Martha Martha!

I don't know why, but August in the south always has me listening to Lucinda Williams.

It's been almost 100 degrees every single day since we've been back from our Wisconsin trip, and the fall can't get here soon enough.  Seeing as the forecast predicts high-90's for the rest of the week, and I'm having a "Martha" moment in my kitchen, I decided to crank up this little ditty.

The boys are in school and I'm making meatloaf.  All in all, a good Monday morning.

While we sat waiting in the car-pool line this morning, my four year old had a pressing question:

"Mommy? Why are we on the earth?"

(silence)

"Well honey, God made us and made the earth, and made us to live here...."

My grumpy seven-year-old-know-it-all butted in --

"Yeah JOE! We're not aliens!"

The boys are off to school tomorrow, so I thought I’d try to get another lake post in before our summer is officially over. It was a really great summer in so many ways. I think some of the best things about taking the boys up north are the invaluable life lessons learned by being immersed in wilderness. Cycles of life and death play themselves out at every turn. The smallest crevice in a rock or tree contains of all sorts of mysteries. In the woods nothing is there to entertain, but everything is waiting to be discovered.  All the hands-on adventures, the real-dirt consequences that happen when  boy digs at God’s creation, are things I can only hint at in in the city.

Spending a good amount of time at the lake this summer afforded us a view of how the lake changes, even across the short span of a month. When we arrived, the two new loon chicks were fuzzy dependant lumps on their mother’s back. Completely tame, it almost seemed as if the parents were showing off there chicks, as they would swim within10 feet of our pier, or right beside our kyacks when we went exploring.  It was awesome to see these huge, elegant birds catching minnows and feeding them to their ravenous off-spring. When we left, the babies were independently diving and swimming and starting to look for their own meals.

At the beginning of our summer, the frogs were small and still had their pollywog tails. They were fast and difficult to catch. By the end of our trip, the boys would spend the days pulling up large, slow, fat bullfrogs.

I was constantly being summoned to catch Joe a frog. Once I caught one, he would "gently" take it from me, holding a leg in each hand. He’d talk to the frog, pet the frog, kiss it, inventing hundreds of unknown pretend scenarios in his busy little brain. Then, after he had them for a good 5 minutes I would remind him that the frog needed to be in the water, and that it was time for him to give the froggy a "break".  He’d throw it back in, and then I’d be summoned to grab a new froggy-friend.

"Mommy! I need a new froggy! Please mommy! A new frog mommy, PLEASE?"

He was relentless about it. One night I was in a rush, trying to get dinner in the works. Joey was whining about needing another frog, so I quickly ran down to the shore and grabbed the first one I could find. He was a cute little guy, lime green with a yellow belly. Joey seemed enamored, as I ran back up to the kitchen.  After about 15 minutes, Jack came running into the house,

"Mom! Joey won’t give Frank a break!?"

"Frank? Who’s Frank?"

"It’s his frog.  And I told him he was gonna hurt Frank if he didn’t put him back, but he won’t listen to me!"

"Alright, I’ll be down there in a minute."

I turned off the stove and walked down to the pier, where I found Joey sporting a pout, clenching Frank with both hands.

"Joey! It’s time to give Frank a break. You might hurt him. He’s just a little guy."

"But he’s my special froggy, he’s my froggy!"

"I know you like him, but he needs to be in the lake, and don’t squeeze him too tight!"

"NO! My Frank!"

"Joey! Give Frank a break, obey mommy!"

Gripping Frank even tighter he started shaking his head defiantly.

"Joey! Obey me now, throw Frank back in the lake!"

"NO!"

"Right now Joey," as I gave him my patented "look."

After a sober moment Joey decided to give in, and threw Frank off the end of the pier. The frog floated motionless, belly up on the surface. Now, in my childhood, I had killed many a frog.  I’m not proud of it, but there it is.  I mean, when your dad gives you a bb gun for your birthday, what else are you going to shoot?  The sight of Frank floating lifeless off the end of the pier, though regrettable, didn’t phase me all that much. I was irritated, and more interested in my son’s disobedience.

"Look! Joey! See what happened now? You killed that poor froggy!"

I could actually see the words float out of my mouth in slow motion as I said them. They quickly formed a sharp penetrating arrow as they hit my son, "you-killlllled-thaaaat-frooooog!"

Terror stricken, Joey looked at me with the most horrible look. I had chosen the wrong thing to say. Tears started welling up in his eyes. If remorse had a face, Joey had it penned. I began fumbling my way into a back-pedal,

"I mean, he’s not feeling very well. But next time, you should obey mommy. He’s uhhh probably going to be ok, he’s just resting, errr taking a little nap, he’s not dead, he’s just-- sleeping..."

Joey started bellowing, "Franky! Fraaaanky!"

"It’s ok, sweetheart, he’s going to be ok... mmmmaybe."

"Franky!"

And then, a miracle from heaven. Frank suddenly snapped into consciousness. His legs twitching, he turned over and dove to the bottom of the lake.

"See! Look! He’s OK! He’s was just resting (thank you Lord!) Maybe we’ll see him again."

A look of relief washed over my four year old. He waved good bye to Frank, and we went back up to the house for dinner. Joey took more care with his hostages after that.

Another cycle of wild life that we got to witness was the "plague" of dragon flies. When we first arrived they were everywhere. Squadrons of them would travel past us whenever we went fishing or sat near the water. At first the boys were afraid of them. They are pretty scary looking-- I remember I hated them when I was a child. But then Uncle Bill quickly diffused the whole mystique of the dragon fly. He taught the boys how to catch them. If you put your finger under their front legs, they will reflexively climb onto it. Jack was enthralled with this new occupation and spent hours coaxing dragon flies to sit on his hand. He’d pet them and talk to them, examining their many colored wings and eyes. One day, Jack came walking down to the lake with his latest catch,

"Mom! Look at this one! It only has three wings!"

"Oh, that’s too bad! Poor little guy, I bet he can’t fly too well."

"That’s OK mom, I’ll look after him."

He then went down to the pier to introduce his new pet to my brother and sister-in-law. As I continued walking up the hill I could hear my brother launching into an explanation of the four stages of the dragon fly....

"Jack did you know that the dragon fly starts his life in the water..."

Jack kept carefully stroking his three-winged friend, telling him he would help him out in life, and that he didn’t need to worry about only having three wings; when the dragon fly decided he needed a "break" and tried to take a stab at flying.  Being a disabled flyer, it dove straight into the lily pads, just off the pier.

"Oh no Jack. That’s a really bad place for that dragon fly to land!?"

"Why Uncle Bill!?"

"Uhh, because fish really like to eat insects and..."

As my brother was finishing the sentence, a bluegill hit the surface of the water, and in one violent slurp, sucked up the ill-fated three winged dragon fly, and disappeared without a trace.

Bill and Jane sat frozen in silence, not knowing what to say in light of such a tragic moment. My brother was trying to keep a straight face, when Jack launched into a pensive eulogy about his friend, the three winged dragon fly.

"Yeah, that was my friend. And even though he only had three wings, I loved him...at least he had one good friend before he died."

That’s the lake. Life and death swarm around each other in priceless little stories like that.

And tomorrow, "real"  life marches on.  Jack starts 2^nd grade, and Joey begins Pre-K. This momma loon is going to start working on the nest, and might even take a few day trips here and there.

Time to kiss the summer goodbye...

Beating the heat has been the order lately, the last week before both boys start school.  Yes, my little "lover boy" Joey starts Pre-K  on Monday.  Yesterday at the meet & greet I was starting to have a panic attack.  One of the parents asked me, "so what are you going to do on Monday?"   

I felt like giving the smart alec "eating chocolates and catching up on my soaps" answer, but then I realized I didn't know right off the bat.  Clean, exercise, run errands, get things moving again on the house project.   I guess I'll work that out next week.

In  the mean time, we've been hitting the "fancy pool" about every other day.  The boys get exercise outside, and we've all got killer tans.

Joey loves me at the pool. Yesterday he was particularly amorous, as he climbed into my lap and started giving me kiss upon kiss, stroking my arms and face.

"Mommy, your my girl."

"I'm not your girl."

"No, your my sweet girl."

"I'm your momma."

"No mommy, you're my sweet little momma."

Does it get more adorable than that? Really, it's ridiculous.  As I was basking in the moment, thinking sadly about losing my baby next week, he began poking my thighs, laughing.

"boing-boing-squishy-mushy, boing-boing-squishy-mushy..."

And the moment passed.

And now, for the anticipated big fish story. I was going to write a few other posts before getting to it, but too many people have been pestering me.

On the real life front, I’ll quickly report:

–AC fixed

-no permit yet on the house project

-now dealing with flea & roach infestation

- cat dragged in mystery animal in the middle of the night last night which is apparently still at large

-smog alert today

Since we’ve been home, I’ve been taken hostage by heat, mosquitoes and now poor air quality. Serving my time in a half-packed cluttered box of a house, the boys are cranky, restless, fighting whiners. Oh for the blue skies and clean air of the north woods! I’ve got the dog-days-down-in-the-south-August-blues.

Returning to the lake, yes, I did get a musky this year. 35", which we initially thought was1" shy of legal; but after my father consulted the updated regulation log, was actually 1" better than legal. No matter--we released it, and would have released it either way. It was big, but not quite a trophy. I would love to say that it was my "lifetime achievement award" fish, but my greedy ambitious self feels that there is still another big one out there in my future (certainly one bigger than my brother’s fish, eh?).

I would also love to credit my honed skills as a seasoned fisher maiden for this musky milestone. But alas, like anything worth keeping in life–this story is solely attributed to God’s grace and providence. But I’m getting ahead of myself...

In between all the landscaping and preparations for the wedding, my brother kindly carved out time to take me fishing. He has become my musky champion, joining my quest for the lifetime trophy fish. Every day after lunch, he would religiously throw the gear into the boats, and we would go out and hit the usual drifts around Musky Point, past the island and into Dunn's bay. The winds were strong those days, so we moved across the lake quickly.

We saw only one small musky, which thankfully shook itself off my line as it jumped up at the boat. Having spent three days casting, at two hours a day, and approximately 50 casts per hour, I thought my odds would have been decent at the least. It was clear, however, that the muskies were not out to play. By that third day, I had a bruise on my belly from the handle of my fishing reel, as I jerked it into my side, trying to keep good action on the lure. My arms were sore and my thumb and wrist began to cramp with every cast. At the end of our final outing together, as we brought the boat into shore, my brother prophesied--

"Well sister, it wasn’t meant to be. Pop’s gonna take you out for your musky."

The next day was my birthday. It was my 39^th. My dad kept teasing me that it was my last admitted birthday. Actually, I don’t mind, just yet. I think I’m looking forward to forty. Seeing that I have an agenda for my fitness & diet, I’ve even made up a little slogan for the coming year. "Sporty, fit & forty!" is my new mantra. It’s kinda of fun to say, and you can even say it 10 times fast. Maybe I’m being typical, whatever. I just want to stay active and healthy.

It was a hot that day. Not too windy. Definitely not the typical musky day. But my father seemed confident.

"So, be ready around noon and we’ll go out and get that musky, ok?"

I snickered cynically. "Yeah, sure. Whatever you say."

"I’ve got an idea."

"You have an idea?."(I had an idea that there wasn’t a single big musky left in the lake, we hadn’t seen one for two weeks.)

"Around noon."

"Okeedokee pop, whatever you say."

My father is never very forthcoming about his little ideas. But when he says he has an idea, it isn’t a casual statement. It means he’s got a definite plan, and well, it won’t be compromised.

Let me also preface all this by saying that the past year had been a physically challenging year for my father. Having undergone surgeries to rebuild an injured shoulder along with a knee replacement, I really didn’t expect him to take me out fishing at all. He had an "idea," however, so I knew he was serious.

At noon, I met my father at the back fishing pier. I found him loading up the Jon boat with gear.

"We’re taking the Jon boat!?"

"Yeah, I’ve got an idea, go get some cushions will you."

As I walked up to the garage to fetch the cushions, I was in a quandary. The Jon boat isn’t exactly the boat to take out for a musky. Especially when one of the two people in the boat is a bit gimpy to begin with. It’s small, sits close to the water, and is really tippy. Throw in a big thrashing musky, and it’s a disaster waiting to happen.

My brother and I were forced to take a Jon boat out once last summer, which was more than mildly entertaining. Like some scene form a the Karate Kid, we both tried to keep our balance, striking crane-like poses, while chucking musky lures out as far as we could. We spent most of that outing laughing as we threatened to knock each other out of the boat.

I returned with the cushions and a few cans of PBR. I noted the other items gathered for our trip; a single musky rod outfitted with a Cisco deep diving lure, a spare lure, a musky net, a tape measure, and a "persuader." The "persuader"is basically a small billy club used for clobbering large trophy fish when you’re trying to get them out of the net and or get the lures out of their mouths. Musky are incredibly aggressive and strong fish. They have teeth as sharp as razors. When you get a big one in the boat it’s like trying to subdue a small crocodile. The fact that my dad put a persuader in the boat seemed like optimistic comedy.

"A persuader? We’re taking the Jon boat and you’re bringing a "persuader."

"Yep. Ready to go?"

I pushed us off. My father had the small electric trolling motor on board, and took us out into the middle of the lake. He then turned off the motor and handed me the musky rod. I began to stand up,

"Sit down. You never stand in a Jon boat."

"Well, uh, OK. You want me to sit down with this huge lure?"

"Just stay on your seat there, and throw out the lure. Are you listening?"

"Yes dad, I’m listening, throw out the lure-"

" -and then I’ll start rowing."

This seemed strange to me.

"Well, then what do I do? I mean do you want me to reel it in slow, jerk on it every few seconds or what?"

"Just hold on to the rod, are you listening?"

"Yes dad, I’m listening, hold on to the rod,"

"I’m gonna row, and regulate the speed. Then when the musky hits, (oh the bold optimism) put your thumb on the reel,

"you mean hold my thumb there like that?"

"Listen now, look. When it hits, set your thumb there and yank up and set the hook."

"So, you just want me to sit here and hold on to this rod while you row us around the middle of the lake?"

"That’s right. Keep the tension in the line, but don’t set your thumb on it yet , ‘cuz it will tear right through your thumb, just wait ‘til it hits and get ready. Ready?"

"I guess." ( I was pondering how this was so different from all the motor-trollers my dad cursed at as they glided into our bay.)

I threw out the lure and then just sat there like some little girl in time out, while my father started rowing with his back to me, slightly grunting with every stroke.  At first I felt bad about his shoulder and knee. Certainly they hurt. But then I realized my ex-marine father lives for that kind of sacrificial pain. This wasn’t just an outing with his daughter, this was a work out. Complete with PBR, of course.

‘Is the lure working? Do you feel the lure?"

"Yes, it’s moving."

"Get ready."

Sigh. "Okaaay, I’m ready." Sigh.

We didn’t say much to each other. My dad was focusing on managing the pain while he rowed. I was focusing on my sun-frying feet, and the lure which was trailing at least 12 feet down in the dark water behind our boat. I could feel it dance with the slow sure rhythm of the every oar stroke.

Usually when I musky fish I can see the lure, and sometimes anticipate when a musky hits. The sensation of waiting for some unseen monster to strike at something I was holding on to was somewhat menacing. My imagination was on edge.

There was always something sinister to me about the middle of the lake. The water is black and inscrutable, unlike the view of all the life teaming near the shorelines. Even as a girl I remember dreaming about all the unseen mysteries lurking there.

After about 20 minutes we had rowed the length of Musky Point, towards Nancy’s Bay (named after my dad’s cousin who would always park her boat there and fish the same spot.) I reeled in the lure, and we took a break. It was just past high noon, and it was hot. My father cracked open his beer,

"This is how my grandfather used to catch walleye. He’d hook up a couple cane poles with night crawlers, prop them off the back of his boat, and then just row them up and down the middle of the lake like that. When it’s hot like it’s been, that’s where the big ones are. Are you ready?"

"I guess."

I cast out the lure, as my father pulled the boat around and started taking us back towards Musky Point, this time at a faster clip.

"Are you ok dad? Does your shoulder bother you"

" Just get ready. Is the lure working?"

"Yes it’s moving."

"Now we might hit some logs in here, so ya know."

A few minutes passed as we neared Musky Point. My father’s pace had started to slow up when the hit came. It was unmistakable. A clean hard pull on my line. I set my thumb on the reel and yanked up really hard.

"Fish!"

"Huh?"

"Fish!, Dad Fish!"

I set the hook again, as my father fumbled with his bad leg, trying to move his body around to the back of the boat.

"Are you sure it’s a fish?"

"Yes dad, it’s a fish."

My rod was bent all the way over as the line was tugged out in long pulls.

"Maybe it’s a log."

"No Dad this is a fish, it’ not a log, it’s moving like a big fish!"

"Well keep your line tight now, keep the tension."

Remembering the one I lost a few summers back I tried to remain calm. Rather than crank the line in as fast as I could, I reeled in a bit of the line, and then let the fish pull it back. I reeled in some more, the fish took back less. I knew it was a big fish because my brother said the big ones never surface right away. After what seemed like more than a few minutes, the dark shadow of my monster appeared several feet below the surface.

"Wow! Dad, there’s a big guy!"

My coach prepared me,

"OK, now, he’s gonna jump, you keep that line tight."

And exactly as my dad advised the magnificent musky hurled it’s entire body out of the water, thrashing wildly. I pulled up on my rod, trying to keep the tip of it high up, and the line taught.

With a huge splash the beast fell back into the water and then began listing, exhausted.

"Now what!? Should I reel it in more!?"

My dad had the net poised and ready.

"Keep that line tight!"

"It’s tight it’s tight-"

"well bring it over here!"

"OK! OK!"

I slowly guided the head of the fish into the net.

As my father dragged it into the boat, it started jumping violently, twisting and rolling, wrapping the net completely snug around the length of it’s body. It was a gnarled, massive mess. The head of the fish was pointed toward my father, the tail at my end. We both tried to bear down on it, releasing it whenever it started thrashing again. You never want to be holding on to a fighting musky, you’ll likely get bitten.

As my father was trying to find the pliers I gave my musky a good look over.  He was a beauty, his scales shone golden and metallic in the blaring sun, his belly pure white. I noted the lure lodged solidly by at least 2 hooks, deep in his mouth. He would have never shook that lure, he hit it hard.  I then noted something jutting out from between his gills under his mouth. A large, grotesque, red blob.

"What is that!?" I shuddered.

"I don’t know. I thought maybe he was hurt, but it looks like he’s got a growth or something, I’ve never seen anything like that before."

"It’s like a tumor?"

As the word "tumor" left my mouth, my mind and heart started racing. That morning I had just been reading in  1 Samuel , where the ark of the covenant had been captured by the Philistines. While in captivity, in every town the ark was moved to, the people would break out in tumors. It was a such a strange story. It bothered me that God would have allowed the vehicle of his power and glory to be captured. The plague of tumors painted a vivid image.

As I sat there looking at the object of many hours of fishing over several years-- this powerful, beautiful work of nature, adorned with this horrible growth; it occurred to me that this musky was a messenger of something deeply personal, as that Old Testament story lay thrashing at my feet.  As I reflected on all this later, I began to realize that there is a malignancy that happens whenever we try to capture the power and glory of God for our own purposes aside from the worship it was intended for. Because God is merciful, he is willing to  humble himself to prove the point.

All that being said, we still had a situation in the Jon boat. My dad was trying to sort things out, as the fish was horribly tangled, and gasping for breath.

"This is a mess, right here. I’m not sure we can save this one. I forgot the pliers."

No pliers, the essential tool for getting a lure out of a musky’s mouth.

We had the persuader, but you don’t want to club a fish if you’re going to try and throw it back.

I started to feel really bad about it I when, quite miraculously, the fish somehow began jumping and reversing the direction of it’s bonds. Within two jumps it had completely unwrapped itself. My father and I pounced on the opportunity. I grabbed the tail and quickly pulled it out from my side of the net. My father then freed it’s head.

"Here, try and keep equal pressure on it, but if it starts jumping let it go..."

My father then grabbed it’s mouth and started to work on the getting the hooks free.

The fish made another flailing maneuver. I let go, but my father couldn’t get his hand free in time. In one quick flash, my father’s thumb was slashed. Blood pouring down his hand we continued to work, as our captor started to give up. We finally had the lure out of it’s mouth.

The fish was too big to lay flat in the Jon boat, as we precariously stretched out it’s body. My father fumbled with the tape measure.

"35 inches? Might be legal, but I’m not sure."

"I hope he can make it."

"Very good job daughter. You’re a pro, you kept that line tight."

We then pulled a stringer through his gills and dropped him back in the water. He went belly up, but showed some signs of fight. He was going to need some musky CPR before we let him go. So we carefully towed him back to the pier, where the boys got a glimpse of mommy’s birthday musky, and we snapped a quick pic.

I spent about 5 minutes holding him upright, moving water through his gills, when he perked up, and eventually swam back to the deep water. Perhaps we’d meet again next summer, when he was an inch or two bigger. I know I’d certainly recognize him. 

Looking back on my time fishing the lake this summer, I realized that I had spent hours casting my arms to their breaking point, to no avail. It wasn’t until I had humbled myself to sitting still in my father’s boat, that I snagged the fish worth catching. I really had very little to do with it, I was just along for the ride.  It was all on account of my father’s little "idea"-- his effort, his pain, his sweat and blood, that I had such a good gift that day.

That’s God’s grace.