What magic lies within this city?
What horrors hide in the fog?
What brilliant mind foresaw this skyline?
Lynne couldn’t see the face that went with the voice, but heard rustling through the willows lining the river, coming closer. She sighed, reeled in her line and turned to see who was interrupting her perfect morning. He was no one she knew, but he looked pleasant enough; close -cut hair, metal rimmed glasses, new, creased blue jeans and one of those expensive REI jackets that really don’t help much against the wind; definitely not a local. His right pant leg was ripped, and it looked like he had gashed his hand. She sensed him checking out her old waders, faded tank top and freckled nose, and shuffled uneasily.
“Looks like you banged up your hand, there.”
“Yeah, I got clumsy and slid down the embankment a ways back. I’m writing an article about fishing on the Pan, and decided I needed to scope out some good holes for myself. You have any spots you’re particularly fond of? ”
“Of course, but I’m not telling you. Law of the river, y’know?” She grinned.
He grinned back – blue eyes twinkling behind his glasses.
“Can’t blame a man for trying. I’ll leave you to your peace and quiet, and see what I can find on my own, but you be careful out here, Sweetie. I heard some psycho killer’s escaped from the Pitkin County jail just like old Ted Bundy did. Idiot jailers still haven’t learned a thing. You go home early. Be safe! “ He winked, then walked past her, and gave a wave over his shoulder. Lynne watched him trip over the rocks for a minute, then went back to her fishing.
“Scoping out holes, Sweetie? not even carrying a pole,” she muttered, disgusted.
She spent the day moving along the river, casting Blue Duns into the slow swirls where the hatch frenzied just above the surface, and snagging some beauties almost before the flies hit the water. One trout, perfect for dinner, hung from her belt in a small, insulated bag. The rest, she caught and released.
She worked her way down to the Emma Bridge over the Roaring Fork, making her last stand of the day in the lovely deep pool beneath the trestle. She pulled her hair back, tied on a fresh fly and cast out with a satisfied sigh.
“Perfect end to a perfect day,” she said aloud to herself, lazily watching the fly drift slowly across the hole.
The dude from earlier in the day waved and called from the far bank. “Hi, Sweetie! Looks like you had a good day!”
“Hope you head home soon! That psycho-killer is still out here! ”
She chuckled, waded across the stream towards him, keeping her line taut. She winked at him, shoved her filet knife into his gut and grinned. “Yeah, Sweetie, I know. I’ll be here all week.”
Young Pirate with his Ukelele
Aint no guitar too big, nor stage too humble, to keep Max quiet
“Eat it up. Wear it out. Make it do. Go without.”
Lois M. Herman
My mother said this often. I never knew who told it to her – if it’s an old Swedish or Scottish adage, or a mid-west proverb. The only place I ever saw it written down was on a slip of paper in her Better Homes and Gardens Cook Book.
I purposely ignored it more often than not, insisting that I work hard for my money, and sometimes I just want to spend it. It shows in my bank balance, and my mortgage, and my credit score. I can no longer ignore it, however. It is time to embrace it, make it my own, implement its charge and to thank my ol’ Ma for planting it in my brain. I shall finally give it the attention it deserves and hopefully avoid living in a box under a bridge in my eighties.
How best to go about it? I will have to make it a game, a contest with myself, or I will lose interest, given my history. I will need to keep score. Winners keep score, and this game I must win. Once a week I will determine where I am, reconfirm where I intend to be, and evaluate my methods of getting there. It will make me accountable, posting to my blog, yes? And so I shall begin today, Monday, February 17, 2014 – the first day of the rest of my ever lovin’ life.
I’ll be thinkin’ of ya, Ma. I’ll be working to avoid a thump on the head when next we meet, HA!
As for sparkling wines, I dislike Prosecco. It
Leaves my mouth dry, leaves me
wanting something sweeter,
something -j’ne ce quoi.
Spumante is more
less chalk on the tongue.
And Dom Perignon – alors, c’est si bon!
However, I enjoy most the little known and under appreciated $6.99 sparkling peach wine, the name of which escapes me, but the taste and fizz of which I crave all the more now that I can no longer find it.
rJo Herman 2012
above all, Balvenie scotch gives a toast an edge 2018
“Enter when you will, take what you need, leave something of yourself when you go”
I have a friend I met over a bottle of scotch in a Brandywine Valley bed & breakfast some odd years ago who travels constantly and widely, sending me bits and pieces of the world as he goes. Each picture contains a sense of mystery, or surprising humor, and/or most likely the bicycle he rode in on.
I forget where he said he shot this wide planked shack. It is intriguing, don’t you agree? The sun and scattered leaves promise it is a bright, brisk day, yet, I wonder what musty odor fills your nose when you poke your head through the door, what scurrying varmint lives in the corners, what fingers grab your ankle once you cross the threshold and the heavy door slowly shuts out the light, the long, strong boards slide through the door handle locking you inside…
… you go first…I am right behind you…