fancy pheasants

     tiger and i killed thirty eight one day - most walked up over dogs, some driven out of the crops planted on his chester county property.  we'd always set fifty as our goal, but never achieved it.  that sounds like a lot of birds - and it is - but not when compared to driven pheasants in the u.k.

i had the good fortune  to be invited - by people i didn't really know, but came to like immensely - to join a line of eight guns for a week's driven pheasant shooting - one day of grouse thrown in - for two successive years, shooting from birdsall house in north yorkshire, the home of lord and lady middleton - michael and janet.

after my enthusiastic acceptance i learned it was to be a formal occasion - i.e  black tie dinners and double guns only.  i didn't own one, let alone two, of the afore mentioned, but was lucky enough to win a rather grand sum at the dice tables in the summer before my first trip, purchased a pair of beretta over and unders [barely acceptable]...and arrived in yorkshire so armed.

birdsall house was a grand old victorian pile set in the netherlands of north yorkshire. upon arrival we were presented with a schedule for the week:  "arrival at birdsall & tea - 2000 [hrs.] dinner at birdsall" etc. and what i particularly enjoyed [in classic british understatement] "please be punctual as the daylight hours for shooting are few at this time of year and we should be prompt."  being seated on her ladyship's right at the table for twenty was an honor only muted by the fact i couldn't stir until she did.  "dressing" for dinner proved not the chore i expected - after all one had to wear something after a day's shooting and a hot bath....

i made a few mistakes in my two years' shooting at birdsall - which, i suspect had something to do with my not being asked back.  on the first drive in the first year i killed a pheasant, which my host - next to me - had "pricked" [another expression i love], behind him.  he glared at me.  "not done," he said.  "not done," he repeated.  the next year i refused an invitation to a piano recital pleading family obligations whereupon my brother, in front of all my shooting friends, arrived to pick me up in an old, balky austin motorcar which we had to push down the hill to get started once he'd said his hellos.  after that i had the good [?] fortune on one drive to kill as high a pheasant as i think possible which fell in the midst of his lordship's prized charolais cattle causing them to moo in horror and semi stampede. there was also considerable murmuring amongst the beaters and gamekeeping staff.  lastly, in what was probably the high point of my shooting career, with my host's wife at my elbow for verification, i killed seventeen pheasants with seventeen cartridges at a reasonably difficult stand [the birds came circling from right to left just below the brow of a little hill in front of me] on the last drive of the day, in the gloaming.

i guess the lesson learned is don't ever show up your host.  oh, and on our high day we killed 259 - not great but well in excess of tiger's and my longstanding target.

we

had that dinner...it was delicious.  i ate the remaining caviar for breakfast on boxing day.  we drank, at different times - champagne, vodka [chilled], whiskey, pinot noir, sauvignon blanc, and port.  we also toasted absent friends and fell into bed, slightly - but not terribly - drunk.

christmas dinner

     silver polished...check,  table set...check, candles ready for lighting...check.

     caviar...blinis for sally [sour cream?]...a mother of pearl spoon for me...8 ounces is  a lot, but what the hell. once a year, and all that.  it's paddlefish as i can't afford the osetra any more - still awfully good...veuve cliquot [yellow label] in tall flutes.

     standing rib roast...medium rare...the fat crackly and the meat tender.

     green beans...cooked just a little so they crunch a bit as you chew.

     scalloped potatoes...the top of the dish all chestnut brown from the oven's heat.

     sally likes a soft red wine - not too much tannen.  i don't - the reds don't agree with me so i'll have bit of water, or maybe a little sauvignon blanc.

      a lovely piece of christmas chocolate as a sweet.

     vintage port.

     merry christmas and a happy new year!

boom

     boom came to my hospital room after my horrendous car wreck as i lay recovering from a broken jaw.  my mother was there when he arrived, sports magazines clutched in his massive paw.  boom was an ex vikings linebacker, big, solid and hard as nails.  he was a bouncer in one of the gin mills i frequented in those days.

"here. these are for you," he mumbled, pushing the pulp into my lap.  "you need anything, you call boom.  hear."

with that he retreated.

like some of my other guests he frightened my ma.

aerostar

     i had a friend who owned an aerostar - a sleek, twin engined, very fast, prop plane.  we used to fly to atlantic city, to gamble, some evenings after work.  it took twenty minutes from new castle county airport, where he kept her, to bader field on great island, just west of the resort.  there was a small administration building where we checked in...outside there was  usually a cab idling to take us to the casino of our choice.

     one night we flew over but on arrival things seemed quiet - the "office" was dark and no cabs were sitting at the exit door.  we hadn't known, or realized, that the city had closed bader so had to make our way to the boardwalk on foot...it took us longer to get to the craps tables than the duration of our flight.  i also remember on our return, taking off into a light north east breeze, that the air conditioners atop the trump tower seemed very close to our landing gear.

     the last time i made the trip we ran into snow on our way home.  in the landing lights, at a hundred plus miles an hour, the flakes were enormous, beautiful, and slightly ominous.  when we arrived at new castle county airport the main runways had been plowed - but not the taxiways.  as a consequence, when we turned off to head for the administration building we immediately foundered and sat, stuck in the snow, until a plow arrived to tow us, slowly, to safety.

i don't remember whether we won or lost - but i suspect the latter.

goddamn

the warmongers....they are beating their drums again.

  think of the travesty of iraq.  god knows how much of our nation's treasure spent , how little gained, and the fiscal cost... for naught.  the country is in turmoil yet...turmoil of our making.  and afghanistan...what a disaster and a lesson not learned.  the brits couldn't tame it - the russians left with their tails between their legs, and we have been pounded for ten years - and counting.

  now comes syria with all the possibilities of mayhem it represents - and the drums are sounding.  we CANNOT put troops on  the ground there...even if our ally, israel, is attacked.  materiel support...okay - naval blockades...okay - drones...okay, but keep our service men and women out of harm's way!

  this is a changed, and ever changing, world...we'd better learn well that religion and tribal affiliation are key to the upheaval we are currently experiencing - and will continue to be so for the foreseeable future.

  i am not optimistic.

caviar, smoked salmon, and oysters

     caviar...twice a year - a mother of pearl spoon - birthday and christmas...sancerre...or champagne if you prefer....

     smoked salmon...quarterly - toast points, diced onions, capers, and a lemon...chilean sauvignon blanc....

     oysters...monthly - plump and salty, in mid afternoon...a little vodka, and bed....

chokoloskee

     swan and i went to chokoloskee one fall to fish for snook with gil drake, our key west friend and tarpon guide.  ed watson's ghost stalked us the whole time we were there.  we had both read peter matthiessen's novel KILLING MISTER WATSON and part of our interest in the fishing had to do with visiting the scene of the killing - which actually took place in front of ted smallwood's store, not far from where gil docked his boat.

edgar, ed, e.j., jack watson - call him what you may - was a formidable character in southwest florida in the early years of the twentieth century.  he came to that part of the country via south carolina and oklahoma - where it is said he had killed belle star.  he farmed - successfully - an old indian mound at chatham bend just south of chokoloskee and, rather than pay them at the close of harvest season, killed several of his farm hands. some number of other murders or disappearances were attributed to him as well.  he so terrified the locals that, at last, they shot him down in a group as he was coming ashore to purchase supplies.  much murkiness surrounds his killing - certainly enough to support his ghostly presence. 

the people of chokoloskee are not particularly friendly - especially to yankee fishermen and i suppose that helped with our feeling of dread.  gil took us by the chatham bend homestead - nothing remained, he said, but the cistern.  i knew from my reading that the government, when it created the park had burned down all man made structures within its boundaries but that did nothing to dispel the willies.  i felt like a kid on his first halloween.

we didn't catch many snook - though we both developed bursitis in our casting shoulders skittering our flies in under the mangroves hour after hour.  we certainly felt mister watson's presence, menacing even today, a hundred years later.    

a useful phrase

    


          "...i'll warm your biscuits...."


as in, "if you don't stop that, i'll warm your BISCUITS...."

                                     or

         "you can bet i'll warm YOUR biscuits...."



use it any way you'd like, just give me credit, please....ANON.

garissa

     the little town in northeastern kenya was hot and dusty as we pulled in from the south in july of 1971.  the main street, the only street, was quiet in the midday heat, the odd mongrel dog peering at us from the meager shade of a storefront overhang - a rooster scratching hither and yon, cackling loudly as our three vehicle entourage pulled to a stop in front of patel's general store.

the day before we'd flown from nairobi to malindi on kenya's east coast, occasionally idling on one wing over tsavo's elephant herds - "that's what we're after boys - a big tusker," shouted glen over the engine's clamor.  at malindi we joined the trucks for the trip north to cross to the tana river's east bank at garissa.

we passed through garsen, heading north to galole where we planned to fly camp - sleep under the stars - before pushing on.  in the morning we kicked aside the thorn boma surrounding our beds [to keep the lions at bay], had a quick coffee and were on our way.  rumbling through numerous little villages with names like makere, wenje, and bili [swahili for two], we eventually arrived at mr. patel's establishment.  after gassing up, swallowing some of mr. patel's sweet indian chai and whistling up the boys [some of whom had gone to get their backs straightened at the local whore house] we  swung east, crossed  the tana and turned south - our objective was hunting block 16a - elephant territory.

i tell this tale because garissa has lately been in the news...as the center of a somali/kenyan war.  the territory we hunted - east of the tana - has long been  disputed.  the somals claim it as theirs - the kenyans likewise.  i don't know why either would want it, it is godforsaken - dry and flat, bush covered with only the odd water hole breaking the hard desert country.  a few somali bomas dot the area.  nothing else but elephant and a gaunt lion or two populate the place.  the elephant gave rise to poaching gangs of deadly efficiency in the late 70s and shifta, somali thugs, ran raids in the old days into kenya - and mr. patel's store [as he so fervently swore] -  from time to time.

now there is a full  fledged war raging and garissa is at its center.  at the moment kenya holds the advantage, but if al qaeda sees a reason to enter on the side of the somals things may change.  god help mr. patel and his chickens should that occur.

007

     i went to argentina 25 years ago because i heard the dove and duck shooting was terrific.  it was, and buenos aires  was the most european city - outside europe - i had ever experienced.  unfortunately, i forgot one thing - i spoke no spanish - which came to plague me when i found myself alone in an airport far from buenos aires and my flight was cancelled.  happily i found a local traveler in the same predicament and he delivered me to an alternative flight source.  i did, during our 45 minute car ride, consider, briefly, the possibility he was kidnapping me - but i wasn't worth much so i put that thought away quickly.

before that hiccup i had wonderful shooting and one funny experience in a local casino.  we were moving from doves to ducks which required an overnight in a small town en route.  i wanted dinner and some gambling at the local house of ill repute and was soon sitting before the roulette wheel.  being a believer in mechanics and their shortcomings i began  to record the spins and their results...until a large, dark complected gentleman inserted himself between me and the wheel - shouting loudly and waving his arms aggressively.  i called out for carlos, my host, who quickly relieved tensions.

from there it was on to the baccarat table.

i flopped down between two gamblers, bought some chips, and, as they say, began to play.  my first wager amounted to fifty bucks - on bank.  the hands were dealt - one for "player" and one for "bank".  "banco," murmured the dealer.  i had won!  "let it ride," i said as i waved off the chips pushed my way.  won again.  now there was two hundred in the betting block.  the gambler to my right shifted in his seat.  "senor..." he said as i indicated to the dealer to let it stand. third time's a charm.  now there was four hundred at risk.

"senor," he said again.  "it  is not wise to make this wager."  he stuck out his hand.  "i am alberto.  what is your name?"

i looked him over and replied, "bond.  james bond."

a burst of laughter came from the small crowd which had gathered behind us.  then, a small ripple of applause.

he was right.  i lost the bet.

  

post election 2012

     okay - i was wrong...please, some deity save us.

on a limb

     okay, i'm going out on one - five days before the election...

mitt romney will win - big, and here's why:
     obama fails because of the following:

1.  23 million people out of work - with no coherent plan to put them back to work.

2. big government failed - i offer you solyndra, etc.

3. bowing to arabs?

4. failure to recognize radical muslimism is a true and very dangerous enemy.

5. arrogance as witnessed in the debates.

6. empty suit - fine orator, no intellectual engagement with the nation's problems.

7. [and this is small-minded] too many rounds of golf, appearances on the late night shows, too much shopping by spouse via air force 2, too many vacations at the public's expense, and of course, joe biden [a fucking small deal].

the list goes on...and it's a killer for re-election

a picket fence

     that's what the picture in the news journal looked like.  it was taken south of indian river inlet, looking north from 3rs road - the beach access dune break.  the "fence" was, of course, made up of surf rods stuck in the sand in front of myriad, ugly suv snouts.

back in the 50s, 60s, and 70s we used to trek to the beach each fall to surf fish for a couple of weeks.  at first we fished from a little subaru station wagon, then from an old land rover, and finally from a chevy suburban.  in every case we were the only ones on the beach during the week - and one of two or three others on weekends.

the fishing was sometimes great, usually good, but never bad.  we'd catch mostly blues - sometimes 75 or more in a day - kingfish, sand perch, sharks, skates, and now and then a small puppy drum or rockfish.  when the north easters piled the surf up on the rocks at indian river inlet we'd cackle with glee as the blues gathered in the south side lee and butchered our freshly caught mullet.  i can still hear the waves slithering across the rocks, hissing like a snake, as the tide rose higher and higher, finally forcing us off the beach.  once i was ordered - in the middle of a blue fish blitz - to leave by a harried game warden, he and i the only two souls on the ghostly wind driven shore.  "hurricane coming.  governor's orders," he said.  "fuck him.  he's not a fisherman," i said in reply, reeling in another victim. he fingered his handcuffs ominously and i relented.  "...and i won't vote for him next time."

god knows what it's like down there these days, what with mothers sunning, urchins screeching, and papa tangled with his next door neighbor.  i'll bet  the blues - at least the self respecting ones - steer way clear of what used to be a fine fishing spot.

things ain't what they used to be.

fly casting

     i was reminded the other day of the difference between fresh and salt water fly casting.

we were sitting on john's porch having a late afternoon drink when a boat pulled up and anchored above one of the myriad springholes in john's lake, not thirty yards from us.  the sharply dressed nimrod stripped 30 or 40 feet of line from his reel and began to false cast...again and again and again.  at last, just before i was going to yell, "drop the fly, you dumbass," he did.  no strike, so he began the routine all over again.  i can understand a couple of false casts if one is fishing a dry fly, but four or five, no - he stretched it to seven or eight a couple of times.  and no extension of line...the same length each time.  maybe he thought his casting was particularly elegant or something.  [it wasn't and, no, he didn't catch a fish.]

     now let's go to the salt.

simply and briefly:  everything moves in the salt - the boat, the current, the tide, the wind, and, usually the fish.  false cast more than twice after picking up your fly and chances are your chances at a particular fish are markedly reduced.

stuff that in your creel trout fishermen.  [just the observations of a cranky old man.]

i am outraged

at nakedness.

what is it with these stupid royals - or windsors, whatever?

first we have prince harry dropping his drawers at a billiard game and having his picture sent 'round the world, [much to the delight of the ladies i'm sure] then we have wills hopping mad [and supposedly suing] because someone took a picture of his bare breasted wife.  what the hell did they expect...good looking youngster, pretty girl...hmmm, let's see...what do we do now?  if you're in the public eye keep your clothes on, you idiots.

more important, what makes me seethe with outrage is the treatment our government handed our ambassadorial staff in libya.  talk about nakedness!  plea after plea for assistance went unanswered, resulting in the deaths of four heroic americans.  that, ladies and gentlemen, is a true outrage and for it, heads should roll.  to leave diplomatic staff "naked" in the face of vile muslim terrorists is forever damning.

i hope the american public gets it on election day.  

an obituary

     i left not because of the things i can do, but because of the things i can no longer do.
    

something elemental

     you've never been faced with starvation - and neither have i, but if you were would you know how to tackle the situation?  we took a step last weekend towards solving that problem.

we'd done the brutal ride up to john swan's beautiful camp on kennebago lake, over the height of land - which spooked sally almost to the point of panic - down into oquossoc on the rangeley lakes and then cross country nine miles on the old logging road to the cottage.  john was there, up to his chest in the lake, messing with the new lund boat - aluminum and more practical than the rangeley he had moored nearby, but not nearly as pretty.  "hey," he shouted.  "come in.  have a drink.  no.  better yet, we'll take a booze cruise...."

we have a new puppy called maisy - she was whelped in cape may - which had never taken so long a ride, let alone seen a lake or swum in one, or had a boat trip [all of which she did over the next three days] and she was a little reluctant to jump aboard.  after a few moments of wind in her hair she relaxed.

john took us down through the logan, cruising the opposite shore, dipping into the river, stopping at all the spring holes and brook mouths.  no luck.  at one creek a great blue heron  flapped away sedately as we pulled up.  "no chance of any takers here," i said.  "that sucker's put them all down."

john agreed.  "we'll go to the hatchery," he said.  "guaranteed."

guaranteed it was, with little trout bashing our yellow wulf on every cast.  sally had never caught a trout on a dry fly and was delighted as the little buggers slugged away at her every offering.  maisy lay comfortably on her wool binkie, taking in every cast and studying every defeated brookie.

that evening john looked at maisy's tangled coat and, over a large vodka said, "let's try something.  hold her still, sally, while i snip some hair from her tail."  with a tuft of white fur, three inches long,  a hook, a whip of thread  and a drop of cement he produced, the "maisy" fly.  the next day, back at the hatchery the bigger trout in residence slashed with abandon at this new offering.

we'll never starve, i thought, watching an eagle ride the thermals rising from the lake, curling the edge of west kennebago mountain.  not as long as we have maisy with us. 

religion...again

 how powerful would you be if you could promise everlasting...whatever...at a date undetermined, in a place unknown, forever, for everyone...provided your "believers" made a small contribution today - towards, of course, a guarantee of...whatever.  that's religion in a nutshell.  [and just to make sure one made that little contribution, you could promise trials beyond belief...forever... if one didn't make it.]  it's the purest form of bribery with the added kicker that everyone's scared to death of dying and wants to be assured he or she will be comfortable when gone.

and don't give me that crap about "loving thy fellow man."  more poor souls have been killed in the name of one religion or the other than all the world wars put together...and will continue to be until the world ends.

too bad the discovery of the higgs boson didn't produce the creation of a black hole into which the earth disappeared - as some predicted.  of course, that discovery - that of the so-called "god particle" - puts additional credence to  the preeminence of science over religion.  you can look it up.  believe me, you can look it up.  try looking up the reality of heaven or hell.

i can promise you more when i get further worked up about those hypocritical sons of bitches who run institutions like the roman church and try to cover up the next fucking scandal [nuns, perhaps] and i mean that literally.  the very idea that you could convert a basic human condition - sex drive - through celibacy is enough to make one puke and flies in the face of logic, never mind walking on water, loaves and fishes, etc.  bah...it's stupid.

[wait 'til i get started on the creationists and the scientologists with their dinosaurs and frozen people.]

two thoughts on the fourth of july

     ...loved the individual - hated the tribe.


     "karioki" in swahili[?] means "restored to life".

gambling

     "women try their luck;  men risk theirs."





oscar wilde

the belmont stakes - 2012

there's something fishy - and stinking - about this year's belmont....I'LL HAVE ANOTHER scratched when about to win the triple crown, with a bowed tendon that wasn't quite bowed, which many - including veterenarians - said wouldn't have precluded his running...?  retired?  perhaps...but my suspicion is that the NYRA [if that is the governing body] coralled his owner and trainer and said scratch him.  they had, after all, for the first time insisted on a stakes "detention" barn wherein all entries were to reside for the week prior to the race so as to obviate cheating.  his trainer was under suspension [pending] in california for "milkshaking", and the game of thoroughbred racing couldn't afford another scandal.  plus, the press has been totally silent on  the issue.  all very suspicious.  the complete conspiracy theorist would suggest everyone was paid off - i doubt that - but the fact  that the horse was scratched in the face of  a huge[r] breeding payday makes me ponder the question.

atheism

     the trouble with being an atheist is that you don't have anyone to talk to when you're coming.





anon.

horse racing

     "never doubt the honesty of a jockey's room tip...."




e. hemingway

roulette

let's get one thing straight right away - one cannot beat roulette [or any other casino game] in the long run.  no matter what your system - be it one of the various martingales, ascot, labouchere, whatever - you are just putting off the inevitable, i.e. the loss of all your money.

however, roulette can be beaten regularly if you are patient - and until you are thrown out of the casino - because it depends upon mechanics, the wheel, and mechanics are subject to failure.

in order for the ball to drop in truly random fashion the wheel must be perfectly balanced.  if out of balance a bias can be discovered and plays can be made which take advantage of that bias.  all one needs to do is chart 25 or so spins, recording them as they fall in the order the numbers are slotted on the wheel and if a bias appears play the block of numbers - say five - with a progressive series of bets - say five [1,2,3,5,8?] - going up with each loss and going back to the start with each win.

i know this will work - i have used the "system" several times at various casinos.  interestingly, the americans are less likely to challenge one with a pad and paper [confidence in their maintenance?] while the argentinians threatened me with jail the minute i started to write.

milkshakes and the 2012 belmont stakes

what's a "milkshake" got to do with a race horse?  first, a definition:

     milkshaking:  the process of bicarbonate loading to enhance performance and also to cover possible drug use.

what are the effects, how does one make a "milkshake", and how is it administered?

     neutralizes lactic acid in the muscle cells by raising the ph measure in the blood thus blocking the tiring effect of the acid to exercise.  one mixes a box of baking soda, two liters of water, electrolytes, powdered sugar, vitamins, etc.  and "feeds" via funnel or nasal tubing four to six hours prior to race time.*

the real question here is:  what drugs does a "milkshake"  mask...and why did this suddenly come up?



*with thanks to tsnake and his sources

i'll bet you...

that I'LL HAVE ANOTHER doesn't win the belmont stakes on june 9th.

my choice would be DULLAHAN or UNION RAGS...preference the former.  there's too much cheating and manipulation of the rules going on around the big horse - or little horse as the case may be.  no milkshakes or nasal strips this time...straight up, a mile and a half.  maybe street life or paynter will show up - may the best horse win - and he will.

a racetrack betting coup

i have a friend who is a clever handicapper.  just the other day he told me this tale


tom's got a "virtual" stable wherein he can store horses he's watching and be notified - by email - when they are next entered.  he had been following a two year old - listed as a ridgeling [one undescended testicle] and was impressed with its early speed.  he'd bet on it a couple of times but the youngster had folded when it hit the half mile mark.  it was stored in his stable.

suddenly, one day, he got an email telling him the horse was entered to run in the near future - this time listed as a gelding.  on a hunch that the problem the horse had as a two year old stemmed from that wayward testicle - now gone - he bet it up and down in the exactas.

the horse went off at  60-1. 

it didn't win - but finished second to a horse that went off at 30-1.  the exacta paid $1500 - for $2...i don't know how much he bet, but you get the idea.


 there's more than one way to skin a cat if you're clever - and pay attention.

pigeons

i owe the loss of my lower four front teeth to pigeons.

i hadn't been asleep long when stiles banged on my apartment door...we'd gotten in late and now it was past seven a.m. on a freezing winter day.  we'd planned this pigeon shoot, over decoys, shortly after i'd found the flock in a field on the old convict farm.

we had a great shoot, hurling some of the dead ones into the air from the blind - to simulate decoying birds - and augmenting our spread with the several other cadavers.  later, on our way out to the chadds ford inn i, hungry and sleep deprived, after a long, cold day in the blind, drifted off the road and hit a tree.  hence the loss of teeth.

later in life i encountered the wood pigeon, a larger and stronger flyer than our citified rock type...specifically in britain and scotland.

my first wood pigeon shoot was in dorset where my father, after his retirement, lived.  much to his horror i arrived on a visit with a shotgun.  when i, on his demand, presented myself at the local police station i was met by the officer in charge with a puzzled stare...obviously i was legal...i had passed through customs hadn't i.  anyway, gun registered to my father's satisfaction, i joined the head of the county pigeon control office and banged away at the scoundrels over decoys in the kale fields and in the roosts in the little forests which dotted the countryside - a very pleasant diversion from family obligations.

my last confrontation with the wood pigeon came in scotland under very different conditions.  i was salmon fishing in aberdeenshire when my great friend tiger thouron and i came upon the gamekeeper of our host's estate.  "will you shoot some of these bloody pigeons," he asked.  "they're in migration from norway and they're everywhere."

yes we would we nodded vigorously...and happily so.

what i didn't know was that i would be sent up a tall pine tree..."when you come to the top of the ladder you'll have to climb the last twenty feet or so to the platform. tie your gun to this rope and you can pull it up behind you...be careful, the boards are wet and slippery."

i did as told and found myself amid the tops of the trees on a wooded slope on a platform with no railing, the wind blowing hard at my back.  the birds, tacking in to roost, came in numbers as the sun set.  the shooting was fast and intense what with the slippery boards and the wind.  i clambered down in the dark to meet tiger who'd had equal success from his position on the ground.  the gamekeeper allowed us four birds each for a pigeon pie.

i have great respect for pigeons.

a prayer

     now i lay me down to sleep,
     i pray the lord my soul to keep.

     if i should die before i wake,
     i pray the lord my soul to take.

pretty scary notion for a young child to consider...a plea that worked out well for my mother

danger

for all you thrill seekers:

      i'd  rather be charged by a rhino than go to the circus...and so would my wife, which is why i love her.

two things i hate

     making beds and polishing silver

for sally

my most favorite thirteen words:

          "do you suppose we could continue today's conversation over a glass of wine...?"



sally - to me, when it all started....

the big five

i have arranged them in order - from least to most dangerous, based on my experience.

black rhino - dumb and blind.  also, not able to absorb much punishment bullet wise.  i was charged several times, usually in thick bush, and, after the first time, avoided the rush quite easily.  perhaps the dumbest of all charged our hunting car and pressed on even as we backed quickly away.  sadly, this prehistoric monster has been poached almost to extinction and no longer enlivens a hunt for other game.  we did not pursue them.

elephant - magnificent, electrifying to hunt and family oriented.  also extremely intelligent and as a result more interested in making its escape than confronting.  however, very dangerous if wounded because of its great strength, toughness, and cleverness.

leopard - far and away my favorite beast.  one of the few truly cruel animals - like the weasel and ratel - which will sometimes kill just for pleasure.  an extraordinarily wild and fearsome sight when it appears, as if by magic, on the limb below your bait.  fast and violent to the extreme if wounded...absolutely will charge its tormentors - always from nearby...impossible to see in heavy cover because of its perfectly camouflaged coat.  a very worthy adversary.

cape buffalo - wounded it is the hunter's worst nightmare for, when followed up, it will often let its stalkers pass by and attack from behind.  very difficult to kill once its adrenaline is flowing and extremely vengeful.  will press its charge even when hit many times by heavy bullets.

lion - by far the strongest and fastest animal of its size in the group [it can and often does kill cape buffalo - though mostly the old and infirm], and thinks nothing of jumping into a native corral to kill a cow then jumping back out with the dead animal in its jaws.  a charging, lightly wounded lion is a true force of nature.  it can cover a hundred yards in five seconds or so, bounding through the long grass, or close to the ground on open plain.  be damn sure you brain it or its final leap - as much as thirty feet - will be fatal in the mauling you receive.  a lion's hunting roar in the darkest hours of an african night is a sound you will never forget.

a thought

          the bill WILL come due....

1605 metres

that's right...just under a mile, how high mount katahdin, in maine north of millinocket, stands.  i've been to its apex, baxter peak, five times - aged ten to fourteen, trips exceeded in excitement only by my african safari in 1971.

at camp baldy we "trained" for the big climb by running out to the bog and back - about a mile - [in those days you could walk out the back door of camp and not cross a road until you hit the canadian border, about 70 miles] carrying old army backpacks filled, sometimes with stones, mostly with just blankets and messkits.

katahdin itself was hidden beyond the foothills when we arrived by car at the roaring brook ranger's station some miles north of millinocket and the starting point for our three mile climb to chimney pond.  it was from that camp we'd begin our ascent of the mountain.

chimney pond, a crystal clear, circular mountain tarn, lay at the base of the "chimney" an ascent to baxter peak which only - it was alleged - experienced, well equipped mountain climbers could master.  at age ten, looking up from the rocky shore i was convinced of that truth and shivered slightly at the thought of all those ropes and pitons and picks and rock axes it would take to get to the top.  but, not to worry, there were easier ways.

first we had to establish our campsite.

the hike from the roaring brook base was mostly uphill over three ridges, broken only by a stop at long pond where some previous traveler - or ranger - had hung a tin cup on a nail in a post so that we could quench our thirst.  [can you imagine doing that today...water straight from the pond.]  the chimney pond camp consisted of one bunk house, which we ignored, and several leantos, one of which we chose.  i'm sure there were latrines but i don't recall, my memory being selective.

besides the "chimney" there were three approaches to  the peak - the saddle trail, easiest but longest - the cathedral trail, marked by three thousand-odd foot "cathedrals" or steps - and the dudley trail, off which there was a cave said to be a holy place by the local indians.  we used the first two as approaches and the last for our descents.  the saddle and cathedral ended on a wide mountain plateau which led to baxter peak.  from there to the beginning of the dudley one had to cross the half mile " knife edge" a narrow trail skirting the chimney wall on the left and a vast, steep field of mountain scree on the right.

man, this was exciting stuff for a ten year old kid.

we fairly ran up and down the mountain for the next two days wearing shorts and t-shirts, stumbling around in our new l.l. bean moccasins, flannel shirts tied around our waists.  nobody fell off any of the imposing cathedrals, we did cartwheels [much to our counselors horror] on knife edge, and clambered down dudley without stirring up any of the ancient storm gods of indian legend.  and nobody, but nobody, wore a helmet, knee pads, gloves, or a bullet proof vest.

no camper was ever injured - and i did it five times.  oh, and there were girls along, too.

a thought for today

i'm sure someone said this before but that noted hip-hopper 50 cent repeated it today.

    "i don''t have a gambling problem...people who lose have a gambling problem."

loss

i lost a great friend the other day....

because the family is so private about burial services i wasn't allowed at the grave site.  this is how i will grieve.

i knew moe for fifty-three years...almost a lifetime by most reckoning.  she was nearly a mother to me - congratulating me when i did right and raising hell when i did wrong.  she taught me to love family - i had none to speak of - and when her husband, booby, tried to shake me off she interceded on my behalf.  she embraced me at life's every turn...even as she lay dying she asked for my grandchildren.

i will never forget you moe...acid tongue, drinks at the beach, shooting at longlands, always love and affection, lessons in life, life itself.  bless you and goodnight.  love forever....

camp baldy

ellen [baldy] baldwin was the tower hill school girls' field hockey coach back in the fifties.  she also had a kids' summer camp [named camp baldy] located on chemo pond just outside of bangor, maine which i attended, for six years, ages nine to fourteen [i was caught smoking in my last year and not asked back].

i loved it - who wouldn't.  eight weeks in the cool of a maine summer - as opposed to wilmington's ghastly heat and humidity - plus, half of the campers were girls and we got to fish and climb mountains.

fewer than thirty of us, plus counselors, made the trip from wilmington to bangor - making the mad dash to our connecting train from south station to north station in boston.  at arrival we were ferried across the lake in small groups only to collapse into bunk beds, exhausted from our long trip.

baldy was a clever child psychologist - giving us each just enough rope that we didn't hang ourselves, or her.  for example, she let me "teach" the young campers [we ranged in age from eight to fifteen] how to properly row a boat and paddle a canoe - also to dock them...something which at age twelve made me feel incredibly accomplished.  also, we "qualified" to go on a five day trip to climb mount katahdin, then very remote and something kids as young as ten would never be allowed to do today without a helmet and kneepads.  the most fun thing i was able to do when i got a little older was to row one of the boats across the lake and fish for bass in a special spot i had discovered, while everyone else had to take his or her afternoon nap.  talk about a good way to diffuse excess adolescent energy - the rowing i mean.

to further boost our young egos our names were painted on the walls of the dining hall - grouped under our first year of attendance.  a star marked each additional year.

many years later, as an adult and long after baldy was gone i went to bangor to visit an old down on his luck camper friend.  i persuaded him to drive us out to chemo pond - now completely surrounded by mobile homes. we approached the camp by a modern, hard topped road and parked at the back kitchen door.  he told me that the place had been sold to the bangor girl scouts.  we broke in, easily jimmying the door, but only went as far as the dining hall where - i am sure much to the confusion of the girls - our names still graced the walls.

i was proud to see mine - with four stars next to it.

quotes for you to ponder

      "the problem with the gene pool is there is no lifeguard."

      " half the people you know are below average."

      "the early bird may get the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese."

      "experience is something you don't get until just after you need it."



with thanks to steven wright via tom o'donnell

republican atrophy

ladies and gentlemen, i give you the current slate of potential republican presidential candidates:  weenie number one, christian clown number two, and - god help us - the hypocrite and his helmet headed consort number three.  forget the - to quote don imus - martian.

mark my words - with this lot, any one of them, we will lose to a scary guy.

bald eagles

well...we saw something last evening i never thought we would.  we were sitting on a friend's back deck enjoying a warm, early spring evening when someone of us looked up and said, "look at those buzzards...."

i looked up and, startled, saw not buzzards but bald eagles, two, soaring and racing through the tall trees at the back of the house.  we were in north wilmington not far from the delaware river, but in a decidedly urban area.  these two, however, were oblivious - they were in a mad mating frenzy, dancing and diving above us for minutes, long enough for us to see their white heads and tails plainly, several times, in the gathering dusk.  there was no mistaking them for any other.

i doubt anybody else in the vicinity saw them...or would have known what they were looking at if they had, but bald eagles are the only big birds on this continent with white heads and tails.  there was no doubt.  it was a great moment. 

my last bonefish

i asked lefty kreh what fish, of all he'd fished for, would he most like to pursue.

"in the salt?" he inquired..."with a fly?"

"yeah."

"bonefish.  no doubt about it,"  he replied.

from that moment on i made bonefish my objective - fly fishing for them from andros in the bahamas to the seychelles in the indian ocean.  just a year ago i caught my last one.  sally and i were being guided by a dreadful little thief [he literally stole money from us] who had - until i protested their sophistication - put us on a school of deep water cay [harbor] bonefish, reckoning he could collect his fee with small effort.  after my angry comment he went to work a little harder and we ran a little further - to the north side of grand bahama - where he began to pole the shoreline.

we pushed along on the shallow mangrovey flat until suddenly i saw a large black shape lying on a small white sand bottomed point about fifty yards off the bow.  as i gestured with my rod tip our lad slowed the boat.  when near enough i false cast twice and fired the squimp.  in what was a very good throw for me the fly landed about four feet from the fish's nose.  motionless, we waited.  the bonefish moved forward a couple of feet and - clear as could be against the blinding white bottom - snorted two columns of black dirt from its nostrils.  i twitched the fly once and it pounced.  the battle was on.

shortly, vanquished and unhooked, the fish glared at the camera. lefty was right...they are the best and this one, my last, was one of the very best.

"did you see him snort?" i asked sally.  she nodded, smiling.  "just like an angry bull in the ring...."

opinion

stupid people, in business and in life, are dangerous because they are likely to do the wrong thing.  smart  people, on the other hand, will, usually, act appropriately.

always be kind

to the help.  they can hurt you in far more ways than you think...and will if you disrespect them.  beside that, they are often the nicest and wisest people you will ever meet.

wimbledon

i often rode the train out from london and walked up the hill to my brother's art gallery.  from my standpoint it was beautifully situated - between a pub and a betting shop.   after  a beer and a bet [the bookmaker often disclaimed in disgust "here comes that bloody yank again"] i would  retire to ed's white walled gallery to study the racing papers. 

one day, quietly sitting, contemplating, i was confronted by a public servant looking type - cheap shirt, dirty knot in his tie, spattered pants - "you pollard?" the creature inquired..."i am," i replied.  "got something for you," and he thrust a bunch of papers in my face.  "ed," i called out.  "there's a delivery for you," for our friend was followed by another sort wrestling a carton laden trolley in the door.

"what's this all about, then?" asked my brother.  "don't know.  sign here," replied our new found friend.  signature and cartons exchanged, we looked at each other, puzzled.  when examined the cartons proved startling.  what we realized, after much deliberation, was that we were being sued for 600,000,000 english pounds - 1,000,000,000 american dollars!

"call dolman,"  we both said at once, dolman being our solicitor, a partner in the law firm our family had used for over 140 years.  "this can't be true!"

it was true we were being sued - but the reasons were murky.  our father was a great sailor and had a norwegian friend with whom he often sailed the fjords.  the norwegian - and here's the murky part - was a spot player in the oil market...one day worth a billion, the next day worth nothing, or in the hole.  unfortunately, he died one day when he was in the hole.  his heirs didn't know that and were turning over every rock to find the money.  our father, the oil baron's banker, was dead as well so they pounced on the next tier.  sadly, for them and for us, we didn't have it.  even the interest would have been satisfactory.

the suit was summarily dismissed.

that was my only experience in big banking and wildcatting.                                          

thought for the day

    it's all a joke...it just depends on whom it's played....

parents

my father was a prick - and my mother was an idiot...to further complicate matters they were both intelligent.  they were married in 1933, totally unsuited for each other.  my father was from an uptight, aristocratic british family who didn't want him marrying an american to start with, rose to run a big merchant bank in london, and hadn't much of a sense of humor.  my mother was from philadelphia by way of baltimore and providence, rhode island, the youngest of three, a debutante and, as she later proved, an alcoholic.  she had, not long before she met my father, been jilted by the son of the doctor to italy's king ferdinand.  my parents each misjudged the others potential inheritance.

somehow, i came into this union in 1943.

by 1948 they were divorced - by 1950 my mother and i were in the states where to me, age eight, people spoke a foreign language and drove on the wrong side of the road.

the reason i maintain my father was a prick is because, after the divorce and for the rest of his life he disengaged himself from my existence.  he wrote me the occasional letter - usually castigating me for some adolescent sin - forgot my birthdays, and didn't bother with christmas or things like graduation from various schools.  i even discovered that he had frequently been in new york city on business as i grew up and had not called.  in short, not there.  as a consequence i was always looking for mentors and found a few - some good, some bad.  the bad ones were usually sexual predators, easy enough to fend off but disquieting none the less. [we all knew about the roman church and its problems.]  the others, even the good ones, often got sick and tired of an unwanted puppy panting at their heels all the time and brushed me off.  when he died, i, my half brother and his third wife in attendance, i felt little sadness and no loss, which i have since learned is unusual.  he did leave me a few nice bits of english furniture which, because it's veneered, is falling slowly to pieces in our hotter and drier climate than that of its origin.

my mother was an idiot because she squandered all sorts of opportunities to lead a happy life after she returned to the states.  as a single, slightly exotic, forty year old woman with a wide circle of upscale, high society friends in her adopted hometown [to live in philadelphia was to be too close to her older, dominating sister] she had everything going for her - and the gentlemen callers were legion.  they soon fell away - as did her influential friends - because she decided, almost at once, to kill herself with drink.  eventually, even i fell away - absconding in the family car to a lake below dover where i fished for two days [until my money ran out] then returning home to a house full of stunned friends and relatives.  "i want out of here..." or some such, were my homecoming words.  i soon was.  she died, alone, on a new year's eve, a very old 58.

these are some of the reasons i swore - after my divorce from their mother - i would never abandon my children as my parents had abandoned me.

rain

it rained twice on us - more on jimbo than me because he was driving the open, old style jeep when the first storm hit just north of lewes, and i was safe and dry in the pontiac, setting the pace.  i watched in the rear view mirror as he got deluged and laughed as he swiped at his glasses, futilely, to push away the water.


we were on our way to assateague to surf fish and planned to camp on the beach for a night or so.


we made the transition in rehoboth easily and were soon on our way to the island.  no rainstorms plagued us on the trip and pie was waiting to ferry us across the bay.


once on assateague we turned south, heading for the virginia line where we were going to camp near the three house outpost that marked the southern end of maryland.


tent pitched, we fished, wonderfully alone - there were no visitors in the houses - well into the evening.  a meal of some sort was eaten and we fished again.  at some point one of us looked west - at the ominous approaching cloud cover.  wind preceded the rain and we just had time to secure our rods and dive into the tent.  lightning crashed around us as the rain fell in torrents.  we were dry until i touched the canvas inadvertantly - disaster...water poured into the tent.  we decided to make for one of the stilted houses and ran, carrying the only light source we had, a lantern, and arrived, sheltered from the rain for the moment, at the foot of the stairs that led to a small landing from which - locked - doors led to, we supposed, the living quarters.  jimbo fumbled with the lantern while i tried the door handles.


the rain was still hammering down so we decided to stay where we were - on the little landing, lit by dim lantern light.  after about a half hour jimbo suddenly said, "i feel sick."  "i do too," i replied.  "what do you suppose got us.  something we ate."  "no.  it's carbon monoxide," he stammered.  "we''ve got to get out of here.  we'll die!"


by that time - just seconds - we were both too weak to stand.  i remember rolling down the stairs, retching and coughing.  jimbo followed and we lay together panting, headachy on the cold damp sand under the house, the deadly lantern still burning above us.  it was some time before i could gather myself, hold my breath and retrieve it.


the rest of the night was a blur. dawn finally arrived, grey and murky.  we looked at each other, at the fishing rods, grimly packed up the sopping tent and made our way north to the ferry landing.  on the way back across the bay we agreed we were damn lucky to be alive.


jimbo left us some years ago - at the start of a fishing trip, but, thankfully, not in a driving rain storm.

thought for the day

...it's ALWAYS about the money....

writing

as a professed writer - at least of short pieces - i have always ascribed, in the very face of somerset maugham's advice*, to the practice of beginning somewhere in the middle, proceeding to the beginning, and hying from thence to the end.





*always write pieces that have a beginning, a middle, and an end.

valentine's day

good morning - this is going to be a rant...it's 4:00 a.m. and i can't sleep because of this damn twitching.  i'm having a drink [which would make my doctors crazy] and bemoaning the fact that, because of my epilepsy [the other half of my afflictions] and my inability to drive i can't even get my wife a valentine's card.  i made one yesterday - like some kindergartener - with a plain piece of paper and some different colored pens.  i hope she likes it.

the most frustrating thing about these diseases is one's loss of independence.  we live far enough in the country that i can't walk to get the papers - or coffee - or lunch, whatever.  thank god for computers and tvs...without them, and the odd book or crossword puzzle, i'd go nuts.  i don't know how in "the old days" people survived this kind of mess - but i suppose they didn't.

this business puts a hell of a strain on sally, too.  she's got a complicated company to run - not to mention a "complicated" husband to run.

i know i sound as if i'm feeling sorry for myself and there are a hell of a lot of people in this world who are worse off than i, but i am feeling sorry for myself - and not a little pissed off.  like arno, at sea drifting on a flipped zodiac, i haven't many attractive possibilities.  unfortunately, there are no friendly seafarers in the area to come to my rescue so i can "return to camp and go on fishing."

nope.  this is it - this is the way it will end.  slowly, i'm sure, but inevitably.  and it won't be graceful - and grace is what i suppose we all hope for.

i told you this would be a rant...i only wish i felt better for it and that i could come to better terms with my condition.

losing my religion

          "modest apostasy..."

         is that a description of the pinking cheeks of the occasional - when convenient - believer?

         or, does it describe the individual who no longer attends a house of worship but professes a belief in god...?

         or, is it just a clever oxymoron?

       

[with thanks to ed wissing]






 



         

key west - part five

i know ernest  hemingway was an impossible pain in the ass...at least later in life...but he was a hell of a writer.  when we had the house in key west there were two things we wanted to do - ride the conch train [because someone told us we had to...at least once] and go to  the hemingway house [because i fancied myself a writer - though not in hemingway's league].

the conch train ride was a real trip...five cars dragged by a thinly disguised jeep through a driving rain storm.  we sat in the middle car, the only two people on a tour which would normally accomodate thirty or so.  tourists silly enough to be out on the street stared at we two idiots, soaked, and feigning interest in the equally stunned driver's mechanical iterations of shotgun houses and audubon birds.  the absolute high point of the morning was the drive by the key west cemetery wherein resides a corpse whose headstone reads "i told you i was sick."

the hemingway house was a bore once one got by the little gable overlooking the pool where he did most of his writing.  the garden was populated by six toed cats - supposedly descended from the ones ernest favored and the front room was filled with paperback copies of his novels.  the absolute high point of our visit, however, was when i snuck into the roped off dining room and sat in the great man's chair at the head of the table - just imagine, my ass perched - only momentarily - where his ass had been throughout many a drunken evening.

stanley

swan hired him...i didn't.  stanley was from south andros...he said he was a bonefish guide and, in his spare time, a preacher.  i know the latter was true because swan and the girls went to hear him sermonize - i wouldn't go. his children hollered "mama, mama, here come the white people..." as we approached his house near the church - that was enough to send me back to the hotel for a beer.

stanley preached "the woid of god."

according to god - stanley said - 85% of the people in hell were women - 10% men - and the other 5% men who were there because of women.

i should tell you he was also a horseshit guide, fat, had a lousy boat, and poled around with an old mangrove stake.  swan didn't catch many fish.              

drink

      "twas a woman who drove me to drink.  i never had the decency to thank her."

                                                                                          w.c. fields

      i did.



    [with thanks to chuck gleason]

key west - part four

front door flower bed - anthurium - the "penis plant" - 'nuff said....

death

i think i've seen death...stared it in the face, so to speak.  i suffer from epilepsy and, so, seize every once in a while...not of the grand mal type but absence or petit mal sort.  i go away but have no recollection of leaving [fortunately the medicine i take has stopped even these events] but, having gone there in the past i can tell you there is nothing to fear...nothing, no blinding white lights, no white robes, no long hallways leading to god knows what, no fire and brimstone, no angelic choir.  in short... nothing.  don't be afraid.

ghost

i'll tell you a ghost story - which may seem a little out of character because i don't believe in the afterlife, but this one can be backed up by a witness - sally - and neither one of us is a fabulist.  also, it will make the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

my mother died in 1968, was cremated and interred in a crypt below the altar in saint peters church - her home parish - in philadelphia.  end of story you say...not quite.

some years later she was dug up - which i didn't think was legal but happened anyway.  my cousin got a letter from the parish secretary saying she now resided on her desk and would we please come pick her up - which i did.  from then on she sat, in an urn, on the bureau in my library.  when sally and i moved to carpenters row i brought her along where she rested, quietly, for some years under a table in the front room.

at some point i, from my seat at  the counter in the kitchen, started seeing a dark shadow, a murky cloud, rise from the area of the urn...not often but enough that i took note.  i didn't say anything to sally.

one evening i saw it and sighed in exasperation.  "what's wrong," asked sally.  "nothing.  i just saw my mother again," i replied, nodding towards the urn.  "have you been seeing that too," she exclaimed.  it turned out that she, from her position at the stove had seen the apparition as often as i had.

"what does she want do you suppose?"  sally asked.  "to rest in peace i guess.  too much noise around here," i replied.

the next morning at 6 a.m., a lovely may day, we took her to the brandywine and poured her ashes into the fast moving water.  she swirled away in a long train of grey.

neither of us has seen her since.

oh fuck it

it's eight to five [a.m.] on a tuesday morning and i'm sick and tired of the whole thing...i've got this parkinson's affliction and epilepsy.  my right hand won't work right and i've got a lot of memories i want to get on the record before i'm unable...the day ahead doesn't seem so attractive.  i'm housebound - i can't drive for another month or so - and sally goes off to work at 7:30.  all i've got to do is see that the dog doesn't pee in the house, iron some napkins and call my accountant.  the rest of you, have a nice day....

key west - part three

you remember when andrew cunannon shot gianni versace in miami beach and all of florida's finest, including those in key west, were put on high alert.  tsnake and i were down at my house getting ready to go fishing just after that and one evening i went out to buy some liquor.  a little while later tsnake heard the door bell ring and, figuring i had forgotten my key, went out to let me in.  while i'd been gone we'd had a hell of a thunderstorm - one of those typical tropical maelstroms - and the trees were dripping.  when he opened the door he was greeted by the large and lethal muzzle of a glock .45.

on the other end of the automatic was an enormous and very nervous cop.

"hands up!"  [they already were.]  "turn around!"  "hey," said tom.  "point that thing somewhere else."

suddenly the cop's radio squawked.  he raised it to his ear, muttered something back, holstered his pistol and left.

when i returned some minutes later i was greeted by a still shaking - and very pale - tsnake.  all we could figure was that the storm had set off someone's alarm - not mine - and the cop had gone to the wrong address.  we both had a stiff drink.

it was, after all, key west.

reading

      "there's always a hundred pages a [good] book could do without...."

                                                               sally pollard

good advice for sons and husbands

     "darling, never go to the kitchen empty handed...."

                                        my mother, circa whenever

key west - part two

i wanted to have a cocktail party.  so i asked all my friends in key west - fishermen, non-fishermen, and help...annie, john wells, kennie the rake and mike the hoe.  kennie accepted - along with others - and asked if he could come dressed as a cocktail waitress.  i said no - my conservative fishing guide friends wouldn't understand.  he agreed that was probably true - and, even so, took over the party with his charm.  the little shit.

sally and i had two favorite places to eat - bagatelle on duval street and blue heaven in old key west.  at bagatelle we could often get the corner table overlooking duval...and spend much of our time gawking at, or mocking, the passers by.  the food was only fair but the sights were good and the cork bouncing [which we taught the kids] was excellent if one found the sweet spot on the table.  blue heaven - across duval in the old part of town - was the place to go for breakfast.  the outdoor eating area was shaded by a big, old gumbo limbo tree and the ground covered in deep brown mulch through which chickens scratched, pecking occasionally at the odd scrap or bug.  cats of all sizes lolled insouciantly under the tables.  the first time i took sally, hungover, i stopped at the bar on the way in and ordered coffee and a red stripe.  sally, equally hungover, had the same and declared red stripe "the best beer ever."

the pier house, down by the harbor, was high end when it came to food but had a nice, intimate piano bar which was good for late night drinks.  often there were several gay actors and singers in attendance and one got any number of slightly off key, though exuberant, show tunes and dance lines.  one quiet night sally sang tune after tune with the forgiving and patient piano player.  a slightly drunk and much more enthusiastic piano man pounded out tunes in the bar at la-di-da, the gay hotel on duval as she struggled to keep up.  i drank rum on the rocks and bantered with the barman, all the while eyeing an obviously uncomfortable couple from cleveland who had stumbled into this den of iniquity and depravity.  they fled when "it's raining men" came over the sound system at full blast and a succession of gays marched down from the second floor and into the "ballroom" to attend the weekly 4:30 p.m. "industrial strength" tea dance.

 it was, after all, key west.

key west - part one

i had a house in key west [to paraphrase isak dinesen]...for ten years...to which i intended to retire.  i first went to the island with tiger thouron to fish with gil drake and fell in love with the goofy aura of the place right away.  the house i found on a later visit.  it was enclosed by a wall, a fence, and backed by a canal - complete privacy - with its own - wonder of wonders - key lime tree.  it came equipped with two  gay gardeners - kenny the rake and mike the hoe - and an old rock and roller named john wells who ministered to the pool.  which reminds me, one of my great joys - right after i arrived for a visit -  was to throw a chair into the shallow end  and lie naked in the cool water contemplating the stars.  a further enhancement was the fact that the house paid for itself in rentals, only slightly diminished by annie's, my housekeeper, occasional calls, "you won't believe what i found under the bed...!"  it was, after all, key west.

one of the strangest starts to a fishing trip occurred one evening as i arrived and stepped out of my car.  around the corner of the wall came my cuban neighbor.  "senor!  senor!  come quick!"   he pulled me by the arm towards his front door.  "snake...snake...a beeg one!"  once inside a cacophony of noise nearly flattened me.  screamed spanish from all directions...a mixture of dog barks and howls and in the corner a german shepherd which had something - god knows what - at bay.  then i saw what...a huge golden python as big around as my thigh coiled tightly under a table.  "what do we do, senor?"  i shrugged my shoulders, at a loss...suddenly there appeared at the door a burly youngster waving a snake stick - a pole with a noose attached - who charged to the corner, slipped the cord over the snake's head, and yanked.  all hell broke loose with furniture and lamps flying.  the snake, of course, was nothing but an eight foot long muscle and not a particularly happy one.  it was not going quietly.  seeing there was little more i could offer, i backed towards the door.  "what will you do with it?" i asked my neighbor.  "i don't know senor.  eat it, perhaps," and he smiled tightly. 

somebody's pet released and gone feral?  it was, after all, key west.

cruising

    "there are three things i like about being on an italian cruise ship.  first, their cuisine is unsurpassed.  second, their service is superb.  and then, in time of emergency, there is none of this nonsense about women and children first."    attributed to winston churchill






    with thanks to tsnake

dogs

gtet, gunbearer, when asked if he ever had dogs on a lion hunt: "one does not have dogs, bwana.  one eats them."

betting the horses

i'm done.  too many things can go wrong...think about it.

the horse won't go in the gate - or, more likely, the one you bet on is in and goes crazy because another one won't go in.

the horse won't come out of the gate - or falls to its knees while trying to get out of the gate.

the jock falls off.

it's rained and the horse doesn't like a sloppy track...or the reverse.

the horse pulls an outside number, likes to run on the front, and uses itself up trying to get to the lead or finds itself on the lead when it wants to come from behind.

the jock drops his whip.

another jock slashes your horse across the face with his whip.

a tiring horse cuts your horse off in the stretch.

your horse breaks down.

a foul is called - and upheld...your horse, the winner, comes down.

the teller punches the wrong ticket - and you don't bother to check it.

the trainer is a liar and a cheat.

too many people between you and a winner.

on the other hand, only three things can go wrong when you throw the dice:  craps on the comeout, a seven after you've numbered, and forgetting to raise your bets when you're on a roll.

the prospect of dying

my friend and guide, arno matthee, nearly died the other day.  i faced an equally nasty possible outcome many years ago in tanzania...the difference was in elapsed time.

arno, some twenty miles from camp, at sea, off the coast of the congo, flipped a zodiac - a useful but inherently dangerous watercraft because if the wind gets  under its bow, like a sail, it fills with air.  arno, happily, managed to climb aboard the upside down hull and there he sat...drifting out to sea...for a day - 24 hours - getting hungry and thirsty with few, if any, attractive possibilties.  luck intervened and some local fishermen found him and helped right the boat.  by some miracle the engine fired and he was able to make it back to camp.

i was charged by a wounded lion.  it was a brief encounter because a lion moves very quickly - covers a hundred yards in 5 seconds or so - and i shot as it leapt from the long grass covering its seventy yard approach.  fortunately the bullet went home...the great cat fell dead almost at my feet.  the shaking began shortly thereafter.

i'd rather have experienced the latter than the former.

life

there are two quotes applicable:

          "life is short, play hard..."  to which i subscribe, and

          "life is hard, play short..." which is not a gambler's credo

swahili

     "toa bunduki...."   [bring out the rifle....]  "piga...."  [hit....]

     "mbogo kufa!"  [the buffalo is dead!]

     "chui kufa!"  [the leopard is dead!]

     "simba kufa!"  [the lion is dead!]

     "ndofu kufa!"  [the elephant is dead!]

     "asante sana bwana...."   [thank you very much sir] 

     the last from pissy and gtet, gunbearers.

summer nights

there wasn't any reason to stop our hunting and fishing exploits on warm summer nights.  once the sun went down and the mosquitos let up it was downright pleasant out there.  our primary quarries were bullfrogs and bass.

the bullfrogs we hunted with flashlights and gigs or a .22 rifle.  they "kerunked" mightily from the edges of the myriad ponds that dotted the area - some of which we had permission to scour - some we had to sneak to, usually late at night.  the gigging was a bit messy but had the advantage of being quieter than a .22 short.  i doubt you could buy a frog gig today - except perhaps at a walmart somewhere in the south...mine was purchased at the old hubers sporting goods store on ninth street in wilmington. what you got was the head of neptune's trident - hardened steel with barbs at the end of its three prongs so the frogs wouldn't slip off...hence the messiness.  you had to supply your own broomstick to attach it to.  the frogs, really just the legs, were great to eat especially when deep fried by cookie, big helen, and served with tartar sauce and ketchup.  one day i gigged myself - on the inside of my upper right arm - while reaching up to get a fishing rod and i can tell you i don't envy the frogs.  we needed bolt cutters to release me from the rest of the gig and broom handle.  the doc in the emergency room didn't understand my muttered "frog gig" answer to his question so i had to draw a picture on the gurney sheet of what was protruding from my arm.  i never bought a new gig.  the old one, now a duodent, worked just fine.

bass fishing on a still summer evening, after dark, was just as much fun.  the fish would come into the shallows - after the frogs - and we'd cast down the pond edges with top water lures.  the big guys would have ventured out of the safety of deeper water and often would explode on our skirted poppers.  very exciting when you didn't see them coming.  late one night i had just made a cast when an owl struck a rabbit nearly at my feet - scaring me half to death.  the rabbit screamed - the owl never made a sound.

the reservoir was our holy grail...first because it was illegal to fish there...second because there had to be big fish in an unfished, relatively large, body of water.  one night we slung a small aluminum boat over the fence, agreed to be picked up at 4 a.m., and floated around for several hours.  what luck we had i don't remember but it must have been little or no because we didn't fish that way again.  but walk the banks and wade the shallows we did.  the last time i went i heard footsteps approaching - whose i didn't know - through the brush and slipped into the water to cross the cove i was fishing.  not a bad way to end a hot summer night...a few bass caught and a swim to cool off.