STARDUST AND WATER FAERIES

 An essay from April of last year:

There’s a dog barking in the hollow and the crescent moon is low on the western horizon. The air is still, save for intermittent breaths of current redolent of earthy musk. The sweetness of an enchanting April evening scented with greening grass and sprouting buds, a spattering of stars; like a coy girl newly bloomed, freckle-faced and fresh from her bath, the fragrance of her shampooed hair enhancing her special aura and causing the young suitor on the porch swing beside her to suffer palpitations and loss of coherent speech.

I sit on the patio chair looking skyward and count five airliners coursing the jet-ways west and east. It’s a busy highway up there. The strobe lights in the sky mimic those of the various tall structures upon the hilltops. The scintillating stars, in my mind, are better suited to the romance of nighttime.

Earlier I had been at the river casting for trout; there came a blizzard of mayflies above the run, insect-faeries performing flights of fancy in the air. Their lightness of being was enhanced by the glow of dusk. In a random shifting of direction they would appear to be twinkling. The chaotic nature of the gathering belied the choreography of entomological romance. There’s a dance happening then, as graceful as any ballet: courting pairs describing intricate patterns in their rising and falling. An angler attempting to follow the paths of their flight with the tip of his or her fly rod would appear to be conducting a symphony orchestra. Yet, except for the sound of water, there is nothing to be heard. Thousands of fluttering wings, amid such frenzied activity; you’d think the stir would create at least a whisper. I’d be curious to find out if an enhanced microphone would prove otherwise and pick-up on any kind of background music.

So it is, I can only imagine, in the stardust. The dance of the spheres. The light-speed events, the whirly-gig formations of gaseous nebulae, explosions and implosions and eruptions. All that happening and it’s lucky that the most I hear this night are spring peepers and a mongrel‘s song. You forget about this in the daylight. Until, that is, you’re on the river fishing for trout amid throngs of insects and you’re oddly reminded of stardust. Later on you’re on the hilltop in the dark gazing at the sky and contemplating water faeries. The comparison isn’t too much of a stretch when you consider that, from a distant perspective, a swarm of mayflies in the twilight isn’t unlike the gauzy image of a far away galaxy.

Bugs and stars; an improbable link, I’ll admit. But in the dark of a sensuous spring evening, romanticism seems more logical than realism in the processing of stimuli from time spent on the river. It is a dreamy night, after all. I’m at liberty to mull over the romance of trout streams and starlight and evenings of long ago when starry-eyed in puppy love. Unabashed, I remember being enamored with faeries of literature and having romantic notions¾ seven or eight years old at the time¾ regarding exotic women, well, girls, and wondering how a guy went about planting a kiss on one of them. And later, as an adolescent James Dean wannabe, the tongue-tied awkwardness of being confronted with just such a possibility on an evening similar to this. When realism stared you straight in the face¾ she wasn’t Tinker Bell but an elfin beauty, nevertheless¾ and there came that heart stopping, Juicy Fruit gum tasting, soft first kiss that perpetuated the promise of romance on starry nights.


On the other hand, there are varieties of faeries you want to avoid. I’m thinking now of the water faerie Glaistig from Irish folklore, who would lure the hapless victim to dance; an insinuation of carnal knowledge her bait; the sight of her emergence from the river or swamp provoking lust; the tryst preceding a forced drowning. The provocative water nixie from the Brothers Grimm who lured the huntsman near the river for an embrace, only to drag him under the surface. There are marsh-like sections of the river, secluded runs that twist and curve through the slough, with a silt bottom where you can sink up to your knees in river mud when you feel the need to wade. There are carp and muskrats that will brush against your leg at times. But the trout are there too. And prolific hatches of mayflies with the ensuing eventide mating ceremonies that cause the trout to surface feed. The river appears smooth even though there is a sustained current flow; the glassiness mirrors the image of hills and sunset sky; eerie sounds permeate the stillness of the marsh. You stand in the reeds ready to cast to the nearest feeding trout, waiting for the telltale rise rings to form. A bright star has appeared over the ridgeline and the water faeries are rising and falling in an all-out orgy. Bats swoop and vie for the feast as the trout begin to gorge on the spent and fallen mayflies.

You’re aware of muskrat holes along the bank and cast a glance towards the rotted and moss-laden tree trunk laying half submerged at the bend, the gnarled deformations of its limbs reaching out of the water as if waiting to become animate on cue and grasp a careless fisherman. Burls on the trunk look disturbingly like the water spirit Jenny Greenteeth, a river-inhabiting hag with flowing hair and green teeth who drags her victims to a watery grave. You experience a brief chill along your backbone when you think of what may lurk in such lairs.

A rise ring appears. You false-cast to gauge the length of your line, cast again and watch the loop straighten to deliver the fly. When the violent strike occurs and the set is made and line begins to peel off the reel, you have to wonder what’s really at the end of the line. All around you is procreation and predation; things being eaten alive. If something were to brush against your leg about now, the scream you hear might not be from a swamp creature but the sound of your own voice.

One star becomes a dozen; below them, amid them, the faeries do their dance. The swirls on the water resemble planetary rings.

　

　

　

HOOKED BY A LAZY LOON

I was sorting through the old lures in my Dad’s tackle box when some memories came flooding in, inspiring the essay written here. It’s quite a collection of mostly wooden, painted lures and plugs. At one time, Dad was a well-equipped lake fisherman. I recalled the vacations our family spent in Canada when out fishing in the boat and utilizing that very tackle box. Good memories; the kinds that dull the worse of times most of us endure on occasion. I’ve examined the good and the not so good in writing about one particular day out on the lake. It was fifty eight years ago, therefore it was necessary to take artistic license with dialogue, narration, and sequence of events. The essence of the tale is true.

　

The Lazy Loon (bottom), the Weezel, the Crazy Crawler and others.

Dad was literally hooked by  Mom in Chippewa, Quebec, Canada on the lake at White Pine Lodge circa 1953. Her errant rod handling with a “Lazy Loon” multi-barbed lure snagged him in the face through his eyebrow. (In those days, Dad still had his eyebrows. It was a few years later that he lost them trying to ignite a faulty gas oven. The ensuing mini explosion singed them off and they never grew back). We were in our small boat and anchored in a cove at the edge of some lily pads, Dad, Mom and me. My two older sisters had elected to stay at camp with some cousins and flirt with the French-Canadian guides down by the docks. That‘s to say, if whatever it is that pre-teen girls do to grab some attention could be called serious flirting.

I remember that it was a warm, still morning and I was reclined on the wooden seat with my back against the bulwark, feet propped on the starboard gunwale, pole in hand and watching my line rigged with a bobber. Actually I was dividing my attention between the bobber and the damselflies darting over the pads. One had settled near my feet onto the gunnel. I became interested in its coloration and the intricacy of its form. Ever the well-rounded sportsman, I began wishing for my BB gun, thinking that it would be fun to have at hand during the boring, slow times of fishing, that I could plink at the lilies and possibly do some “wing shooting” at the damselflies as they flitted about. The sun shine was comforting after an early wake-up and a cold, foggy boat ride across the lake at dawn. The warmth plus the gentle movements of the boat at anchor, and the quiet, happy talk between my often argumentative parents enhanced my contented feeling. In those days, theirs was an often stormy relationship, the cause of which I didn’t fully understand. Times of calm waters were to be savored.

At one point, a feeling of euphoria welled-up inside me and I needed to let it out. But I simply said, “Ah, this is the life.” What I was insinuating I didn’t know how to put into words, being but eight years old and inarticulate. I meant to say that it was great to be on the water on a beautiful day in surroundings such as the far Canadian wilderness, enjoying the company of my parents, as they enjoyed themselves for a change; proud of our little wooden boat with the ten horsepower Martin outboard which Dad had painstakingly restored for what was to become annual vacation trips to the Canadian wilds; happy for the lack of drama and feeling carefree.

Seated mid boat, Mom smiled at me and more than likely knew, as mothers are apt to know all things about their offspring, what I was trying to say. She looked over her shoulder at Dad, sitting astern, fiddling with his tackle, and they exchanged knowing smiles. Mom reached back with her free hand and patted Dad’s knee. I felt so good, I knew that at any moment, the red and white bobber on my line would become animated with a huge bass or monster pike taking the bait. I focused my attention on it wholeheartedly while Mom reeled-in and shifted her position on the seat to present her lure to new water. Suddenly Dad uttered “Umph,” followed by Mom crying, “Oh, Bob!” and me excitedly, “Did ya get one?” The boat was now rocking violently side to side as Mom quickly swung around to face Dad. I grabbed hold as the other side of the boat lifted high and I was suddenly looking up at the toes of my sneakers. Lake water lapped at the back of my neck. I hadn’t yet processed the visual clues as to what had happened and as I stole a glance to see what the fuss was about, I reasoned that in a moment of inspiration, Mom had made an amorous advance onto Dad’s lap and they were embracing in a rare state of unbridled affection. A shocking turn of events for sure.

In the meantime Dad had yanked at the lure piercing his forehead and blood was running down his face. Mom had steadied herself and was kneeling in front of Dad and dabbing at the embedded lure with an oily rag. I recall thinking how strange Dad looked with that lure attached to his face and hanging over his eye. I surmised that the fishing was, in all likelihood, done for the day so I began to gather in my line. Dad said to me, “Buddy, get the pliers from the tackle box under your seat.” I handed them over and Mom said “Don’t rock the boat now, son.” Mom held the pliers in place while Dad, with his strong hand and vice-like grip, clipped off the protruding barb, enabling her to back-out the hook. The Lazy Loon was not a diminutive lure; the situation could have been much worse. The first aid kit was opened, iodine and a bandage applied, and my worries assuaged by Dad’s calm demeanor. Afterwards we simply resumed fishing.

Dad was never one to worry about a wound. He liked to say that pain was a figment of the imagination. There were plenty of times I witnessed him shrug-off an injury and refuse to be doted upon. On the other hand, he took a certain amount of pleasure in exposing old scars and relating the incidents that caused them. He exhibited particular pride in showing-off his skiing injury, the long, wide scar across his kneecap and telling the story of climbing out of the gully after his fall against a sharp rock. Perhaps he had become apathetic to pain, having suffered more than his share of hooks and barbs in his lifetime. He had lost his younger sister--his best friend--when she was but sixteen and fatally stricken with meningitis. His birth father died before Dad could get to know him. He struggled during the Great Depression. Then there came a near fatal head injury, an extended coma and a difficult recovery fraught with haphazard episodes of epileptic seizures--an affliction he had to cope with for the rest of his life, and probably his greatest fear. That alone, was drama enough to reconcile. But he was a blue-collar guy who enjoyed his brew which didn’t mix well with his prescription nor his relationship with Mom.



Left photo: Mark & catch. Right photo: sister Sue & Mark at the dock.


They laughed about the fishing incident and joked about it with my Aunts and Uncles back at camp. “I was the best thing she caught all day,” Dad teased. These were halcyon days, when I was able to witness my parents free from the pains of events beyond their control, when their passionate enjoyment found in life’s simple pleasures and happenstance superseded their passionate conflicts and bouts of unreasonableness. They seemed to be always happy and free from care when roughing it in the outdoors; it was an infectious state-of-being which influenced me in a profound way.

Some months ago I impaled a hook deep into the tip of my finger while fly fishing. Dad’s philosophy regarding pain reverberated in my mind while I attempted to push through the barbed tip so to enable me to clip it off and then pull it out. But it took a doctor and an injection of local anesthetic to finally remove it, without much pain. Later on a guide at the lodge told me, “A couple shots of rye and a pliers would’a done it!” More than likely, that’s what Dad would have done, but without the whiskey. He liked his beer and ale but never drank whiskey. I understand how it is to get hooked, this wasn’t the first time in my fishing career that it happened, albeit the others were merely pricks of the point and easily removed. It’s the deeply imbedded barbs, literally and figuratively, that hurt the most; the wounds within, that are the most difficult to understand.



 Far from Quebec.

Our little fishing boat came to spend its last days in “dry dock” up in the barn. The final trip to Canada took place fifty five years ago, and now what’s left of the boat rests in the field, a haven for mice and rabbits. A decade later Dad and I took her out one last time while he was still alive and when she was still somewhat sea worthy. We launched onto nearby Loon Lake and motored about, never mind the leaky keel. In the middle of the lake, we slowed to trolling speed and Dad reminisced about the loons on the Canadian lakes and the good fishing times we had. “It’s a funny thing,” he said, “here we are on Loon Lake, far from Chippewa. I’ve got loons on my brain.” He became quiet as he mulled over a thought. He twisted the throttle and the outboard came to life, lifting the prow as we gained speed. In a raised voice he shouted, “Remember that Looney lure or whatever it was called, that your mother caught me with?” With the sound of the old Martin outboard, the familiar wake trailing behind the boat and the way Dad looked as he sat at the stern, grinning with his face into the wind, we could have been on that very lake in Quebec. I remembered it well.