a good spot to fish, and attempting to keep our poles, lines, and hooks from becoming entangled in the branches, I tripped and fell face first into the ice cold water.  Of course, I shrieked, and panicked to get myself out of the water, causing an amazing ruckus.  Unbeknownst to me, I had stumbled into one of Grandpa's favorite fishing holes.  "Git outta there!  You're scarin' away all the fish!  Damn it! Kwitcher wailin' and git out!"

Grandpa turned around and disappeared, stomping off through the tangles.  Katrine was sympathetic, she tried to help me the best she could, but I was left cold and shivering.

At lunch time, Grandpa would resurface and pull out lunch.  We would sit on the ground while he passed out the grub.  Usually it was leftover burnt hamburger patties on stale hamburger buns, both sides thickly smeared with margarine.  On this particular day he tossed my hamburger-butter sandwich at me, but, not being the best catch, it fell into the dirt butter side down.  I picked it up, looking at it questioningly, and ventured, "Grandpa, mine fell in the dirt," to which he growled, "Awwwww, kwitcherbellyachin; brush it off.  It ain't gonna hurt ya."

My lunch that day consisted of a raspberry Zinger and a V-8.

Sometimes, when lunch was over, Grandpa would get out his guns.  After lining up some cans on a distant boulder, he would hand me either the large pistol or the shotgun, and just assume that I knew what to do with it.   The first time I pulled the trigger, I shot the ground about ten feet in front of me and landed on my rear.  In spite of that, he let me shoot a couple more times, which yielded similar consequences.

Following a nap on the ground under a tree, Grandpa would repack all of the things in the trunk of the Cordoba, and Katrine and I would climb back into the rear seat and hunker down for a long, cold, windy trip home.  You see, Grandpa liked cool, fresh air, and he would drive along with both all the windows down.  In the cool Idahoan mountains, the wind chill factor in the backseat of the car dropped well below freezing, causing us kids to huddle together in the corner of the backseat with one or two light sweaters to deflect the wind tunnel that annihilated us.

Finally arriving home, it was time to clean the fish.  This was done with a hose in the front yard of Grandpa's house, and fortunately, I was usually able to sneak away and not have to endure the slime, gore, and gaggingly fishy smell.

Hands down, though, the worst part of the whole annual fishing trip was the following morning, when we were served with steaming plates of sourdough pancakes and bone-ridden, pan-fried trout.  Grandpa would eye our plates to make sure we were eating, or at least pretending to eat, barking at us when we seemed to lose interest.  Inevitably, this would make me long for a cold, burnt hamburger patty on margarine-caked, stale Wonder bread, sprinkled with dirt.

Teacher Tales: A Gift of Self

The other morning, Destiny, a student of mine from last year, came into my classroom while I was in the middle of taking attendance and handed me a Christmas box, asking me to please give it to Anali, my student from last year who had surgery to remove a brain tumor.  

 I assumed the box was a belated Christmas gift, told her, “Oh, sure, that’s nice of you.”  I put it down and continued what I was doing until later in the day when I had a moment to look at it closer.  Curious, I lifted the lid.

Soon after we heard the news of Anali’s diagnosis, I had a conversation with my class about chemotherapy and the havoc that it wreaks on a cancer patient’s body, including hair loss. 

“What do they do after they lose their hair?  Just be bald forever?” one student inquired.

“No,” I replied, “Usually they wear hats, caps, and scarves over their heads until their hair grows back.  Or some people buy wigs.  Actually, people donate their hair so wigs can be made for cancer patients.”

That was all that we discussed on the topic.

Destiny cut her hair and gave it to Anali, thinking she could make a wig out of it.  Of course, I had failed to explain how people actually donate their hair to an organization that makes wigs.  But this act of kindness on Destiny’s part touched me so much that after school I walked to each of my teammate’s rooms to show them was what held inside that Christmas box.  This was, by far, the most generous gift I saw all season.

In Destiny's behalf, I will donate the hair to Locks of Love.  

She's a Curious Creature

She’s one of those people who can sit and stare at an object for what seems like hours.  She studies.  She inspects. Absentmindedly, she analyzes corners, edges, colors, textures, details.   Or maybe it isn’t absentmindedly at all.  Perhaps it is done with great purpose.  She seems to contemplate the very miracle that is matter.  If nothing but a tablespoon is sitting on the counter top, she will sit on the stool and turn it over and over, scrutinizing each detail.  Or perhaps it’s a note from the PTA reminding of a food drive, or the cover of a mail order catalog, or a placemat, or a utility bill. These items have the potential of providing hours of quiet fascination.  When I have paused to observe this process, I've been torn between wonder and laughter.

She is one person.  She is clean, tidy, always well groomed.  Yet, she generates copious amounts of laundry.  She tends said laundry as though she is nursing a sick baby bird back to health.  She checks in on it every few moments and gingerly lifts the lid of the washing machine, just to peek inside.  Perhaps she does this to verify that the contents are still there.  Maybe she does it to make sure that water is indeed surrounding the clothing, and that it actually did get the clothes wet.  The dryer gets the same treatment.  She opens it and peers inside, even though its contents couldn’t possibly be dry yet.  Then, she closes the door with a slow, gentle pressure, making scarcely a sound.  Other times, she will go into the laundry room and just stand there in front of the appliances.  Perhaps her fingers will tentatively reach out and touch the pearly white metal for a moment, before slowly withdrawing her hand, as if moving too quickly will upset the balance of the laundering universe.

She exits the kitchen pantry the same way she enters.  Literally.   It is wide enough to easily turn around in, with plenty of arm room.  Yet she puts her arms down to her sides and she backs out, slowly, and cautiously, looking behind her on both sides, like she’s backing out of a tight parking space.  Then she’ll pause, as though she is shifting gears, and resume normal movement.

All humans have quirks, oddities.   These are some of hers.  Other than these few abberations, she portrays herself as a pretty normal individual.  She maneuvers through society without drawing much attention to herself.  She is dependable.  She is respectful.  She is diligent.  She is pleasant.

Yet she’s truly a curious creature.  

Agnostic Blessing: Intense Satisfaction

Agnostic Blessings #423

A Good Electric Pencil Sharpener

When you need to sharpen as many pencils in a day as I do, an electric pencil sharpener that does its job efficiently and thoroughly can bring intense satisfaction.

Buying Cigarettes

Yesterday for the very first time ever, I bought a pack of cigarettes.

That is, my father-in-law asked me to buy him a pack of cigarettes.

To the checker at the grocery store, I stammered, "Ummm, yeah...can I get. . . I'll take. . .a pack. . . a pack of. . . of Marlboro 100s?"  

I tried to look uncertain, I tried to look like I didn't know what I was doing.  I almost wanted to say, "They're not for me."  Not that he would care if I smoked.  Or maybe he would.  He sells lots of cigarettes every day, so he probably wouldn't have thought twice about it.  Although, he is one of those cashiers that I had "known" for years---he was always at that particular market, and he showed his recognition each time that he saw me. Had he already classified me in his mind as a non-smoker, only to be disappointed by the fact that I now, seemingly, was a smoker?

In contrast, this reminded me in a way of buying tampons.  I have never had a problem buying tampons because, of course, the cashier or the idle shopper in line behind me is never wondering,  Hmmm.  I wonder if those tampons are for him?  I've actually felt a sense of false pride buying tampons.  Yes, I am a secure enough man that I am buying these for an important menstruating female in my life, and I'm not even looking or acting sheepish.  Yep.  That's me.

But with cigarettes, you automatically suppose they're for the person who is buying them.  And then you look at their face, teeth, and fingers, and you can tell that they've been smoking for a while.  Then you imagine them older, showing even more visible signs of the detriments of smoking.  You may even wonder how they can smoke knowing how incredibly damaging it is to your body, and how if cancer doesn't get you, then heart disease or emphysema will.  

Why, you may ask, am I, in a sense, enabling my father in law and supporting his smoking habit by purchasing his cancer sticks for him?

This man has proven that he will not quit smoking.  His own bouts with cancer and heart attacks, his brother's recent fatal lung cancer, and even his grandson's Christmas Eve plea as he opened up his gift of Nicorette gum, "Grandpa, if you really, really love me, you'll chew this gum," have not been enough to get him to stop.  His sons' constant hounding and serious talks about quitting, his wife's relentless nagging, "Why don't I just sprinkle poison on your food so you can just get it over with," none of it has been enough to get him to quit.  The bottom line is, it must be so pleasurable to him that his daily quality of life and state of mind must be worth more to him than living longer, without smoking.

My father in law is a very kind and gentle man, and he has always been very, very good to me.  He would gladly do any favor I ask of him (other than quitting smoking) so when he asked me if I would buy them for him, I didn't hesitate.  

I should have just told my cashier friend, "These cigarettes aren't for me.  They're for my father-in-law."

But that, of course, would have been much too simple.

Jason, the Vegetarian?

Over the last ten years, my cholesterol has crept up twenty points, past the just barely okay point, to the borderline area, and most recently, into the zone that is no longer considered "borderline."  Oh, I've done things to try to prevent it.  I've made changes to my diet, limiting my intake of red meat to only about once a week, eating almonds, oatmeal, other whole grain foods, plenty of olive oil, and the obligatory 1-2 glasses of wine, usually red, per day.  Typically, I get my five servings of fruits and vegetables per day, often exceeding that number.  My exercise habits have also improved.  I went from getting very little exercise to regular walking, and even increasing my walking time and distance this past year in preparation for my 60 mile walk.  I am at a healthy weight.  I even recently started taking fish oil, and if you know about my subsequent fishvorce, you'll understand what a drastic step this is.

Yet the results of my recent blood test were the highest ever.  Thinking it over, aside from my mother-in-law's cooking, I've placed the blame on two main culprits:  Genes and cheese.  Cheese and genes.  Genes and cheese and genes.

I would have to say that cheese is probably my favorite food.  Usually people don't name cheese as their favorite food.  Usually they'll say pizza, or pasta, or steak, or something.  I realized today that all of my favorite foods are my favorites because one of their main ingredients is cheese.  Cheeseburgers.  Mexican food topped or smothered in saucy cheese.  Bean and cheese burritos.  Pizza. Quesadillas.  Cheesecake.  Nachos.  Cheese and crackers.  Grilled cheese sandwiches.  Salad with bleu cheese.  Melted cheese on anything. You get the picture.

I like most kinds of cheese, except for those fancy, high end cheeses that you might find on a gourmet cheese platter, that are absolutely rotten, moldy, and blue.  Not bleu, blue.

As I've lamented the inevitable change in my relationship with Cheese, I've brainstormed cholesterol free foods I could eat in place of cheese, particularly in the late evening, when I've been known to devour an entire pound block of Cheddar or Jack all on my own.  Hummus came to mind.  I do love hummus.  And Trader Joe's has some delightful olive tapenades.  There are lots of whole grain crackers that I also enjoy.  But then, it hit me.

Why break up with Cheese when, really, I can just break up with Meat?  I don't love Meat nearly as much as I love Cheese.  I've actually had my moments over the past few years that I've startled myself at how disgusted I am by the fact that I eat my own kind.  Then, of course, there are all of those snippets that you hear whether you want to or not about disdainful farm conditions and blatant animal cruelty, along with the facts that well meaning vegetarians share about how bad meat is for you.  "You know, eating ham is the next closest thing to eating human flesh," Amelia informed me as I cut in to piece of leftover Christmas ham.  Or, "Do you know long it takes for your colon to process red meat?  Are you aware of the elevated risks of colon cancer among those who eat red meat?"  And so on.  Along with Meat, there's Eggs.  I could so say goodbye to Eggs.  I can only eat a few bites of Eggs before beginning to feel queasy, anyway.

If I cut out Meat, including poultry, just think of all the room both my LDL levels and my plaque-prone arteries will have for Cheese!  

Yes!  It's perfect!  Hit me with Swiss, Gouda, Brie, and Gorgonzola.  Bring on the Pepper-Jack, Parmesan, and Provolone!  

Does anyone see relationship with Lipitor in my future?

How To Make Puppies

While walking the dogs today, Diego asked me, "Are Pumpkin and Patches a mommy and a daddy?"

"No," I replied, "they haven't ever had puppies."

"Why not?  I love puppies.  It would be so fun to see their little puppies.  How come they aren't a mommy and a daddy, Daddy, why not?" he pressed, in classic Diego style.

"We took them to the vet when they were young and they had an operation so they couldn't become parents."  I knew he was not going to leave it at this.

  He continued, "What did they do in the operation?"

"They cut a small hole in Pumpkin's tummy and took out some of the parts that girl dogs need to have puppies," I explained. 

"And what did they do to Patches?"

"They also gave him a little operation, removing parts that boys need to become a daddy."

"But I thought only girls could make babies.  Not boys."  Here it came.

"Why do boy dogs need operations if only girl dogs can actually have babies?  And how do little puppies get inside of a mommy dog, anyway?"

Okay.  This was it.  This was the moment I was waiting for, the moment I've made very clear here on The Jason Show that I would not let pass by.  This was natural conversation, and he really wanted to know.

"Well, you know how I explained that girls don't have a penis, they have a vagina?  The boy dog puts his penis in the girl dog's vagina, and a liquid comes out called semen.  This liquid joins a tiny egg inside the girl, and that makes a puppy begin to grow."

"How does that happen?  Does the girl just lay under the boy, and lick his penis?"

"Uhhhh, no."

"And how does that liquid come out?  Does he just pee it into her?  And does it taste good?"  

Calm as can be, without missing a beat, I answered, "No, that's not how the liquid, the semen, gets inside the girl.  And no, I don't think the dog's semen would taste good."

(I must interject here that Diego has seen Pumpkin laying on the floor with Patches over her, and she has licked his dog-penis.  As dogs do.  Along with sniffing and licking his butt.  As dogs do.)

We turned the corner from the street and onto the walkway that led to the path around the lake.  I was partly thinking that perhaps he wouldn't make the jump from dog reproduction to human reproduction.  But he was one step ahead of me.

"So, when I'm with my wife and we want to have a baby, is that what I'll do?" he asked, as we approached an elderly lady walking in our direction.  I had often seen her on our walks and she always waved a pleasant hello.  Just as we entered her range of hearing, Diego piped up,
"Will I put my penis in her vagina?  Will I, Daddy, will I?"

The lady did a startled double take.  But in an instant her face softened into a smile.  I smiled back and chuckled, "Hello!"  We continued walking, and I paused, buying distance from the hearing of our elderly neighbor.

"Daddy, will I put my penis in her vagina?  And how will I do that?  And how will that stuff come out?  Will it take very long?"  He seemed to have all the right questions.

I explained that when he gets older, his body will change, and he will want to be close to his wife, and they'll kiss, and it will just feel like that's what he'll want to do.

"But how long will it take, five minutes, or five hours, or five days, or what?"  Enquiring minds want to know.

"Oh, it depends, but probably just five or ten minutes maybe."  I started thinking about all of the places Diego could take this conversation.

"So, Daddy, why don't you just do that to Ini (our nanny) so she can have a baby?"  This is not one of the places I expected.  Very far from it.

"I'm not married to her.  I don't want to have a baby with her.  And she doesn't want to have a baby with me," I said.

"Yeah, but can't you just put it in really fast and get it over with?"  Oh.  Oh my.

I said, "No, Ini wouldn't want me to do that either.  I'm not her husband, and she doesn't love me."

"Well, she loves me, why not me?  And I love her..."  

"Yes, she loves you, but not in that way.  She doesn't love you like a husband," it seemed so easy to understand.  Yet not for him.

"But I love her that way," Diego insisted.

"No, you don't.  Besides, Ini is part of our family, and family members don't do that with each other."

Just then we walked passed a car parked next to the curb that had been in some sort of a head-on collision.    "Hey!  Daddy, look at that cool car!  What happened to it?"

And that was the end of that.

On Confrontation

I've never done well with confrontation.  I avoid it at all costs, even now.  Even now, after learning in therapy and my own life experience that I have to let out a little bit of steam now and then or else I will blow.  When I do find that confrontation is unavoidable, my palms sweat and my heart races, even hours after.  It doesn't matter if I know that I am right, it doesn't matter if it is something that I absolutely must address at all costs.

Today I let out a little bit of steam.  Okay, maybe a moderate amount of steam.  I suppose I've been storing it up a bit too long.  I didn't blow per se, but I did speak angrily, raising my voice.  Although still under control, I felt things flying out of my mouth that I hadn't planned on saying.  They were all things that really needed to be said, particularly because they had to do with the well-being of one of my children, but I know they were perceived as hurtful.

Once, Claire and I had a big fight.  No, actually, it wasn't a fight, it was me, blowing up.  I had been practicing my usual learned and, to me, instinctive behavior of bottling things up.  I was making dinner, and she made a comment regarding my cooking.  The comment wasn't anything more than the usual type of comment spouses make to each other, but I took huge offense to it.  And snapped.   I threw an aluminum pepper shaker, the over-sized kind with a handle like a coffee cup, painted with country blue hens and mauve hearts, at the floor, and it exploded.  Pepper flew everywhere.  Then, as if this weren't enough, I stormed into the room where Claire was sitting, and grabbed the nearest thing at hand.  It happened to be one of those push toys with a clear plastic dome and colored balls that looked like gum balls.   Wham!  Wham!  Wham!  I slammed it on the empty bed, over and over again, breaking it to pieces.  Eyes as big as saucers, Claire observed me patiently.

Then it was over.  A sense of euphoria flooded over me, not unlike the kind that you get after you've thrown up, and your body releases endorphins to try to calm you down and help you feel better.  I resumed making dinner, and Claire continued doing whatever it was that she had been doing.

Today I didn't blow, so I didn't get that euphoric feeling.  Just the gnawing sensation that something is amiss and that life is full of conflict, no matter what you do to avoid it.

It seems to me, however, that some people thrive on conflict.  They crave it. They savor it.  And if there isn't any conflict readily presenting itself, they make it.  It keeps them busy, occupying their minds and giving them something to do when quiet peace just seems to be too much to bear.  I would even go so far as to crassly state that they get off on it.

Do you relish confrontation?  Or do you run and hide from it, sticking your head in the sand?  Or perhaps you one of those lucky people who stands somewhere in between.

A Private Peek Into My Prostate Exam

"There's really no graceful way to say it.  Drop your underwear, bend over, and lay across the table."

I complied, envisioning my white, hairy butt.  Then a cold, slimy finger up, up, up,  probing my prostate.  Painless, just a pressing sensation that somehow made me feel like my he was pressing on the inside of my face.  With a quick withdrawal and a snap, the doctor removed the rubber gloves, pronouncing that I was in excellent prostate health.  

"Smooth with no bumps or irregularities."  I couldn't help but think about all the jokes I would be tempted to make if I were a doctor performing such examinations.

"Here's a tissue, if you want to wipe away some of that goop."  Again with the jokes that would surely be spouting from my mouth.

I sheepishly took the tissue, and he turned his back to wash his hands.  Even with his back toward me, I felt terribly inane wiping the gel from my anus rectum self with him still in the room.  I stood holding the gooey tissue, wondering what to do with it.  I eyed the metal box clearly marked "BIOHAZARD" and then the trash can that was on the other side of the doctor.  Was this considered a biohazard?  I wasn't sure.  Should I put it in the metal box just in case it really was a biohazard?  Or should it go into the trash?  But then I would have to awkwardly maneuver my paper gowned body around the doc with said tissue.  And what if it really was a biohazard and he saw me put it in the trash?  Would I have to fish it out?  Would he make a nurse come in later and remove it from the trash and put it in the proper receptacle?  

So instead, I stood holding it, like the bud of a flower.  A less desirable flower.  But a flower.  Okay, maybe not a flower.  

He turned around and noticed that he was in the way of the trash, and stepped to the side, gesturing.   He eyed my underwear.  Around my ankles.  In all of the quandary of what to do with the gel-covered tissue, I had forgotten to pull up my underwear!  This presented a whole new dilemma.  Do I reach down and try to pull my underwear up with just one hand, which would look clumsy and silly, or do I waddle past the doctor to the trash with my underwear around my ankles, dispose of the tissue, and then pull up my briefs securely with both hands?  I waddled.  I dropped the tissue, but the trash can was one of those kind that has two flaps that open if something heavy is dropped onto them, but if it is something light, one must push them a bit to get them to open.   So I bent over.  And provided my doctor with one last glimpse of my ass, this time sheerly gratuitous.  

As I dressed, I was struck by the thought that this was very much like some of my first male to male encounters:  Awkward, clumsy, and seriously overanalyzed. 

Stream of Consciousness Blogging: My Squeaky Sinuses and Such

This morning I woke up at 2:30, certain somebody was brewing coffee downstairs.  I figured it was Amelia  and her night owl habits.  This morning I see no trace of coffee having been brewed in the middle of the night.  So....was I sleep smelling?  Can you dream smells?

My sinuses are squeaky.  Not necessarily congested, just squeaky.   Right after I blow my nose I can hear them squeaking inside my head for a minute.  I know, weird, right?  

I am finally going to have a physical tomorrow, after what seems like three years of trying to make a freaking appointment!  As it is, when you call for a physical, the response you get is "the first appointment available is in seven months. . . "   So I made this initial call about two years ago, about a year after my previous physical, because silly me, I didn't think that five months after my physical I already needed to make another appointment for my next one.  I just never learn.   So I made my appointment seven months out, which put me a year and seven months past my last physical.  Then, a few months later, I get a call saying that the doctor needed to reschedule.  For four months later.  Great.  I reschedule.  Then, a few months after that, I get another call saying they need to reschedule again.  With a big sigh and a lot of scrutinizing my calendar, I reschedule, and I put it on my calendar, for three months later.  But I forget to delete the appointment that they were rescheduling.  Do you follow?  Or have you just scanned past this paragraph because it is so boring?

So what do I do?  I show up to the canceled appointment, early, on my first day of vacation, fasting, only to be told that I didn't have an appointment.  Grrrrrrrrrrrr.  The receptionist looks on the computer and sees all of the rescheduling that had been going on, and apologizes, saying that my doctor only works part time now, and he has a huge patient load, and that is why scheduling is so difficult with him.

So yeah, it will be three years, assuming that when I go tomorrow I actually have an appointment!  Meanwhile, my cholesterol has probably shot through the roof, I haven't been screened for cancer,  I have a funny looking spot on my face, I've had a cough for six weeks that won't go away, AND MY SINUSES ARE SQUEAKY!  I'm a hot mess.

I resolved to switch doctors because mine has clearly become way too popular.  It is impossible to get an appointment with him, even if you say you're extremely sick.  So that is what I am going to do as soon as I have my physical tomorrow.  Which undoubtedly will involve a prostate check, now that I am over the age or 40.  And no, gay guys don't enjoy prostate checks, ha ha, very funny, you.  

The Holidays on The Jason Show