Friday, April 22, 2011

Dear vistors

I very much appreciate you visiting my sight. I wish to thank you and want you to feel free to share the blogs with your friends. Please, please let me know who you are as I very much would like your comments. Also, I am not a spammer and have nothing to sell so feel unencumbered to drop me a line or leave a comment.

Your friend on the web,

Steve

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Thursday, April 21, 2011

Catharsis by S.E. Hicks

Catharsis
Written by Fletcher “Butchwax” Ferguson

I have had the pleasure of meeting a large number of truly unique individuals in my short time on this earth. As a personal trainer I learned very quickly that we are all so very different and excepting a person’s distinctive personality quirks comes with success in the service industry. The first three customers that came to my fitness studio were gay men. When the third gay male walked in dressed in flaming gay attire I immediately pointed him towards the door. Big mistake as I soon realized gay folks have money too and if you just take time to get to know them, their sexual orientation has absolutely nothing to do with why they sought fitness advice. Once this was realized I overcame my homo-phobia and over the course of eighteen years developed professional relationships with both gay and lesbian clients some of which I could easily label as good friends.

Aside from getting to know great people, one of the most satisfying aspects of the field of personal training was helping a client reach their fitness goals. Helping diabetics reduce or even eliminate their insulin use or helping a stroke victim regain use of their arm and walk again are achievements that surpass all the athletic achievements by a long shot. One young boy whom had Hydro Encephalitis as a baby was probably my greatest challenge and the most rewarding relationship I have ever experienced. The young man at the age of eleven walked with a severe gimp and had a nearly useless left arm that he carried drawn up toward his chest. What made his case so difficult was his endocrine system was compromised and he had a very difficult time sweating which drove him crazy with over stimulated surface nerve activity that caused him to itch like he had a bad case of poison ivy. His Dad had been a university level back up quarterback to a fellow that is now in the NFL Hall of Fame. Pretty tough for a kid to be like Dad. His Dad was great however and gave his son nothing but praise for his effort at overcoming this affliction. When the young man was eighteen he could bench his weight for fifteen, run five miles with out a hitch and could sweat with the best of them. He went on to enroll in the Air Force Academy where I understand he flies drones. What a great achievement for him and his family and an extremely satisfying, rewarding result for me.

One day I had the pleasure of meeting a gentleman who was quite disparate from most of my clients. Roger was a classic example of a guy tired of getting sand kicked in his face by all the bullies of the world. He was a very small man weighing in at maybe a buck and a dime. Standing only about 5’6’ he not only was weak and frail but had very poor self esteem. Roger however, was a very pleasant man with a spark in his heart and gleam in his eye. He said all he wanted was to be strong enough to left the heavy luggage in and out of the trunk of the limo he drove but what he really needed was a shot of confidence and a self esteem boost. He worked his ass off in the gym. He ate like I told him and did all the little things necessary to gain muscle weight. Two years later Roger weighed in at 132lbs of lean muscle. He could do things with his body he never thought possible. The guy walked with confidence and carried himself with great pride.

One day Roger came in the gym and informed me that this would be his last workout for a while has he had either been fired as a limo driver or quit, he wasn’t sure which. When I asked what happened he told me. For several years he had taken a older woman to the airport once a month and would pick her up when she returned. Roger described her as a bitter old crabby bitch who verbally abused him at every turn. During the most recent trip she mouthed off to Roger one too many times and Roger slammed on the brakes of the limo right in the middle of the bridge that crossed the Missouri river and promptly tossed her over packed high price designer luggage into the Missouri river. Roger was quite confident of himself now and nobody was ever going to kick sand in his face again.

I got a degree of catharsis from Roger’s story as I had heard the stories of this woman’s verbal abuse many, many times. Wish I had been there to see her face, she also happened to have been a one time client of mine and had verbally abused me a time or two. Good for Roger.

Thursday, April 14, 2011

Acute Flatulent Technique by SE Hicks

Acute Flatulent Technique
Written by Fletcher “ Butchwax” Ferguson

Having a reputation for processing a skill is one thing. Consideration as a talented athlete or craftsman is a note worthy honor. Rising to an elite or professional rank puts one in the highest significant percentile. If in fact, farting was a professional sport, I would have been inducted into the hall of fame long ago. In my minds eye, I should have been and according to those who have a nose for such skill admittedly agree. I am or was a professional farter. A skill, that unlike most older men, has dissipated with age. Primarily due to a trendy change to an almost ubiquitous organic diet including the drinking of raw milk. This diet change has permanently placed me on the disabled list and forced me into early retirement.

Holding a social faux pas world record carries with it an automatic degree of respect. I am the only person known in my wide circle of influence to have cleared out an entire section of spectators at an outdoor, open air, division one football game. Unfortunately, there was no wind that day. Had there been just a gentle breeze the devastation would have spread around a good third of the lower level. Twice in an outdoor setting, I have induced asthma attacks in previously undiagnosed victims, at a world record distance. You got to catch the wind just right in those circumstances.

In order to be considered a pro, one must be able to fart on demand. Not always for entertainment sake, but for the cause and effect results a well timed fart can have, say… during an argument with you wife for example. Another classic skill is to fart with directional auditory volume and skillfully blame it on someone else. Kind of like anal ventriloquism. Like the time I was in line behind a troublesome older female customer at the grocery store. “God lady change your diaper.”

Crowded parties are my favorites. Mingling in an uncomfortable social situation puts my game in high gear. Not only could I saddle up on a unsuspecting sole, I could change flavors and cause a multitude of suspects to be considered. On one occasion there were so many different retched plagues released from my sphincter, the caterer was blamed, for it was concluded by the many guests that the food caused the malady.
 
Quality farts when used to entertain or torture my three boys should not go without mentioning. After saying prayers and a sincere good night hug and kiss. There’s nothing like hearing the combined complaining laughter heard after closing the door behind a loving wisp of methane. They would be forced to get up in the dead of winter open the windows and turn on a floor fan they kept handy for just that sort of bed time story.
Hall of fame farts, I have had many. The three epic farts that I care to share with the readers of this manuscript credit me as Worlds Greatest. Each of these single efforts have unique features to them and could be classified as new life forms do to their residual residency.

Several years ago I was asked to be a stand in for a buddy who had entered a drawing for a brand new Chevy Malibu. The catch was that he had to sit in the car with six other people until only one person remained, resulting in that person winning a new car. My friend needed a car badly and was acutely aware of my rare skills. I sat in the back seat with three woman. I just had to out last the other contestants. There were no bathroom room breaks allowed.

I sized up my competition. One of the women, a house wife and mother of three, had experience with diapers which gave her a strong tolerance of odors. The practical nurse might be able to with stand a certain amount of methane, but the female mortuary employee looked to be the toughest of the three women.
The other male competitors, sitting in the front seat consisted of an elderly gentlemen of eighty some. A Mexican American plumber, and a male librarian.

My pre game meal was comprised of a couple of healthy stewed cabbage quarters, some raw broccoli, a refried bean dirty rice pilaf, six pickled eggs, followed up by a quart of milk. The milk was a risk, as bladder concerns might cause me to exit the car prematurely. I didn’t think it would take me that long. We were in the car a good hour when the build up of methane began collecting in my descending colon. Now an average person can produce one to three pints of methane a day. I could hold better than a pint in my colon and release all of it at a given moment. I had to time this perfectly. I needed to release the effort right after one of the other competitors slipped one out that got the attention of the olfactory senses. I waited for just such an opportunity. As the amateur’s methane caused some mild discomfort and before the affected could recover I passed a pint or better. The competition was over as my six competitors fled the scene due to their inability to breathe.The only real draw back of the strategy was that my buddy’s wife could not deal with the remaining odor the car held. Thus, he was forced to sell it at far below the market value for the same odd reason.

The second world class effort occurred at a poker tournament in Reno, Nevada. I was a member of a professional business organization that held a yearly poker game for charity. The 700 members stayed at a large high rise hotel. The entry fee was one hundred dollars. Each player had fifty dollars in chips to start the tourney. The game was Texas Hold-em. There was a simple elimination process. After two hours at a table who ever had the most chips advanced to the next round. That winner took every one’s chips at the table with him. The place winner’s received the proceeds in the form of a tax deductions to a charity of their choosing. All in all a fun weekend.

On this particular year I had managed to make the quarter final round. During the games when the appropriate number of competitors were reached the ante went up as did the maximum bet. Now at the end of the time period, the top three at each table plus the best fourth in the bracket, advanced to the semis. The time limit was strictly enforced. Maintaining a constant vigilance I determined that I was in the top three positions and easily made it to the semi final. In the semi’s I was again successful achieving top three status and I advanced to the final table. At the final table I had to fall back on a very devilish tactic. I had won a pot that put me in the chip lead, when it was my turn to deal and the bet came a round to me I went all in and before I could be called by any other player, I immediately farted, clearing the room. The room remained void of any players other than myself, until the time period elapsed. The judges adhering to the rules were forced to award me the winning hand and thus the tournament.

The two prior efforts were deliberately planned premeditated acts, executed with perfection. The last hall of fame effort I am sharing with you was purely an accident, having not intended to be the cause of the utter chaos that followed my ill timed release.

The personal training client I was seeing was the most high and mighty of all the residents in a 36 story condominium that was home to a collection of retired multi-multi millionaires. She was the matriarch of the building. Of course any one that she used as a personal trainer would in fact be the “must have” if nothing else than for a one up’s on the person they were bragging to. Accordingly, I was well known through the building and I knew most of the residents by their first name.

On this particular morning I had finished with the old she boar and was making my way down the elevator. I had been holding in the plumes of methane that collected during the course of the work out. Because it was early and I never ran into any one at this hour say for the security guard Gary who was most likely at his post and due to the fact that I had reached my storage capacity I released the beast. Just as I had completed the lengthy project and as I was just catching a whiff of what appeared to have been a real paint peeler the elevator door opened.

To my surprise there stood the old Korean women with her walker. The old Korean woman was a very nice lady that lived with her daughter and son-in-law who was a famous cardio vascular surgeon. They lived in one of the four, three floor penthouses the building had. The old girl got in, just smiled at me as I quickly exited the elevator. About the time he door was closing --it hit her. I could hear, as well as Gary the guard, what sounded like muffled but displeased Korean poignant commentary. Keen eyed Gary caught my grin and asked what was so funny. I told him. He was laughing and drawing the possible domino effects that might result, i.e. someone else is getting on the elevator thinking she did it-- when the phone rang at the front desk.

It was another resident of the penthouse cluster that had discovered the fainted old Korean woman on the thirty-fourth floor. Her comment to Gary over the house phone was, “we need an ambulance and a maintenance person up here.” It seems there was an awful sewer gas emitting from the elevator and Mrs. Wong had passed out.” Gary, barely able to control his laughter, looked at me and said you better go and you better be glad that the old women can’t speak English. I left thinking proudly of the two milestones; a fart that caused a woman to actually faint and the fact it had traveled thirty-four floors and still packed a punch upon arrival. Worthy.
 
 
 
 

Monday, April 4, 2011

Peeping Park Techs by S.E. Hicks

Peeping Park Techs
Written by Fletcher “Butchwax” Ferguson

I was twenty three, in grad school and in need of a good summer job. When told of an opening at Lake Perry for a park technician I applied and was granted an interview with the Colonel Joseph M. Millencamp a U.S. Army Corps of Engineer full bird. He was the commander of the lake and park operations. He lived on site with is wife of 35 years. The Colonel commanded a staff of three full time personnel and three seasonal park technicians. The second in command was a park ranger of notable character. Mobe Wilson was six foot nine of well groomed officer, the epitome of park ranger professionals, a beast of a man. Mobe unfortunately had a deputy ranger Travis Craig who was by all definition a cross between Barney and Gomer but a tireless worker nonetheless. Maggie a full time park technician was the most intelligent of the bunch, a friendly kind person whose love of wild things was beyond reproach. Then there were the three seasonal summer park techs. Nash a fifty five year old teacher/track coach from Topeka and Benedict also a teacher/track coach who was old as the lake itself. It seemed Benedict and Nash had been working for the Colonel since they had started teaching. They were great guys and a real pair, full of tom foolery. When I was hired there were now three track coaches on the staff. Turned out the Colonel was an ex track star himself. He claimed to have been a hammer thrower back east some where, prior to the Korean war. Thus his partiality towards track coaches.

The job was a breeze. All I did was drive around in a little pick up truck and collect camping fees from the campers. Of course there were a lot of pubic relations, an occasional request for directions to stores, gas stations, liquor stores, bait shops and the like. There were fringe benefits, left over fresh cooked fish, of course cold beer and great scenery. It was not all fun however. Once we had to drag the lake for a drowning victim. The fifteen year old Mexican kid had been under a hour or so before we started the dragging. I was volunteered to man the drag connected to a wench mounted on the stern of Mobe’s Park Ranger boat. The drag had several large treble hooks on it strung from a piece of heavy five inch angle iron about eight feet long. When we hooked him and winched him up, the hook was set in the soft place behind the victim’s Achilles tendon. The first look at a drowned corpse caused me to puke and I dropped the drag. Mobe who was driving the boat caught me as I had turned white and nearly fainted. I got the kid but not without a military style ass chewing by the Colonel and Mobe.

The next day, a slow Monday, I took a lunch break and fished at the mouth of a little stream where the white crappie were spawning. I caught my limit (50) in thirty minutes and brought the creel to the Colonel who was fond of the taste of crappie. By the time my shift was over the Colonel had them filleted and mostly fried up. We ate good that night. The Colonel had a new appreciation for me, all was forgotten.

On weekends I was usually paired up with Nash as the camp sites were too full for one man to cover by himself. Benedict would take the small camp sites on the other side of the lake. Occasionally there would be a bathing beauty that warranted a shared observation. Due to the fact that we used a two way radio that was monitored by the Sheriff, Mobe and the Colonel, code was used to notify each other of the various locations of such beauties. Now Benedict and Nash were both dirty old men but harmless other wise. They just enjoyed a peek at bikinis just like any other red blooded American boy does. Once the beauty was located a call went out for everyone to come look at a fisherman’s legal stringer of fish. Over the course of our shift we would venture over and take a gander. Legal meant over eighteen. Nice little stringer meant possible under age or small in size. You know what I mean. A big pair of catfish meant the obvious, with lbs of fish referring to over all estimated size i.e. 40lbs. etc.

Well, one particular Friday afternoon the lake was not so busy. Nash and I were collecting fees together and came upon a couple, naked in a lawn chair doing the herty gerty. As the lawn chair collapsed at the surprise of our arrival there were port holes and elbows frantically trying to cover up. We politely said we would come back, did so in a few minutes and collected the fee. Then a call went out over the airways to Benedict who was on the other side of the lake. He was told to bring his car jack as we had a flat tire--code for peep show in progress. Benedict was there before we told him where we were. Spotting scopes and binoculars were used to view from a safe spot the goings on in the back of the van. It was my idea to sneak down a deep grass covered ravine and get a close up. Well the boys were in the ravine before I completed the suggestion.

After using great stealth we were perched no more than fifteen yards from the couple with the back end of the van fully open. They were really going at it. We each took turns with a high powered binocular and got way to close a look at the details. This went on for some time. When Benedict said he could see the sweat dripping of her----nose. We laughed a little to loud. Suddenly the biggest dog in the world came boiling out from under the van. It was the biggest Saint Bernard I had ever seen. Really big because it had teeth, was roaring like a lion and was on our asses. Adrenaline charged flight was the urgent result. Thank God for track training and the gift of speed.

Still being fleet footed at twenty three I out ran the old guys like a mountain goat evading a cougar and beat feet all the way up the steep ravine. At the top of the grass covered ravine was a steep bare slope that was covered with a thick thicket of wild plum. When I grabbed for a hold on one of the trees to pull my self out, to my surprise, I grabbed Mobe’s leg. He then grabbed me by the collar and yanked me out of the thicket. He started laughing and I turned to watch Nash struggling up the hill with the 275 lb 65 year old plus Benedict right on his heels plowing through the buffalo grass, as was a dog the size of a dinosaur. Nash tripped over a sapling that sprung back up and hit Benedict square in the nuts, knocking him down. The dog was then seen licking Benedict, mounting and humping him like the big puppy had two peters. That’s when the Colonel who was still in Mobe’s truck busted his gut laughing. I can still hear the Colonel’s deep throated belly laugh.

The Colonel had a pair of binoculars hanging from his neck, as did Mobe. They had seen the whole thing. “Let’s go Mobe. Fun’s all over,” said the Colonel. It seems our code was busted and so were we. They gave us the business for the rest of the summer.

Last Batter by S.E. Hicks

Last Batter
Written by Fletcher “Butchwax” Ferguson

It is a well known fact that I love baseball. I loved playing the game, watching the game whether on television or live at the stadium. I loved listening to the game on the radio. When I was a kid and I was sent to bed before the sun was down I would plug the ear piece into my little transistor radio and lay awake tuned into the old Charles O Finley owned Kansas City A’s, a franchise with a dubious historical won loss record. As bad a team as they were I would be listening intently to every play by play segment the announcers voice would carry across the air waves. It seems that as the years went by, baseball announcers began to lose the art of painting the picture of the game. Their announcing techniques have definitely degraded and they have filled the experience with unrelated gibberish that I find distracting, uncomfortable to listen to and an over all disparaging insult to the sanctity of the game I hold in high regard.

I couldn’t do much about that as I didn’t have any influence over Major League Baseball. Where I did have influence was coaching my middle son’s T-ball team. As it happened, the Dads that had historically coached the little league teams had jockeyed for positions to coach their sons and I was politically denied the opportunity with my oldest and youngest boys. The opportunity presented itself with my middle son due to the fact that I bought the franchise, e. i. sponsored the team. I bought all the necessary equipment bats, balls, catching equipment batting tees, helmets and designed the t-shirts and hats the five year old T-ballers would wear. The Fifty-Ninth Street Gym Trojan Big Dogs (The name the kids came up with, it barely fit across the tiny shirts) was our name. The T-shirt had a rendition of a muscle flexing body builder with the head of a dog.
When I went to the preseason coaches meeting I was shocked that there was no coaches education program to arm the well meaning Dads with a minimum of education relative to the coaching of elementary age boys and girls. I had a four year degree devoted to the five sciences of teaching physical activities. Most of the coaches were just frustrated ex-players and uneducated Dads without a clue has to how to develop young tender-hearted athletes. I suggested a coaching education program but the board of the youth sporting authority was comprised of men and woman of lesser intelligence than the would be coaches. I also asked a very poignant question,” Why are we keeping score for T-ball?” It seemed to me that if everyone who played the game left it thinking they were winners, it would aide in developing positive self esteem. Ten years later they woke up as did the nation of T-Ball and those very ideas became part of the game, but my ideas at the time where not well received, probably because they weren’t “their’ ideas.

My son had the pleasure of going with me to purchase all the equipment and was infatuated with the catching equipment, something T-Ballers didn’t need as the only job of the catcher was to place the ball on the tee and cover any plays at the plate. Nonetheless he was going to be our catcher, face mask and all. He wore the mask all the way home and seldom took it off except to eat. He would save his milk for a straw which allowed him to wear the mask and drink. The chest protector offered great protection from his older brother who liked to give him a pink belly from time to time, which he didn’t care for.

We practiced three days a week in the early spring and had good success teaching the sleepy easily distracted five year olds the fundamentals of the game. Hit the ball, throw the ball, catch the ball, run the bases, that was our mantra. My middle son had the benefit of having access to the batting tee all day every day. Consequently he became quite good at hitting the ball off the tee a country mile, figuratively. We would play nightly in the back deep lot of our yard, and hit ball after ball. I would then time him to see how fast he could run and pick up the two dozen balls we had. We had a blast, but the exercise was not without purpose.

According to T-ball rules every player batted every inning regardless of whether or not they were playing in the field (good rule) and no matter how many outs there were. The players hit the ball off a tee, no pitching, hence the name. Actually there was only one out that mattered, the last batter. If he was out or safe the inning was over. As a result of this rule the last batter’s goal was to run the bases Katy-bar-the-door until he reached home plate or until tagged out. During the course of the inning when the pitcher stepped on the rubber with ball in hand, all runners must stop at the next base. Only the last batter had a different rule to play by. If the ball was thrown to the catcher and he stepped on the plate the last batter was out and inning was also over. So being the last batter and the catcher was a very critical position in the game of T-ball.
It was important to me that each player took a turn at each position so to enhance their over-all understanding of the game. My son didn’t like giving up the catcher’s mask. He wore the mask despite the fact that the mask was unnecessary and not required by the rules. He would continue to wear the mask at every position he played, denying the new catcher the mask. There was no point in fighting him. Before long I had several players wearing catcher’s masks and by the start of the season they all wore one, at every position mind you. After the first game when the other team made a joke out of it most the guys dropped the mask. Not my son. He was going to wear it regardless. He would even wear it when he went to bat. Obviously, my coaching and parenting philosophy was one of responsible freedom. The mask wearing habit eventually waned.

As the last batter, my middle son would stroke the ball and run until he hit the plate. He was as exceptional at it as a five year old could be. He especially enjoyed the receptions at home plate his teammates rewarded him with after he slid into home plate whether he needed to or not. He didn’t knock a home run every inning but darn close. On one occasion, after the cry of LAST BATTER resonated across the field and with the bases loaded with Trojan Big Dogs my son hit a shot into deep left center (85 feet). The ball ricocheted of the home run fence sending the defenders scrambling after it. My son got confused after hitting the ball, having spun completely around in the batter‘s box. Instead of running to first base he ran to third passing our player who was on third coming home and then passing our players that were on second and first respectively. He ran for all he was worth with the biggest of grins on his face. When he got to first he realized his mistake. Thanks to the corrective screams of supporting coaches, he ran back the way he came. All the while the opponents were still chasing after the elusive ball he hit. Safe at the plate he was. Grand slam the hard way. The laughter and cheers from the crowd only added to his enjoyment. He took a bow, tipped his cap, went into the dug out and put on the catcher’s mask.

The Emperor's New Fishing Tackle by S.E. Hicks

The Emperor’s New Fishing Tackle
Written by Fletcher “Butchwax” Ferguson
 
We had moved into a little three bedroom bungalow of which was located in the heart of suburbia. My first born son was at the ripe age of two and a half, just out of diapers. A crossroad that holds special significance for dads across the globe. It means several things. It’s the third and last step in becoming Dad’s fishing buddy. If you are keeping score, walking and developing some language skills are the first two steps.

Once I was convinced that my offspring could use that degree of self control, I took him to the near by lake for an afternoon of wonder. The excitement and anticipation of the event are far more fun for me as the Dad than the actual act of fishing. Something my wife didn’t understand. As I would purposely tell the boys we were going fishing hours before we left for a number of calculated effects.The kids would go out of their minds with the thought of going. This had the desired effect on my wife’s overall attitude about the things that men do. The boy’s resulting banshee like behavior caused my wife to encourage us to leave and supported future excursions of a similar vain. This delay tactic also insured me a quality nap before hand. The wait was shear torture for the boys and an admittedly crafty self serving behavior on my part. All with a designed outcome. The boys loved to fish and the wife loved to get them out of her hair for a --little girl time. A valued psychologically manipulated learned behavior. Aren’t I special.

On this occasion I skipped the delay and just went fishing. We packed a lunch, filling the cooler with all kinds of goodies, drinks and the like. I left the wife at home with a big hug and kiss. We sang camping songs all the way to the lake. What a blast. Me and my boy. When we got to the lake the expedition began with the search for the perfect place to set up our base of operations. Each space we looked at required considerable discussion with probing questions directed to my son for his valued opinion. It had to be secluded, it had to be fishable, and there needed to be shade. The other feature of the search was the need to be close to a privy. Teaching the boy to free fall after struggling to get him to use the seat was not a risk I was ready to take. I knew a guy once who taught his toddler the trick of shitting in the woods. The lesson had back fired as the child figured if he could do it in the woods, why not on his big sister’s white bedroom carpet. A practice he continued to employ on an as needed basis after his sister’s emotional reaction pleased him, further reinforcing the new learned behavior. The last time it happened, the boy treated his sister to a steamy treat the night of her Junior Prom. The well placed stool was in a pair of shoes she was intending to wear that night.

After a complete search of the lake I left the judgment to my son giving him the decision making power of which toilet he would prefer to use in the event the urge struck. He made his choice and we started the process. Folding chairs were set up, a brand new bright red life jacket was securely placed on my most precious belonging. We ate a bite and the fishing lesson ensued.

I had bought a child’s rod and reel for the boy, a device of which proved to be too complicated. Too ambitious a step. So I strung up a stick with a little bit of line fixed with bobber, weight, and hook. At the time, my boy had a clear understanding that if I told him something was going to “hurt baby,” it was going to hurt. I mentioned this to him about the fish hook and carefully showed him how to care for and handle the hooks without getting stuck. He readily listened and clearly understood. I realized his complete understanding and his beautiful innocence as he cried --oh so hard --when the first worm was threaded on the hook. The surprising behavior dramatically touched my emotional buttons in a way only a father would understand. So much so, that I shed a tear as well, my tears caught my young son‘s attention. The tears streamed down my face causing my son to stop and tell me that “ it would be ok, the worm would be ok, I can fix it! “ We fished with wormless hooks that day.

As the day wore on the bait less hooks caught no fish. I tired of the activity as did my son who was busy throwing things in the water. I gave up on the bobber rig and switched to a favorite top water lure I had in the tackle box. I had a fine collection of tackle. Some of the tackle had been my great uncles and were close to becoming collector items. Now, why a guy packs a tackle box full of all kinds of fishing treasures he never uses can only be explained by the fact that once you’re married it is the only place that a man’s wife is forbidden to enter. I think this is why man invented stink bait. Women hate the smell thus avoid the tackle box ( it sure doesn‘t catch fish.)The small little case carries the only remaining shred-of-a-remnant of man’s prior independence. Its like Superman’s castle of solitude, only smaller and smelly. It was the last remaining collection of toy-like ideology. Anyway, the tackle box is a special thing, very special.

As I fished, repeatedly casting the lure, I kept an eye on the prodigy. He was blissfully tossing rocks and things into the water. I am certain there was some fascination with the observance of the circular ripples of which the objects’ impact created on the surface of the water. My son was busy and content with the task as if he was on a “save the world” mission. After a good hour or so of this activity, my son had an announcement to make.

He approached me from my right side. I looked at my cute-as-a-button son. My heart throb. He stood holding his arms out to his side, palms up with bent elbows, shrugged shoulders and a puzzled tilt to his head with the most serious expression on his face, eyes sparklingly a satisfied innocence, “Daddy, the fish won’t come out,” he said just as resolved as a man could be.

The remark was so emphatic and eloquently stated that I was taken by surprise absorbing the inimitable moment. That’s when I realized the apple of my eye had completely emptied my tackle box---- one lure at a time. Every hook, every weight, every bobber everything had been tossed in to the lake. I mean everything was gone! Three hundred dollars of my man toys, my most valued trinkets, memorable, intelligently engineered pieces of eight, all gone.

The feeling that hit me, I suppose, was close to the emotion of being ship wrecked. I fought back tears and anger as I looked at the now invisible tackle, my amphibious treasures gone. I was filled with anger, disappointment and felt abandoned, which was weird. The reality of the course of events set in as I sat cross legged near the empty treasure trove. He was just doing what I was doing, fishing, with my lures! My son said nothing, as he looked at me clearly scared and confused by my silent reaction. When my tears flowed it was the confirmation that Daddy was sad. “It’s ok, I’ll fix it,” came the most tender of voices. As I started to laugh and hug my boy, my son joined in. We laughed so hard. I laid back on the ground and sat him on my chest. The noise we were making forced us to eventually pick up and leave as we were disturbing the other fisherman on the lake. We laughed all the way home. My wife didn’t get the laughter as she knew the value I placed on the tackle. She could muster no more that a questioning smile as I told her the story. I ‘m certain she thought--I had lost it.

Until I could afford to begin replacing my tackle we fished in our back yard with invisible gear for a few weeks and had just as much fun.