All Humorous

These pages reflect stories with humor in them. That is not to mean you will find the humor, though I hope you will, it means I had fun writing it.

Who Knew Christmas Trees Fight Back?

Posted on by kwundrow

The day after Thanksgiving, our tradition is to cut our Christmas tree. Yesterday was no exception other than the fact that my younger daughter and her husband would be unable to share in the festivities due to Covid-19, the virus hell bent of ruining our family traditions. John and I would be tasked with cutting their tree.

The day started out beautiful, sunshine and temps in the upper 40’s. Perfect weather to cut a fresh tree, which coincidentally was what half the population of the state had decided to do and at the same tree farm we had chosen. As was the tradition, we would meet our daughters and their families out at the tree farm for a day of bonding over picking out and cutting our three trees. The men folk, John and I, damn you Eli, were well aware of the painstaking process that lay ahead of us as we marched back and forth, checking out at least a hundred trees before the women folk, Bailey and my wife, would settle on the very best tree ever! All that remained was to cut them down, at ground level, in the muddy ground. The first tree fought a little bit before John was able to saw through. Tree number two, Kathryn and Eli’s actually went quite well, but then came the tree Deb had chosen for our house. This should have been my warning of things to come. With two people pulling on the tree as I attempted to get my saw to cut without binding up, we eventually got it to succumb to my efforts, but not before we cracked a nice chunk out of the trunk. No problem I told Deb, the skirt will cover our damage.

After standing in line with the mobs that like us, felt yesterday was THEE day to cut a tree, we got our tree back to the loading barn, violently shook free of loose needles, bound up tighter than an Egyptian mummy, purchased and paid for with a small loan we took out at the bank ….. have you bought a Christmas tree recently? And it didn’t even come with lights and decorations! We were now ready to pull up the car to load up our tree for the ride home. Fifteen minutes later after waiting in the line of cars loading their trees, John and I managed to jam two of the trees into the back of my Jeep with the third tree tied to the back. As my grandson and I climbed into the car for the drive home, it became apparent that a seven foot tree in a six foot bed, would be sharing the space between us. Just one more minor inconvenience. This too will pass.

An hour later, after dropping the first tree at Bailey and John’s house, and the second tree at Kathryn and Eli’s place, Deb and I arrived home with our “best tree ever”. Into the house and into the stand, I wish! After three unsuccessful tries at centering the tree in the stand, we finally got the beast secured. Leveling and centering came next and thanks to my wife’s keen eyeballing abilities, we eventually reached perfection, some twenty minutes and several gymnastic maneuvers later. Next step, throw on the lights. starting at the top, and after too many times to count of circling the tree, (this step might be what inspired Brenda Lee to write “Rock Around the Christmas Tree”) we ran out of lights two feet from the bottom of the tree. This is where the math you’ll never use should have been used…… pi x diameter = circumference, average circumference x number of times around the tree = the number feet of lights you’ll need, which apparently was short by 100 more bulbs. But wait, we had an unused box of exactly 100 ‘white’ light bulbs. Saved….NOT! This is where one learns that there are many shades of white lights, none of which matched our already strung white lights.

One hour later, Deb has returned from Target with the light supplies needed to finish our assault on the Christmas tree. Would these be the right white? Close enough, the tree is strung and lit, Deb now begins the final Battle of the Tree, while I retire to the coach, content to watch my first Christmas movie. Things are going well, Deb has half the ornaments on the tree when, out of the corner of my eye, I simultaneously hear Deb scream and the tree cant drunkenly towards the front door. As the tree tilts further toward Deb, I snag the backside of the tree and haul it back up. Close call, but after some tinkering with the anchors and Deb sternly scolding the tree, we have it standing upright. All that leveling and centering is far less important now as Deb wants this battle over. Establishing that the tree now seems stable, we will settle for the leaning tower of Christmas and move on.

We settle in for a quiet night of sleep planning on dreaming of the beauty of the tree that awaits us tomorrow morning. 7:00 am comes quickly and we rise, vision of tree grandeur dancing in our heads. As we enter the living room, ready to turn on the Christmas lights, there lays our tree, yes, I said lays not stands our tree. Our tree lays draped like a drunken sailor across the chair it took out on its way to the floor. Christmas balls are strewn in a dizzying array across our living room floor.

I turn to my wife, anticipating either tears or a string of curses, but to my relief, she is laughing. As we survey the scene of the wreck, we decide we will not be defeated by this tree. We resurrect the tree, replace the stand, straighten the lights and start replacing the bulbs. In order to thwart any further escape attempts, we hog tie it securely to the stair rail and dare it to try to get loose from that.

In good news from the front, the tree is still standing. We have faced the enemy and he is ours. Maybe let’s get a smaller tree next year.

Being a Grandpa is No Piece of Cake

Posted on by kwundrow

Before I was one, I couldn’t wait to be a grandpa. My belief was that it would be a piece of cake. You spend some time with them with your entire goal being to spoil them, feed them full of sugar, my grandmother actually created sugar sandwiches, (see Being Loved: Sugar Sandwich) and then send them back home with their parents. No sweat, right? Turns out there are a few more requirements in the fine print of that grandparent contract.

The other day we got our two adorable, sweetest, smartest grandkids in the whole world, consigned to us for the weekend. Seems mom and dad needed mom and dad time. Saturday morning they appeared magically at our doorstep, backpacks full of clothes, toothbrushes, toys, games, and projects. Wait, what, they’re staying overnight? I thought we were just being given a few hours to spoil them with hugs and kisses, a few pieces of candy of their choice, maybe a few extra TV minutes and that would be it. Hugs all around and off you go. As mom and dad got goodbye kisses and I heard my daughter say “Now you guys behave this weekend, brush your teeth and go to bed when Mimi and Opa (our loving grandparent handles) say it’s time.” My blood began to run cold! My first thought, we haven’t got enough candy in the house to last the weekend. Dear God, what will we use to bribe them after the candy supply runs out?

Major mistake number one, there were plenty of minor ones, “What would you like for lunch?” Never ask your grandkids that unless you know where the nearest McDonalds or Culvers, or for that matter, both of them are since after lunch comes dinner and then eventually there’s breakfast. And now that creative and fun activity of washing dishes I was planning on is gone. Guess the little amount of TV time will need to be renegotiated and lengthened.

Major mistake number two, wrestling with your grandkids inevitably ends up in injury. It was just a simple dive off the coach, how bad could it wind up? Hint, when wrestling in the living room, remove the coffee table. At least the time spent rocking and cuddling used up some of the 36 hours we were facing. Of course TV time got renegotiated and extended again. “Remember Jackson, mom and dad don’t need to know how LONG you watched TV, just that we watched a couple shows, short shows, really short shows.” At this rate of teaching him to spin the truth, I may have prepared him for a political career (see Being a Citizen: What Happened to Truth in Advertising).

Major misunderstanding number three, their notion of bedtime and sleeping arrangements and our wishful thinking of that would go down didn’t seem to quite align. Actually, they bore no resemblance at all. Yes, Jackson was content to sleep in his designated bed, but not without the perfect combination and illumination levels of the lights, plural. After several trips out to the living room with a request for a tweak to the systems, we got him to sleep at an appropriate time, plus or minus and hour or two, okay, just the plus. Meanwhile, Adela, our youngest and closest relative to story of the Three Bears, tried three different beds and bedrooms before settling on the one she was most likely to possible stay in for the whole night….our bed! Fortunately, that left open two other bedrooms, that upon finding my side of our marital bed occupied by our very own Goldilocks, I could spend the night in instead.

Being a grandparent takes skill. It takes a combination of patience, wisdom and love. And I won’t pretend that we haven’t closed the front door after they have gone without at least once or twice taking that deep relaxing breath as we picked up the toys and pillows and reclaimed our space. Being a grandparent requires all the wisdom you have to answer the many questions; the difficult ones, the deep thinking ones, and sometimes the awkward ones, like “How does the baby get in there?” Don’t forget the ingenuity required to think up the activities that will keep them busy. I have produced a wealth of scavenger hunts in that category. And finally, hone those negotiation skills required to handle yourself in the countless off the books wheeling and dealing you will be led into, example, McDonalds for breakfast! Here’s a tip, if all else fails, use my wife’s strategy, cards with $5 bills in them. A sure rise the to the top of the popularity poll guaranteed. Being a grandparent really isn’t piece of cake, though it might involve cake….. and ice cream….. with sprinkles…. lots of sprinkles.

Those of you know me, know that I tend to exaggerate. This story may just have some of that. Our grandkids truly are the delight of our lives and we have gone through versions of the story I laid out above and have not only survived them all, but have cherished the moments, the stories, and the memories.

For Jackson and Adela, the pride of my life and welcome to spend the weekend anytime.

My New Best Friend

Posted on by kwundrow

I need to preface this piece. Today marks the 21st anniversary of 9/11 and it must be recognized that the loss on that tragic day can never come close to the loss I am writing about in this piece. The courage and bravery of those involved in any and all aspects of that day must never be forgotten.

Last week Deb and I, along with another couple, Larry and Annette, had decided to ride the Sugar River Bike Trail from Albany to New Glarus. Not wanting to ride down and then ride back on the same trail, we had been clever and agreed on a way to leave my car at the end of the trail in New Glarus and Larry’s car at the trailhead in Albany. We would drop off our spouses and the bikes in Albany, drive both cars down to New Glarus and then return to Albany in Larry’s car. Once we completed the ride, I would drive Larry back to Albany to get his car. Perfect plan. What could go wrong? Maybe a disclaimer here: Neither Larry nor I felt particularly proud of our respect for the environment demonstrated in this plan, but hey, we at least rode bikes at some point.

If you have been a faithful reader of my blog or for that matter, patient enough to sit through any of my many stories, you will know that my keys and I sometimes part ways. As we finished our ride and were locking up the bikes, I looked across the parking lot at my waiting car. It took me all of a second for the painful reality to hit me. No, my keys weren’t lost, not this time. In fact, I knew exactly where they were and let me add, they were safe and secure. The problem was that they were safe and secure in Larry’s car, the car that was now 16 miles away in a parking lot in Albany. Facing me now, was the hierarchy of who do I confess to first, my spouse, who would immediately lecture me, rightfully so, on the virtues of making sure I kept track of things, or Larry and Annette, enjoying their well deserved ice cream while anticipating Larry’s ride back to Albany and his parked car, and blissfully ignorant to the events now unfolding just a few feet away..

I opted for neither and headed straight for Kennedy’s Ice Cream stand where I shamelessly asked the owner if she knew how I might actually get back to Albany other than by riding my bike back up the trail…. alone! Even as my loving wife was figuring out what was going on, the owner tells me she will call her husband and he and his truck can take me there. Now all I had to do was break the bad (embarrassing) news to Larry and Annette. Their response was both expected and priceless. The expected; “You’re kidding, right?”, the priceless part; in that exact same moment of shameful confession, the owner calls out to me and says. “He’s on his way.” Praise the Lord, I’m saved! An hour later, Larry and I have returned with Larry’s car, my keys, and a new best friend. In that half hour trip back up, we have heard my hero’s life story, identified at least three intersections in our lives and have considered buying his restored wooden Criss Craft boat, or at least ready to ask him for a ride in it.

Here is my point. We all experience losses in life. Some of those losses are catastrophic; the loss of health, the loss of life, or even the loss of a loved one. Others are far less critical such as the loss of some item or, in my case, the loss of pride. As hard as it was to admit the mistake to my friends, the amazing result was the forgiveness I received and the incredible acts of kindness I experienced at the hands of strangers. The agony of my shame was overshadowed by the reward of renewed faith in the community of strangers. Going forward, I may just make it a practice to lose things so that others can have the chance to rescue me. On second thought, probably not the best of plans.

Not Yet !

Posted on by kwundrow

What is it about packing that makes my blood run cold? We are set to leave for our next vacation Sunday morning, just two days from now. Truthfully, I should currently be packing, but I have chosen to write about why I’m not packing instead. My wife and travel mate, Deb, was packed a full two weeks ago, but I just can’t seem to start. It’s not that I am not looking forward to the trip, I am in fact really excited to get away. But none the less, my habit of packing procrastination is on high alert, sort of def con 3.

I have created an entire handbook full of reasons for not packing ahead of time. What if before we leave, I need one of the pieces of clothing I packed? What will the weather be where we are going? God knows you can’t trust a forecast more than a day out. What am I going to do with those last minute items? I would have to unpack just to get them in the ideal position within my suitcase. And what if TSA makes a new requirement I will have to pass? My list is limitless and the bottom line is that there is always tomorrow.

My m. o. has always been to pack about one hour before we leave. Much to my wife’s chagrin, she has been repeatedly unsuccessful in trying to change me. Even so, she has never had to leave without me, close calls a few times, but I’ve always come through. There was that one time. We had a 6:00 am flight to catch which meant pickup by our Uber driver at 4:00 am. My wife likes to have a full hour getting ready in the morning, so our wake up alarm was set for 2:45 am. Plenty of time for me to dress AND to pack. Everything should have worked except for one tiny hitch, daylight savings time began that morning. The result, a record setting run for both of us. My wife showered and dressed while I literally threw everything into my suitcase all in 15 minutes. This experience should have been a wake up call, no pun intended, but instead, became my new benchmark.

The art of packing is just that, an art. Some, like my wife, view it as a planning activity. Others a means of extending their vacation anticipation period. I view it as a track meet. Sort of a 100 yard dash at most. It’s not just a question of can I finish the race, but how fast can I do it. I have been looking forward to this trip ever since we laid the initial plans, but the packing, that’s another thing.

Fear not. We leave at 7:00 am Sunday morning, plenty of time to pack that suitcase. Though I will for sure be seeing the sun rise that morning, I promised Deb, my suitcase will be in the car by the deadline. Am I packed? ……………. Not yet.

The Life of Riley

Posted on by kwundrow

Ah retirement, or at least the concept of it. Now a days no one really retires. We just become a different kind of busy. I chose volunteering, someone else might pick a part time job, which by the way is what a lot of volunteering turns into these days. It started out as promising to show up a few days a week, but as they figured out how smart all that experience seem to make you coupled with an insane work ethic, and well, there you have it. “I’m sort of retired” becomes your standard reply to “What are you doing these days?”

For me, I was always only sort of retired. I jumped into volunteering for a nonprofit almost immediately after turning in my retirement notice. That was coupled with my seeming inability to walk away from a seasonal teaching job that had consumed the last twenty years of my career and has now morphed into it’s fifth last year of doing it. I am trying to determine if they are that desperate or I am that good, pretty sure it’s desperation. Either way, I have been cajoled into contracting a year at a time for the last five years. But there is light at the end of the tunnel, a very long tunnel. I am slowing down and finding other things to occupy my time. I am in short heading towards the “actually, pretty much, retired” phase.

So what do retired people really do with all that time. The answer is a little of this and a little of that. When truly enjoying the art of retirement, you can actually answer the question “What are you doing today?” with “Nothing.” If reminded that you did that yesterday, just reply “But I wasn’t finished.” On those days when all I have scheduled is nothing, my day starts when I wake up. Follow that up with a couple slow savored cups of coffee, a perusing of the newspaper, including a few puzzles, and then a discussion about what’s for lunch while discussing what’s for dinner.

Alright, I exaggerate. Retirement, other than our Covid-19 quarantine period when the previous statement was pretty accurate, HAS been the life of Riley. I have traveled, albeit for the most part by car, to several of my bucket list destinations. (for reference see a few of my blogs, “The Call of the Road”, “Steel City”, “We’ve Reached Atlanta”) I even got out west for a ski trip with several friends half my age, I think they felt a need for adult supervision and truthfully, their selection might have been poorly thought out. The body may be old but someone needs to explain that to my head and heart.

I think that the best part of retirement has to be the lack of a hard and fast time frame. You get to go to bed when you want to and if you feel like it, get up in time for sunrise or sleep in if you don’t. When traveling, unless you have those required boarding times hanging over your head, you can take your time. You can even stay a few days longer or just stop to visit old friends along the way. You will get home when you are ready to be home. The freedom of not having to look at your watch to be sure you are where you have to be when you need to be, is freeing. My watch is used more to see how many steps I got in than to tell me the time of day. My activity choices now revolve around whether it’s light outside or dark.

Case in point. Today is one of those glorious nothing on my schedule days. I have found time to savor my coffee, listen to some music, do a little fiction reading, get my Valentine’s obligation done, and even write this piece. My only questionable act so far, I reserve the right for one or two more, was to take a walk around the block. Why is that questionable? It is five degrees outside and that might be tolerable for a polar bear, but there’s also the infamous windchill making it feel like seven below. I am going to tell you that the difference is negligible since five degrees is cold, period. But, it was necessary, or so says my doctor who has prescribed it. Did she know it was going to be this cold and why wasn’t she out walking with me? I guess she was hanging out at the emergency room waiting for them to bring me in frozen. But the good news is that this too shall pass. A week from today, my wife and I will be headed to much warmer climes where we will replace today’s ice under our feet with white sand and surf. I think I can already feel it oozing up between my toes.

Ah, the Life of Riley.

If Only I Were a Car

Posted on by kwundrow

As a guy, I have always been prone to getting attached to my cars. Before you question that statement, just consider that men approach cars so differently than women. We give them feminine names. We care for them as if they were are pets. We even speak of them in sexual connotations, just don’t ask me to get into specifics on that one. Men know what I mean. But even with all this said, I have always espoused to a set belief when it came to cars. I would date my car for two to three years, five years tops if I was really in love with her, and then I would trade her in for a slightly newer model with fewer miles and that shiny sexier frame and then start up a new love affair.

If only I were a car. If that were true, I could trade myself in for a newer model with a few less years on it, hell, maybe a lot fewer years on it. As I approach my next birthday, a birthday as yet not named, my body is showing signs of the well driven years I have put on her. Oh, she still tries to have that new car smell and sure, she shines up real nice when we are going out on the town, but truth be told, she lacks some of that get up and go she had when I first started driving her. She’s a little slower out of the gate in the morning and her tires are looking worn. Don’t get me wrong, I suspect she still has some good years left in her, but you know, if only I could trade her in.

When I posed this idea to my wife, she immediately wanted to know how many models I was planning on stepping up and just how low a number of years was I considering? I assured her I was intending to be reasonable, maybe a couple of model years up and oh maybe somewhere between thirty-five to forty years on her. Not too surprisingly, after visualizing the new me, she was all in.

Now, if only I were a car,

The Call of the Road Trip

Posted on by kwundrow

The road trip has been talked about for generations. When I was growing up the best road trip one could take, was Route 66. This one was so famous, they wrote books about it and even made a TV show with Route 66 as the premise. The idea of a road trip offered a chance to see America close up and if you really wanted to see the out of the way, you had to take the by ways and avoid the free ways.


During my lifetime I have taken my share of road trips. The first road trips were relatively short in that they didn’t even leave the state. Later, my road trips expanded beyond the borders of my state and several took me all the way across the country. I have driven to San Francisco on one coast and New York on the opposite. One trip reached the tip of Cape Cod, while another the tip of the Florida Keys at Key West. Two took me out of the country to Quebec City on the Atlantic side and Edmonton, Alberta on the western side of Canada. Each and every one of these trips hold very special memories. Memories of driving with my small children. Bonding trips with friends from college. Several long trips with my wife as copilot. In the end, I brought home lots of photos and souvenirs, but more importantly, incredible memories of the places and views as well as new friends made along the way. I could never pick one favorite trip, but there certainly were some great ones. 


There is one trip that does stand out from the rest for it’s sheer audacity. It was the summer of 1977, I had just resigned from my first teaching job and had moved back home before I would start my new one that fall. My brother had some vacation time coming and asked if I were up for a road trip. We would load the car and head west eventually reaching Sacramento where we would drop in on our sister. We had zero plans but big ideas. With my little red mustang loaded with the few things we thought we might need, we said good by to our mother and headed west. We reached Omaha, Nebraska sometime in the wee hours of the next morning and passed Lincoln around sunrise. Some small Nebraska town out in the middle of nowhere became our first pit stop. It seems the Nebraska State Patrol believes one should drive slow enough to truly enjoy the amazing scenery their state has to offer. After paying for our share of that view, we were back on the road. We eventually crossed the Rockies, the Great Salt Lake, and the Sierras arriving at our destination, my sister and brother-in-law’s home in Sacramento. It had taken us most of two days and I am not even sure I remember where we stopped for the night or even if we did. All in all, we spent the better part of two weeks on that trip. We toured Sacramento, took in one of my brother-in-laws stock car races, made several new acquaintances curtesy of the Sacramento night scene, and re-established our significance to our sister.


Our return trip back across the country was equally noteworthy. Safe to say, we still went more or less by the seat of our pants when it came to planning. Night one found us rolling out our sleeping bags under a moonlit Oregon sky only to be awakened soon after by rather large animal sounds, at least they sounded large. Back in the car, we decided we were not cut out to be cowboys sleeping under the stars. We reached Yellowstone by morning and actually made Mt Rushmore in time for the evening lighting of the monument. I still remember Keith asking if the one day park sticker we had bought that morning in Yellowstone, also got us into Mt Rushmore. The look on the ranger’s face said it all. I believe his exact words were, “You’re covered on the park entrance fee, but maybe I should be giving you a speeding ticket instead.” After a good laugh, we were granted entrance to the park. Our intent that night was to pitch a tent and start back on our trip home the in the morning. Our intent was valid, but after a night out in Keystone, two more new acquaintances, and a trip to an abandoned gold mine at three am, it was already dawn when we got to our tent. Our camp ground neighbors commented on how impressed they were with our being such early risers. We left them believe that.

 
That trip sticks out in my mind as being the event that re-bonded me with my brother. Sharing all that time, and yes, adventures with him, renewed our brotherhood. That is what road trips are meant to do. We get to reacquaint ourselves, we discover new places and new people, we adventure. The open road cannot be seen from 30,000 feet up. It needs to roll beneath the tires of your vehicle. It needs to be seen from the windshield of your car and it needs to invite you to pull over, get out, and experience it first hand. Every road trip I have taken has afforded me those priceless opportunities. Next time someone offers you the chance for a road trip, don’t hesitate. Throw a few things in the back of the car, buckle your seatbelt, and hit the road.

                                 Queet’s Beach, Washington.  One of many great road trips with my daughters

Thank you Cat Stevens for Reminding me!

Posted on by kwundrow

I just returned from meeting my daughter and son-in-law at the airport. They were returning from a quick five day kid free vacation and we were returning their prodigy. Where had the kids been you ask? Why with us for their own five day staycation with Mimi and Opa.

It became obvious early on that we would be camp directors. Events were planned, clearly not enough of them. Activities were put in the schedule, not always their idea of fun. And sleeping arrangements were made, not to be followed. For the next five days, I swam in our pool more than I had in the last five years. I watched My Little Pony, two entire seasons! My co-director and I took turns reading every Berenstain Bears book, just praying it would put them to sleep, it didn’t. And we learned that strawberry milk and ice cream actually can be breakfast foods, like we were going to do battle over proper dietary intake, though we did broach the subject once only to surrender our entire force at the first sign of trouble. I leave it to their parents to reestablish any semblance of control, in my opinion, an appropriate lesson for sending us all those pictures of them hiking by beautiful mountain lakes while we manned the castle walls.

During my grandpa sitting adventure, I ignored the forty plus emails in my inbox. I shirked my volunteer duties completely. I pushed every request for my attention aside with “I am tied up for the next five days” as my all too literal excuse. I skipped meetings, rearranged appointments, and in general shut out the outside world. In other words, sheer stress free bliss.

For the past five days, I played, laughed, wrestled, made up games, and learned more than I ever thought I could about Minecraft and building robots. For long hours each day, I was a kid again. At one point, to negotiate one child who wanted to fish while the other wanted to swim, we wound up fishing in our swimming pool. No I didn’t stock the pool, just removed the hook, tied on a washer, and two of us would play the role of fish, mermaid in Adela’s case, while the third member of our fishing excursion would cast the line and reel us in. I can hear you laughing and I know what you are thinking and I am here to tell you, yeah it looked that silly, but the sheer pleasure of the game and the laughter of my two grandchildren was worth it even if my wife someday posts the video on Facebook.

If I had a wish, I would want everyone to at least once in a while have the chance to play with a grandchild. To experience the complete release that not having a work schedule, not worrying about what anyone thinks of them, not sweating the little things, actually feels like. To have the chance to just be a kid, if even for a little while.

I leave you with this thought, The Cat’s in the Cradle and the Silver Spoon! Don’t miss the message imbedded in the song.

Turns out you can teach an old dog new tricks

Posted on by kwundrow

For over sixty years, friends, relatives and even strangers have tried to teach me how to fish. I have been taken out in countless boats only to be taken back to shore and dropped off for distracting them with my excessive pacing on their too small for that boat. I was simply too impatient with the process. Though my impatience has certainly been part of the issue, my general attitude was the greater problem. Why would I want to spend a good portion of my vacation throwing a line at fish who never showed much interest in biting what I was offering. There were so many other things I could do that seemed more productive. Even chasing a golf ball around the course seemed more entertaining and much more likely to offer the greater exercise.

Don’t get me wrong. Over the history of my near fishing career, I have managed to catch the occasional fish that others told me they could use as bait. I even managed to “suck” a fish out of my dad’s pond with a cane pole but telling that story will have to be a blog of its own. The bottom line is that I never came close to qualifying as a fisherman, let alone to own or deserve my own pole.

All that changed last year. My seven-year-old grandson, Jackson, wanted to fish. Unfortunately, I was the only one available to teach him. Reluctantly, I decided to try. I started by digging out my daughter’s old pole, she had lost interest almost as fast as I had with the only difference being that she at least made it to the owning a pole level. Next stop, the bait shop and a dozen Canadian Crawlers, hopeful this was the way to go. And then, poorly outfitted, I took him down to the end of our dock. What happened next was magic. He caught a fish on his second cast, and he was hooked. By the end of the summer, he was asking how he could catch the really big fish, you know, the kind you have to carry one of those heavy-duty nets and a baseball bat to defend yourself. I started to hear walleye, northern, and muskie being bandied about with regularity. I could only hope taking him to local sports bars to show him monster mounted muskies and northerns would dissuade him in his dangerous quest. It didn’t. Other seasoned fisherman would slide by in their boats and Jackson would engage them in fish conversations. “What have you caught?”, “I just caught a smallmouth bass, but I got a largemouth yesterday.” Until we started these lessons, I didn’t know mouth size was such a big deal. My wife asked him if he had caught a loudmouth bass and I didn’t even catch her faux pas. As the conversation between these fishermen carried on, I dreaded being asked my role for fear that I would have to admit I was only his bait caddy.

It is now year two of these so-called fishing lessons and the strangest thing is happening, I am finding myself liking this fishing gig. Not only has Jackson made me appreciate the art of fishing, but he has also hooked me on the sport, yes, I just called it a sport. He started me out small, a couple of crappies here, a bluegill there and then it happened, I caught a smallmouth bass. I was ready to have it mounted for display in one of those sportsman’s bars right next to the 52-inch Muskie, but I quickly came back down to earth as I heard Jackson casually say, “Nice job Opa, you caught a smallmouth.”

Today, Jackson and I spent an hour in a bait shop staring at the countless lures and fishing gear as if it were a candy store, and tonight, while everyone was finishing dinner, I caught myself wandering down to the dock and casting a line. To my sheer delight, I caught two nice smallmouth bass. I reveled in the fight and beamed with pride as I pulled each one to the surface. Later, as we all sat around the campfire, I found myself drawn once again back to the dock. As I cast my line out unto the lake’s surface, softly shadowed in the twilight glow of a northern Wisconsin evening, I came to the realization that I was in, hook, line, and sinker. I guess now I’ll have to buy myself a pole.

All I can say Jackson ….. you really did teach this old dog a new trick.