Category Archives: hunting

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Bananafish

As I say in the Ragtag Daily Prompt yesterday, I go for a float on the New River near Floyd, Virginia, with my cousin Steve and his wife Dyane. Steve says, “Let’s go for a float on Saturday.” I am picturing myself in an inner tube with a beer, very very relaxed.

On the day of the float, Steve says, “Do you want to fish?”

“Sure”,” I say. He is a pro fishing guide and I was not trying to angle a guided fishing trip. Also, I have not fished for years and have only attempted a fly rod once. And I was informed that I was terrible at it.

On the way to the New River, with Steve driving like a banshee and the boat trailer howling behind us, Steve says, “You have to get a fishing license. Go on line.”

Why do I need a fishing license? I won’t catch anything. I don’t know what I am doing. I struggle with my phone as the truck whips down the two lane roads and I get a three day fishing license for the State of Virginia.

We go to the New River and unload the boat. “This is the second oldest river in the world. The oldest is the Nile. They both flow North.” I am wondering how you “age” a river, but we are unloading the boat and fly fishing gear. No beer, sigh. I can’t drink it anyhow unless it is gluten free.

Steve’s son ferries the truck and trailer to the take out, and we are off in the boat. It’s a beautiful little boat, with a fishing seat in the front and a seat in the back and Steve is in the middle, rowing just enough to keep us 30 feet from the bank. Exactly.

“You remember how to cast, right.” says Steve, handing me a fishing pole. A fly fishing pole. The fly is about three inches long, has deadly looking hooks, and bubbles when you reel it in. “It drives the fish insane, so they hit it,” says Steve.

“Well, um. I pull on the line, right, and there is something you flip to let it loose?”

“Didn’t grandpa teach you to cast?”

“No, never.” My father and paternal grandfather did not get along and we didn’t visit much. I thought that Grandpa just was not interested in teaching girls to fish, but my aunt says, no, he was afraid of my father. They never made up.

Steve gives me a minute of instruction and I start casting. I am in the back of the boat, thank goodness. I am more worried about catching myself or my cousins or the boat or a tree, and can’t imagine catching a fish. The lure is a Whopper Plopper which bubbles pleasantly as I reel it in. I am quite terrible but don’t hook myself. Steve and Dyane take turns rowing and they are really really good. Steve is using a cork bug, a handmade and painted “popper”. He lands it on the water as light as a bit of dandelion fluff.

I am instructed to pull if I get a hit. Much to my surprise I get a hit and I pull, mostly because it startles and scares me. That fish gets off. The second fish hits Dyane’s line and she reels it in. I want a picture of a fish. Steve holds up the little smallmouth bass. Might not want that photograph for advertising, cuz. Back into the water it goes. Dyane catches another. I catch a fairly good sized one and here is the picture. I am just as surprised as I look, surprised that I caught a fish.

Now Dyane rows for a while. Steve fishes off the front, waving his pole and dropping the fly one foot from the bank. He is telling Dyane, “Watch the current and the wind, you want to anticipate so the boat is neither too close nor too far from shore.” I had asked if there were any rapids. No, says Steve. I have my big camera, because we are not going to tip over.

Storm clouds are building up. There is some thunder. It isn’t raining yet.

No fish for a bit. We come to a small side stream. Steve is rowing. He says, “Hey, this is where someone caught a Muskie last time we were out. I’m just going to drop a line in.” I have stopped fishing for the moment because I am tired and getting clumsy and I want to snack and take photographs. Steve picks up the pole with the Whopper Plopper and drops the lure in to the mouth of the stream and WHAM, a fish hits immediately. It is BIG.

“Row into the stream where it’s cooler, Dyane!” yells Steve. I grab the net. “No,” says Steve, “That net is too small.” I put it down and plop back on my seat, Steve is fighting the fish and Dyane climbs into the rowing seat and moves us towards the stream.

The fish is calmer in the cold, I guess. Or tired. Steve climbs out of the boat, picks up the Muskie and gently takes the hooks out. It looks like an alligator without legs. The head is all mouth and teeth and the whole fish is a yard long. (There is more lightning and thunder and closer. I am thinking the F word.) Steve puts it back in the water as soon as I snap pictures. “Gotta make sure it’s ok,” says Steve, watching the legless alligator sit on the stream bed. It looks grumpy. There are two more in the water by the boat.

BLAM! LIGHTNING HITS THE FIELD BEHIND STEVE SIMULTANEOUS WITH THUNDER AND HE JUMPS. “OH!” he says, “I FELT that. I just got hit by lightning!”

“Are you ok?” then I look in the water. “Are the fish floating belly up?” No, they are not. Steve is not burned, just a shock traveling through the earth and the water. “CAN WE GO NOW?” I say, “ROW!” There is now a shit ton of lightning all around us with thunder at the same time and the rain starts. I’ve got my camera in plastic right away, but I am eyeing the metal in the boat. “Is that conductive?” I say, as Steve starts rowing with the current.

“Hell, yeah,” says Steve. I am trying not to touch any of the metal in the boat, holy crap, ROW, get me OUT of here. Shore is no safer and now it’s pouring. Warm, but the LIGHTNING.

Steve is still pretty amazed, “I was hit by lightning!” Dyane and I just mutter “row”. The lightning moves further away with the edge of the storm and now it’s just raining a soaker rain.

The rain starts to let up a little. “Anyone wanna fish again?” says Steve.

“NO! There might be lightning at the back edge of the storm. ROW, please.”

Steve gets a phone call about the guiding the next day. I reach forward and try to keep rowing with one oar (I am DONE with this float) and he gets off the phone reasonably soon and rows again.

We arrive at the take out, with the tail edge of the storm passing over us (the back?) and one of his partner guides is loading their boat back onto the trailer. “Hey!” says Steve, “I got hit by lightning!” He tells them about it and then gets the truck and trailer. We pull the gear out of the boat. BAM! There is another big lightning strike right across the river, but none of us are in the water. Phew. I get in the truck. I’m not cold but very wet. I do have a change of clothes and a towel. We had planned to swim, but the lightning dissuaded Dyane and me.

We drove the truck back to the house and both Dyane and I had a small glass of wine. A friend has been motorcycling around the country and he told me about five different people killed by lightening in a thunderstorm up around Chicago. He had gotten off the bike and gone for shelter. Good decision!

Next morning we are all up making coffee and discussing breakfast, when Steve looks at Dyane. “It was the BANANAS!” he says.

“What?” I say.

“BANANAS!” says Steve.

“Oh!” says Dyane. “I forgot1”

“What?” I say again.

Steve explains. “Bananas are bad luck on boats. It’s a really old superstition. Dyane packed two bananas and you ate one and she ate one. You can’t take bananas on fishing boats.” I look it up. Here: https://www.aquamarinepower.com/bananas-on-a-boat/ . It dates to the 1700s. No bananas on fishing boats.

And that is my bananafish story.

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The photograph is my cousin Steve as he casts right before the Muskie hits, with Dyane and with the storm clouds piling up down river.

Here is his fly fishing site: https://newriverflyfish.com/

A day late, but for the Ragtag Daily Prompt: fishing. You will see the Muskie on the RDP site from yesterday. But today’s post also fits today’s prompt: cloudy!

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DIY FUD

I am Elwha, cat.

My mother has changed. For the first year she fed us many times a day, but now she is nefarious. She left for three weeks and a man came in daily. He fed us but less generously. She now feeds us twice a day and less than in the past.

I make offering to the gods in hopes of more food, that the gods will influence my mother and turn her good again.

I place the mouse effigy in my bowl. A mouse would be delicious and if alive it would be delightful fun as well! We watch the birds out the windows and long to catch them.

There is no response from Mother or the gods.

I try again.

Another mouse, a symbol of technology, that sponge that she removes fur from furniture. Mother seems to love technology and will not let me lie on the warm keyboard. She lets me have this technological marvel. I have chewed it but it is not nutritious and gives me nothing. There are wires inside. It is fun for play but not edible.

I will wait and hope that the gods influence my mother and that more food is forthcoming.

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For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: nefarious.

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only when I’m hungry (2)

sometimes I still miss you
but only when I’m hungry

sometimes I wish I had gone slower

sometimes I wish I had waited
I wish I hadn’t rushed

sometimes I wish I had just tasted you
waited
saved you
no biting

but you tasted so delicious
I couldn’t wait
I tore into you
I didn’t want to wait
or share you
you were all mine

sometimes I still miss you
but only when I’m hungry

there is always someone else
even if they aren’t
as delicious
as you

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Not a fox?

I think I have a photograph of a fox somewhere. I know I do. Not on this laptop. I do have a coyote.

As I think this, I am looking though photographs. Oh, this.

I am not going to outfox someone. I am going to outleopard them. After all, I am a single older woman. A fox? A leopard? Usually we are called cougars.

Fine with me.

For the RDP: outfox.

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Agates

This is a song that needs a tune. Message me if you have one for it…. and thank you

Let’s go to the beach and take a walk
Wander down the sand and share a talk
You have your life and I have mine
Meet for a little while, that suits us fine

We’re searching for agates
You show me how
I’ve lost interest in beach glass now
The clear ones let the light shine through
Like a friend that is always true

Short walks, long walks, walks for miles
Talk wanders, past, present, sorrows and smiles
You show me how agates catch the sun
You find three and I find one

We’re searching for agates
You show me how
I’ve lost interest in beach glass now
The clear ones let the light shine through
Like a heart that is always true

You say in the winter the agates hide
With rain and dark you say we’ll go inside
Make music and sing and learn new songs
And see what else comes along

We’re searching for agates
you show me how
I’m getting pretty decent at finding them now
The clear ones let the light shine through
They almost shine as much as you


written 10/9/20

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even if

even if

I never see you again
you never speak to me again
you never love your bearish parts
you never let yourself get angry
you never let yourself get sad
you never let yourself feel
you tell yourself you are happy
you tell yourself everything is the way it should be

even if

I never see you again

I still love you
I still forgive you

I still love you

I hope that you truly do

find happiness

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Bears all his sons away;

I wrote this story today. I am not Native American. As far as I know, I am white, but then, I have not done any genetic testing so who knows? This was inspired by a poem of the same title: https://everything2.com/user/etouffee/writeups/Bears+all+his+sons+away%253B

One
I am wailing. I am crying. The Bear came today, our bear, the tribe’s bear, our Spirit.

But he didn’t just walk through camp and take fish and his tribute.

He took my son.

He walked right up to where my wife stood still, as we must when he comes, and he lifted the boy in his paws. The boy was quiet and still, he did well, he was brave, but when the bear turned to leave, he called once.

Then our bear dropped to three legs, my son in the fourth, and turned and left.

My son, my son, my heart, my joy. Spirit Bear, return him to me!

Two
We fought, argued, for a very short time. The Shaman said that if Spirit Bear wants my son, he shall have him.

He does have him, I said, but I want him back. The Shaman knew that was true. Some shook their heads and say that my son is already dead, but most agreed with me. We were on the trail nearly immediately. The bear should not be able to move as quickly as usual when he is carrying my son. I dread evidence of my son’s loss, that he will be eaten. But that has never happened, in the history, in the songs. The Shaman said as much. But neither has a bear taken a chief’s son.

Three
Spirit Bear is moving amazingly fast on three legs. He is headed for the mountains. Not a surprise. My son may get cold. But bears are warm. My son has not been eaten.

Four
We have to make camp. I am so angry that we have not caught Spirit Bear. Out of our home camp he is fair game.

We do the Bear Dance, four times. We did not bring the masks and the young men dance the women’s part and one sings the woman’s part. We made quick rough masks and costumes. The Spirits will forgive us. This is past all understanding.

What does a Spirit Bear want with my son? Four years. No one knows.

Five
Day again. I am up before dawn praying for light, for my son, to find the Spirit Bear.

Six
We are hot on the trail. We find that Spirit Bear did sleep and rest. My son is dropping beads. Smart boy. Each bead means that he is still alive and relatively unhurt.

Seven
We have spotted them. Spirit Bear stood and looked down at us, my son tucked against his side. My son very slowly raised his arm, so he knows.

Eight
We are approaching the peak. Everyone is tired from the climb and hungry and thirsty. Yet we keep going. No one complains.

Nine
We reach the peak and Spirit Bear and my son. We arm our spears and arrows, but my son shouts “No! Look!” We turn. We see the water. There is something in the water. It has tannish wings that are filled with wind. It is huge compared with our boats.

We turn to my son. He stands and Spirit Bear leaves, ambling down the mountain, quickly, gone. I hurry to my son, sweep him up. He starts shaking and then cries, leaning his head into me.

We turn and watch the tan winged thing, which is coming against the wind. It comes at an angle and then turns, to the opposite angle, yet still it comes. We know this is new and that there can be terror or joy, we do not know which. There will be learning, we know that.

My son falls asleep. We carry him down to water and camp. We are all singing quietly, the song of new things, fear and joy. The Shaman will welcome us when we are home, and we will prepare for the winged thing. We do not know what it will bring.

We thank the Spirit Bear for warning us, for telling us to prepare.

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Free fall

I feel safest with the fallen

Everyone falls
No one is good

I am afraid
Of the people who
pretend to be good

the fallen
don’t pretend

We fell down down down
like an eternity
like it would never end

We were bad
depressed drunk addicted
liars cowards thieves

We held our arms out
There was nothing to stop us
Free fall

All we could do
was pray

We prayed
As best we could
With all our hearts
If we had no words

Falling angels
Caught us

Helped us
Claw our way back

Some people fall
Are still falling
Fall forever

Are they crazy
Or do they choose
To stay with the angels?

The people who say
They are good

We look at them

We know they haven’t fallen

They are lying to us
They are lying to themselves
They are lying to the Beloved
They want to be good
They want what they say to be true

But it isn’t

I meet the eyes of another fallen
Knowledge

I can see the memory
Of infinite free fall
In their eyes.

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Game ball

Warning: this post contains some time out words.

How do I process the game you played?

I am the subject of the game.

Or the victim.

Or no, I refuse. It is your game. I was not playing. I am the honey badger, metabolism so fast that I have to run from one meal to the next or else I will starve. I eat whatever I can find: cobras, bees, anything. I eat or I die.

You have tethered a honey badger to oxygen by playing a game.

I am the football and you have been kicking me, throwing me, catching me, slamming me to the ground as hard as you can in the end zone.

And now that I am worn and damaged and torn, you’ll toss me away, not even notice me, and find a new ball.

You will need a new football. To play with.

I don’t envy that person.

The truth is, it will be one of you. The group will rest on their laurels, oh, we nearly killed her, wasn’t it great? We showed her. She is so stupid, took her what, 21 years to fucking figure it out? And she thinks she’s so smart.

I was looking for food because I am always hungry. The food insecurity goes back to infancy. Maybe to the womb: my mother says she was not to gain weight and spent the entire pregnancy longing for a gigantic ice cream Sunday. Think of being in a womb, attacked by antibodies to tuberculosis, and starving all the time. Might be a little bit worried when birth happens. Fuck, I am going through a tunnel, what horrors await me here? But maybe there will be more food.

Maybe someone will love me. Maybe there will be someone for me to love. And feed. We can give each other food.

My advice to you is don’t be the ball. I was the ball for 21 years. I was so hungry the whole time, for food and for love, that I kind of noticed but dismissed it as unimportant. Food and love were more important. Work and my patients were more important. You don’t matter and your games are trivial.

It will be the weakest one who will be the ball. You worry that you are the one. You should worry. You had better look strong right away. Post some horror. Write something really tough. Don’t show anyone any niggling doubts. Um, the ball is wearing oxygen. I am feeling a little bad about this. Are you feeling bad about this? The ball isn’t just crazy, it’s hurt. Actually crazy is an illness too: I know that you discriminate and think that cancer is a legitimate illness and that mania isn’t, but you are assholes. No, you’re too small and pathetic to be an asshole. You are a one celled animal that is clinging to a hair on an asshole and you get shat on daily. And you know, deep deep in your tiny shrunken heart, that you deserve it.

I am so glad I am not you.

I am tethered to oxygen. But I am healing. I don’t think you can. You are locked in your small sick pathetic triangulation competition and pretending that it’s a game that it’s ok that you are just playing.

Ick.

Meanwhile, the oxygen is portable.

I have food and I have love and I have work to do that lifts me on wings. I will go too near the sun and light on fire and fall burning, but that’s ok. I’ve done it before. The ocean heals me, always. It is so much fun to fly!

This is in memory of my mother, my father and my sister. I miss all three and I love them and they love me. Today is the day my mother died. The longer we live, the more days are days when someone that we love died. But they are still here. They are in the rocks and the sky and the trees and the coffee cup. They are not in sugary donuts or foods that cause heart attacks. But they are all around us, cradle us, still love us. Joy to you and the memories of your loved ones who have gone on. Blessings.

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you know you are hypoxic when

…..I keep thinking of new ways to nearly strangle myself. I keep thinking that I have hung up the oxygen tubing on every possible thing I could hang it up on. But no, this was a new one. At least with this one I did not lock my car keys in the car. And even if I did, I can take the nasal cannula off. There is that moment of panic: AUGH I AM TRAPPED, but I am not really.

Today’s blog is especially for B who is not trapped.

Have a wonderful Saturday.