Every once in a while, I get an idea for a personal narrative, and I've added these two, "Fishing the Trees" and "Peace and Cockroaches," because I like them, and they've made my friends and family chuckle. I hope you enjoy them.
Fishing the Trees
I'm standing up to my mid-thighs in a small river. Fed by streams coming down from the mountains, the water is slate gray and cold. Ordinarily, wading in a river would be an unusual circumstance, but I'm told this is what fly fishermen do, and because I am trying to become one, this seems the right place to be.
I've always been drawn to the outdoors – or, more accurately, the idea of the outdoors. I have religiously read my Thoreau, Emerson, Whitman, Muir, Abbey, and Dillard. Every time I do so, I look longingly at Ansel Adams prints and imagine myself steeped in the rejuvenating breath of nature--basking in her goodness – allowing myself to be cradled in her mothering arms. Indeed, full of Walt Whitman's bare-chested vigor, I have occasionally looked up at the night sky bejeweled with stars, stretched wide my imagined-burly arms, taken a deep breath, and bellowed, "Kosmos!"
That's about one brave but fleeting moment before a Maine mosquito the size of a small seagull tears a chunk out of my neck. The stars suddenly seem less brilliant, the sky less deep, and I am definitely less the swaggering camerado. Slapping viciously at my neck as I retreat to the safety of the house, I mutter something about how there must have been a remarkable shortage of biting insects when Walt, Henry, and Ralph were seeing the divine in leaves of grass.
But now, I am standing in the river in all of my Romantic-Transcendentalist splendor. Albeit, I am not the bare-chested and buck-skinned as Uncle Walt would have me – in fact, I am wearing rather ugly, clammy, army-green rubber waders which come up to my chest, an old denim shirt, a baseball hat, spectacles, and a genuine fly-fisherman’s vest filled with devices I have no idea how to use. I am fairly certain that I look very little like the dashing, damnably handsome Brad Pitt in A River Runs Through It, and I am suddenly very glad that my lovely spouse is not here.
My father, who has been fishing for over ten years, is standing fifty yards upstream of me. I look back to watch him. Tanned face, graying hair, he stands waist-deep in the bending gray river. His right arm drifts back, and his wrist cocks slightly as a brightly colored filament slips upwards and snakes through the air and whispers past his head in a slow, floating curve. My dad waves his arm rhythmically above his head like a symphony conductor, and the gaily colored line dances through the air around him. The sky, mottled with clouds and speckled with robin's egg blue, the slate river, the budding saplings, the dusty mountains in the distance--and dad the magician make up a picture which would make a National Geographic photographer drool and fumble for the right lens. There is a last flick of the wrist, and the line darts forth to deposit the fly noiselessly in a small pool.
I turn slowly and steady myself. Mindful of the watching eyes of my father, Walt, Henry, Ralph, and Brad Pitt, I throw my arm back as gracefully as I possibly can. I jerk my head to the left as the line snaps out of the water with a decidedly unpleasant "shlooop" and whips back at my open mouth. I distinctly remember watching the small fly flicker past my eye, its harpoon of a hook gleaming maliciously.
A glance upstream – I hope my father is really as interested in the tree tops across the river as he pretends to be and didn't see my glorious cast. I quickly slick the line back in and try again. This time, the rod and line work as they are supposed to, and I can see myself as dashing Brad with yards of line ribboning through the air about my head. With a gleeful giggle – Uncle Walt would have preferred a barbaric yawp — I snap the line out ahead of me. The line sails out – and the fly lamely plunks into the water about seven feet in front of me. I look at the limp fly and the pool of curling line floating downstream. Under the bill of my hat, I shoot my eyes upstream – my father is, thankfully, still absorbed by the tree.
Swearing softly, I bring the line back in and conclude that the wind is the real problem here and not my casting ability. So I bring the line in and wade downstream to find a more favorable locale.
I should pause here to describe the experience of wading downriver in a pair of rubber overalls a size and a half too big for your feet. We have all tried, although some won't admit it, walking around a neighbor's pool with swim fins on. One looks and feels like an arthritic duck – I now understand why ducks are so rarely seen running from predators. Well, to understand my experience, imagine doing the same exercise but in about four feet of moving water. Now envision holding a nine-foot, slender fishing rod with several yards of line trailing behind, which is trying to catch itself on any available rock or tree branch. Finally, picture trying to navigate downstream over a riverbed obstacle course strewn with rocks and sunken trees and marked by several surprisingly deep holes. This was my journey of twenty or so yards.
I managed to make it to a suitable spot by kicking my way through, around, and over all rocks and trees, virtually guaranteeing that any fish worth catching was long gone. My right arm was soaked to the shoulder from a near drowning, so I rolled up my sleeve and looked around.
I was near a small inlet that formed a tiny beach where the river bent. Behind the small spit of sand was a grove of saplings with bright green leaves that sparkled when the breeze stirred them. Across the river were several enormous pine trees. They looked lean and wizened by many long Maine winters. They had no limbs on the lower twenty feet of their trunks – just plates of gray-purple bark – their tufted heads were lifted high. I felt marvelously small and insignificant and a bit afraid. I drew my eyes down reverently as the saplings whispered behind me.
I drew a slow breath and collected my line. I let a bit out and lifted my bare forearm over my head. The bright green line arched past me, and I drew more from the reel. Moving my arm slowly, I listened gratefully as the growing circle of gossamer wound itself through the air above me. Again and again, the line drifted out to the rippling water, almost settling down before it slipped gracefully, teasingly back behind me. I felt elated and harmonious--an artist in love with his art. I didn't want to lay the fly down – I didn't want to break the spell. Finally, I let the fly touch.
The tuft of feather sat on the water for a moment, and then, with a quick ripple, it disappeared. My rod tip jumped. "My God, I got one!" I whispered, and then followed with a louder, "Shit, now what do I do?”
In the ensuing rush of adrenaline, I forgot that I was indeed the fisherman in this case – the one in control. I should, I reasoned, be able to handle the situation. After all, I was not the one who had a hook in his mouth. Holding the rod in my right hand, I reached down to the water and grasped the line with my left. As I had been taught in my crash course on fishing, I gave the line a quick yank with the intention of "setting the hook" – a polite way of saying, "jab the sharp barb through the poor fish's face so it can’t swim away." My feeling of guilt and self-recrimination faded quickly, however, as I realized that all my yanking had accomplished was to bring in a few feet of the yards of slack line which lay in the water. My dad's voice echoed in the back of my mind: “Don't let out too much line, or you won't be able to keep the fish on the hook as you bring it in.”
"Damn!" I breathed, feeling a boiling rush of embarrassment and fury. I reeled in as quickly as I was physically capable. The normal clicking of the reel was an excited buzz as my wrist blurred and sweat popped out on my brow. I was hoping that I could get my line in fast enough so that I could send the fly back out to the same spot. Perhaps fate would smile upon my efforts, and the fish would be stupid enough to bite at the same evil hook twice.
The line was, thankfully, doing what it was supposed to. I let the line sail out, pulled it back, out again, back again. I was desperately trying to get the fly out to where the fish had given it a nibble. After a few moments, I noticed little splashes as the line arched toward the water on each forward cast. I knew that I wasn’t supposed to let the lure touch, so I lifted my arm a bit higher. More splashes. The line felt heavier as I was bringing it back. "Just my luck," I thought, "I've got another weed.”
Sighing, I reeled the line back in. I wondered if there was much point to spending a perfectly good day splashing around in a freezing river when I could just be sitting on a bank watching the clouds and listening to the crows argue. As I pulled the last few feet of line in, I felt it quiver slightly. My mouth opened as I lifted the tip of the rod and saw a tiny fish wriggling at the end of the line. My surprise faded into mortification when I realized that the fish had been stuck to the end of my line during my entire last cast.
Anxious to get hold of my minuscule prize, I raised the rod tip, and the fish swung towards me. As luck would have it, I missed the nearly invisible leader, and the fish glided past my open hand and slipped behind me. I spent the next few moments splashing and twisting as I tried to keep my rod out of the water and the spinning fish in front of me – this is not as easy as it sounds. When I finally grabbed the little devil, my mild feeling of triumph dissolved into a worrisome pity. My catch was barely five inches long and was less than three fingers wide. I had gone into the river to snare the Jaws of the trout world and ended up with Puffy the Guppy.
I tried to hold the fish gently, but every time I touched it, it would give a convulsive jump and slip out of my hand. Not wanting to suffocate my victim, I dunked it under the water and let it swim around for a minute while I pondered what to do. Resolving to help this little fish out of the problem that I had created for it, I gently brought the line back to my hand and gripped the fish firmly.
He was beautiful, as almost all creatures are. His back was a blackish green, but his underside was a gleaming silver-white. Streaks of violet and red and blue shone in his skin. His gills were wide, and his eyes stared up at me. I did not see the fear I had expected but more an impatient irritation, as if he knew what a novice I was in this business, and he was anxious to be done with the whole affair. Holding him was like holding a slick and powerful muscle, and I saw him as a perfect machine – not clumsy and awkward like me.
I tucked the rod beneath my arm and used my right hand to free the hook from his mouth. It came loose with unusual ease, and I lowered him to the water. As soon as the water touched him, he darted from my hand and disappeared with one quick flick of his tail. I rinsed my hands in the river and thought a bit about what had happened.
I had faced my greatest fear in fishing – actually catching a fish. I could not help feeling rather sorry for him. After all, I reasoned, how would I like it if a monster the size of a skyscraper jerked a barbed hook through my lip and then dragged me underwater? Being the sort of person that I am, I doubt that I would see the fun in all of it.
But the fish that had taken a bite at my hook was a better sport. Once caught, he seemed to fall into a role with which was familiar – he was part of a weird story that he already knew the end of. He handled the matter much better than I did.
But fly fishing is not just the act of catching fish; it is a rhythm and a dance with its own music and stage. The fisherman and the fish have their parts, but the river, the sun, and the wind in the tree-tops are players too, and it is this combination that creates the spell that will keep me coming back.
Peace and Cockroaches
My son sleeps. Curled on his side, one arm tucked under his pillow, and the other sticks out and hangs over the edge of the bed. His yellow-brown hair, still damp from his bath, smells of soap. Kissing his cheek, I whisper the same words that I have been saying for five years: “Love you, Buddy. Get some sleep.”
I gently close his door and enter my daughter’s room. Hers is darker—she has not yet developed a fear of the monsters that lie waiting for a little one to doze off, a fear assuaged by a soft, blue-green truck night light my son depends on. My feet brush the carpeted floor, and I cross the room noiselessly to stand by her white crib. I know just where to step to avoid the sudden pops and groans that lurk in floors. She is in her favorite sleeping position: her legs are tucked beneath her, arms by her side, her little backside poked into the air and face turned to the right. Her cheeks look soft and full in the shadows. She breathes so softly that I have to lay my hand on her back to feel its gentle rise and fall.
One more room to go. My feet brush the baseboards in the hall as I avoid the noisy stretch of floor. Our bedroom is dark and cool, but a reassuring warmth emanates from the bed where my wife sleeps. The room is lightly flowered with the smell of her dark hair, and I listen to her long deep breaths in the darkness of 11:30. There is no sound but the slight sighs of the house. The air is calm and slumbering.
One crack snaps the silence as I step sideways down the stairs to the converted sunroom where our family plays. Settling into the cool leather of my favorite chair, I lift my tired feet to the ottoman and pick up the television remote. The volume turned low; the room is bathed in white-blue light that flickers as I burn through the channels. I am not overly interested in watching anything, but it is pleasant to let go of thoughts and concerns and follow the parade of color on the screen.
As my body slumps comfortably into the contours of the chair, I take a deep, filling breath and hold it, allowing the air to seep into my body before slowly releasing it.
Here is peace.
Then, there is a movement I spot out of the corner of my eye. It is there – by the bottom sill of the white entry into the living room. A motion in the corner where the cream carpet bulges slightly before the wall. It is a minuscule motion, the blowing of a single hair in a slight breeze. It is an antenna, slight and dark, and it swishes through the air a few centimeters from the floor. Another motion, and a small brown body steps into view. It is flat and brown—the brown of root beer at the bottom of the bottle—and it walks on six brown, spiny legs.
It is my old enemy, Periplaneta Americana—the American cockroach.
The American cockroach is second in population only to the German variety. It lives most of its life in cool, damp places near its favorite food, decomposing organic matter. Thus, you are likely to find Periplaneta Americana in any wood pile, in mulch, or in compost heaps. They do not live indoors, but they will happily visit your home in search of food or water or even a nice, cool place to hang out when the weather outside is crummy. They are foragers, and they go where the food is. So, seeing an American roach in your t.v. room is not a sign that you are filthy, but rather that the bindings of your books, the insides of your leather boots, or that bit of four-month-old muffin beneath the refrigerator are just too much for Mr. Americana to resist.
Now, I know all of this, but the problem is that I have an unusual hatred of this beast. There is something about the chestnut color of the chitinous shell, the body-length antennae, and the grasping feet that produces in me a loathing that floods every part of my being. When I see that brown flicker on the wall of the garage, I can think only of the violent death of this thumb-long critter.
Tonight is no different.
I make the first move.
In a movement I’d like to call smooth, I kick back the ottoman, reach to the left, find on the floor a ball of my son’s, and with a barbaric yawp, hurl it at my nemesis.
It spies my motion instantly and bursts to the right, and sprints for the couch, the blue rubber ball ricocheting off the floor and knocking over a picture of my daughter on the coffee table.
Cursing my aim, I leap for the couch and hurl it towards the wall – but I see nothing but cream carpet and a couple of orange goldfish crackers. Now, I’m scared. How in the name of all that is holy can these things disappear? I wonder. Surely, Periplaneta Americana is a minion of the devil sent to test me, but I shall not give in. “Get thee behind me, Satan, “ I whisper. And then I add, “Come out, come out, where ever you are, you little bastard.”
I kick at the dust ruffle hanging from the bottom of the couch, and he suddenly appears. Momentarily confused, he darts in my direction, all six legs churning.
I let out a gargled scream that sounds like, “Yewww, hooooo, hooooo, hoo, hew!” and retreat.
Collecting myself, I sally forth for another strike with my son’s floppy plastic sword in one hand and my wife’s copy of Parenting in the other. I enter the living room and quickly spot him beneath an end table, motionless, pretending to be a leaf. How stupid is the American cockroach, I think, and a creep forward, sword at the ready.
I swat at the brown blot but miss, and he dashes ahead, then banks hard to the left and heads up the wall. In the space of a second, he is at eye level and making a rapid gain on the ceiling.
Now, I should pause here and say that ordinarily, I’d marvel at the ability of any creature to run up a wall, but this is not any other time, and this is not any other bug.
There is the smallest sliver of a moment when I think about my wife’s reaction to my murder of a bug on her living room wall, but it is a moment only. I rear back with the magazine and smite mine enemy with the power and glory of the Almighty. The flat, sharp SMACK thunders through the house, and then, it is over.
I raise my sword and soiled magazine over my head in a silent howl of victory. I dance with mirth over the crumpled body of my enemy and taunt its buggy spirit. Victory is sweet and lovely.
Ten minutes later, the body disposed of and the greasy smear scoured from the wall, I am again slumped in the cool leather of my chair, bathed in blue-white light. My son’s plastic sword is in my lap, and I am vigilant.
But I am again at peace.
