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Friday, February 27, 2009

The great Banking conspiracy

Banks! PFFFFF! I am not surprised that they have created an international crisis. I never trusted them. It also doesn't surprise me that it happened on George W. Bush's watch. The whole problem is that there are a whole bunch of very rich people trading debt and speculating on debt. The rich making money off the poor. The American market had been off limits to the poor and lower middle classes.Well meaning activists and legislators had formed organizations like fanny Mae and Freddie Mack. People who never thought they could afford a house now found that they could. Cynical bankers gave mortgages to people who would never have received a mortgage years before. They then promptly sold these high risk mortgages to speculators who sold them to pension funds that should not have been investing in high risk loans. The rich got richer and the poor lost their homes and got the boot. The world lost billions, nay trillions and the poor get poorer. All due to George W. and his deregulation and his rich friends.
International financial institutions were shaken to the core. Many closed. The huge American banks floated along on clouds of hot air. Soon their balloons deflated and the rich plutocrats came back to earth on huge golden parachutes, while the victims were turfed out onto the streets. Scumbags all. Now I won't pretend that I was smart enough to foretell all this in advance. I am not a savant. I did however know that banks were not to be trusted. In fact I have known it for quite some time. Since I was quite a child. I was, at a very tender age, a victim of the international financial cartels and their avarice. Oh I know, I hear you scoffing, but hear me out. I will tell you the sad details of how I became a victim of the heartless banking empire.
When I was young I was a callow and capricious fellow. This did not go down well with my Mother. She wanted me to know the value of a dollar. She had been raised in poverty and she wanted her children to escape its' clutches. She did her best to teach us the value of a dollar. Lord knows she could stretch a dime to a dollar. She shopped for a bargain and was very wise, never one to fall victim to a salesman's pitch. I remember watching an encyclopedia salesman's routine as he plied his trade on my parents. "Imagine buying this fine set to state of the art encyclopedias for less money than you would pay for the daily paper. Surely your children's future is worth more than a lousy newspaper? In order to make it easier for you, however we will allow you to pay more than that newspaper so you can be the proud owner of the incomparable set of encyclopedias!" 'allow us to pay more?" My Mother wasn't buying it literally or figuratively. He left with his tale between his legs. Lucky he still had a tail. My Mom was no fool. I would have bought the encyclopedias and the annuals that went with them.
Part of our education was to do odd jobs to make extra money. Shoveling driveways for elderly couples who needed someone to do it. This brought in a few dollars. I already had a piggy bank. A plastic Colonel Sanders bank that I had waited for in the parking lot of our local KFC on a sweltering August day when Colonel Harlan Sanders himself had come to town to be Grand Marshal of our local "Natal Day Parade" the city's birthday celebration. He was smaller than I expected and he looked exactly like his picture on the bucket except that he was even whiter. White hair, white beard white suit. He was very gentle and he spoke funny. He gave me the bank, a Balloon with his picture on it and big paper feet and a comic book which had a coupon in it that my Mom cut out and used, which kind of toasted the comic book.
My Colonel Sanders bank was getting full. Full of left over pennies. fifty cent pieces that I had been given by my Uncle. It also contained a few silver dollars I had gotten for Christmas and three silver dollars I had been given for perfect attendance by my teacher at school. My teacher mind you, not the school itself. AND not for not missing an entire day. I hadn't even missed ONE class. I was very proud of them. I was upset when Mom insisted I take them out of the card and put them in the Colonel's belly. The problem with the Colonel was that he was solid plastic. There was no cap or cork. No way to take my money out and look at it. Those silver dollars had canoes on them with men paddling them. I loved to look at the picture on the silver dollar. But no, into the Colonel's belly they went.
Before too very long the Colonel was full. When I drew this to my Mother's attention she said it was time to put the money in a real bank. Great I thought a bank like my sister had. One that you could dump the money out of and look at it.. Play with it. "NO!" My Mother said "A real bank. A building where you take your money so it will be safe." "Safe?" I said what do you mean?" "The people there will look after your money, even pay you money to do it." Really? This was something I could not comprehend. We got a old knife and cut the bottom off the Colonel. We dumped my money on the kitchen table. My Mother set about counting and rolling the coins. The few Silver dollars went into an envelope. I had only a few seconds to look at them. "There's over twenty nine dollars here!" My Mother told me. "Is that a lot?" I asked naively. "Yes, it is." The next day we walked to the K-Mart shopping center (Malls were not big at that time). We walked into a big place that I had always wondered about. Mom had often gone there but we sat outside and she never bought anything there.
This time she took me in. I held on tightly to the paper bag that held my twenty nine dollars. It was in fact quite heavy. We waited for what seemed like forever. Finality we got to the front of the line and we approached a tall woman with a thin face and dark hair. She towered over me looking down intently as my Mother told her I was here to open an account. "What is your name son? " She asked sweetly, looking at me the way my Grammy always did, as if she was about to pinch my cheek. "My name is Greg, and I have twenty nine dollars, my Mom says it is a lot of money!" She smiled "Why yes, it is.n What kind of account do you want to open?" She cooed cloyingly. "Savings." My Mother said. "Fine." She said and she took my bag and went to another counter behind the one I was at. At that counter was another lady at another wicket. My bank lady pointed at me and laughed. The other lady was laughing too. They opened the bag and spread the rolls of coin on the counter. They opened the envelope with my silver dollars in it. The lady filled out a long piece of paper and brought it over to my Mother. Mom wrote on it and signed her name. She got me to sign my name. she gave the paper back to the lady who walked over to the other counter. The lady there gave her a small blue book. She inserted the blue book into a typewriter of some kind and the machine made a noise and the lady behind the counter took the book and stamped it. Then the lady came back. She opened the blue book to the first page and handed it to me. "There you are." She cooed "Twenty nine dollars." I looked at the page. It did say twenty nine dollars and it had the date. The book had a stiff cover that felt like leather. The cover had an elongated slot in it and a number printed on the first page was visible through the slot even when the cover was closed. My Mother took the book and thanked the lady. I waved and she waved back a lot longer than she should have, I thought. I looked back after we had left and she was talking to the other lady and they both were laughing. I was a bit stunned I wasn't really sure what had just happened. We left the bank and did some shopping.
That night when Dad got home my Mother said "Tell your Father what you did today." I turned to him a little unsure of what to say. "I gave my twenty nine dollars away to a lady at the K-Mart." I said. "Well not exactly. You put your twenty nine dollars in the bank." she corrected. "Oh, yeah." I said. "So you are a rich man!" My dad said picking me up and squeezing me. His whiskers warm on my cheek. He had five o'clock shadow by three o'clock, my Dad. I loved it when he picked us up like that. I loved the feel of his whiskers on my soft cheeks. Supper was a while away so I looked in his lunchbox to see if he had left any goodies. He always left me something, even if it was a lukewarm bologna sandwich.
"Hey Mom, tomorrow I want to go back to the bank and see my silver dollars!" "You can't do that." My Mother said. "Why not?" I asked, with some trepidation. "Well they won't have your silver dollars anymore." "I thought the lady said I could take my money out when I wanted it?" "Your money yes, but not the actual coins that you gave them." "But what about the silver dollars Mrs. Lynn gave me?" "Someone else will have those." My Mother said. She was smiling. I wasn't. "BUT I want MY silver dollars!" "Well you can get other dollars but not those same dollars." It had never occurred to me that those silver dollars and fifty cent pieces I had given them would not be there when I went back. In my mind I had imagined that there were hundreds of drawers and each person's money was put in a separate drawer and when you went back they opened your drawer and gave you back your money. I had no idea that someone else, some total stranger would be walking out of the bank with my silver dollars. My perfect attendance silver dollars. The ones that still had the tape marks on them where Mrs Lynn had taped them to the card before she had called me up, in front of the whole entire school to get them. And folks to this day, I have never gotten those silver dollars back. They are gone. Gone even surer than they were in the Colonel's belly. I can't even get a knife and cut open the bank and get them back. Another faceless victim of the huge, faceless heartless financial institutions who eat up poor people like me and spit them out. I saw visions of those two tellers laughing as I walked away. They knew what was to come, that's why they were laughing. Oh they knew all right...

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

Building a Fire

You have to remember it was the seventies. We were a generation hot on the heels of the sixties rebellion against the established order. Nixon had brought the world's mightiest government into question. Authority everywhere was suspect. We, the youth were more distrustful than our parents generation, which had been raised in time of war or depression or at least in the stability and conformism of the fifties. Then came JFK's assassination and Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King. Vietnam, Mi Lai, the quiet revolution the FLQ crisis. We were supposed to be jaded and cynical. This is what was happening around us. This was our prologue. Yet we were young, and optimistic. Yes John Kennedy had been killed in Dallas, but not the dream that was Camelot. Not the hope that was Trrudeau-mania. If the world was not perfect it seemed to be a better place. The depression was over, tyrannies had fallen. It still seemed possible that things would be better for our generation than they had been for our Fathers'.

In 1976 I was one year away from graduating High School. Prince Andrew High School in Dartmouth Nova Scotia, to be exact. . One year away from going our separate way. To university and college for some, to trade school and work for others. All of us were facing the world of adulthood. We were one year away from leaving the relative comfort of the only world we had ever known, the world of the hallways of public school. Friends, some of whom we had known all our school careers and some even longer would be scattered to the four corners of the earth. With promises to keep in touch, that were well meant but never kept. Gone too would be our teachers. Good riddance to some. Fond farewell to others. But for now there was one year left. Our final year.

There was still the grade twelve courses to choose. I loved history and there was never any doubt that I would take history in grade twelve. The only thing that remained was which teacher I would be assigned. Unlike University, in High school you don't pick your teacher unless they are the only one who teaches that subject. I resigned myself to the fact that I would have whoever was chosen for me. I was fond of my grade eleven history teacher. A man named Gordon Watson. He was different. He made history even more fun. Not just for me I love it anyways. But for other students, students who normally hated the subject because they thought it cold and boring. It was late in the year and I was sitting in the class, secure in the fact that I had an exemption. Soon I would be enjoying a free class while the rest of these plebes studied for exams. Mr. Watson read a list of names. As he read each name he made some snide remark and then bid them each a genuine farewell. The list was alphabetical, so I bided my time as my name is at the end of the alphabet. However, soon he had read the W's and finished. He settled in to the class and proceeded with the course material and what was to be on the exam. I was dumbfounded. I had aced every test, gotten A's on all the assignments. Had I missed something? How in heck had I missed an exemption. My face must have been a mask of confusion and disappointment. I was too shy to put my hand up. My world had screeched to a halt things seemed to be spinning off in space. I looked around the room. The door had long closed after the last of the exemptees had left. Mr. Watson was pacing the center aisle with his notes in hand as he always did. He passed my desk on the way to the back of the sunlit class. He spun on his heel and started back toward the front of the class. I was still reeling. He paused and looked down. A look of devilish glee on his face. A smile from ear to ear. "Oh yeah," he said slyly, motioning over his right shoulder with his thumb "take a hike. You are exempt too!" I shot from my desk as the class howled with laughter. "I couldn't resist it Greg you looked too smug! Have a great summer! You taking 312 in the fall?" "312?" I stopped in mid stride. "Yeah Local studies you'd be perfect for it!" "You bet." I said leaving the class. I was ecstatic, a chance to keep Mr Watson as my teacher was something I couldn't resist.

Local studies was something new a kind of advanced history course based on primary research. "The kind you'll do in College." Mr. Watson said, when I button holed him in the Hall after school. "How can you be so sure I'll go to college?" I asked. "If you don't it'll be a waste, you love this stuff as much as I do!" There could be little doubt that he loved what he did. It oozed from every pore of him. The way his voice rose as he spoke, the way his step quickened as he paced. I was tired of teachers who were putting in time. Using their tenure to max out their sick days. Counting the years to pensioned bliss. There was none of that with Gordon. He didn't just tolerate my questions when I hung back after class. He answered than with questions. "Why not look into this?" he would say suggesting an alternate explanation to my queries. Making me work for an answer he could have given. It might have been a cop out you might think. Why not a straight answer that would have taken a few seconds? Because he knew that someday he wouldn't be there to answer the next question. Teaching is not about filling a young person's head with knowledge. William Butler Yeats put it best "Education is not the filling of a bucket. It is the building of a fire." I think he saw in me a spark of that fire. I think he saw a kindred spirit.
History 312 was magic. We did a survey of the oldest cemetery in Halifax. We visited Cape Breton and went to the Alexander Graham Bell Museum in Baddeck. We went down in a coal mine in Glace bay. We went to Fortress Louisbourg. We built a float for the Joseph Howe Parade. For you heathens who were not blessed by being born on the sacred hallowed ground of Nova Scotia, Joe Howe was a Father of Confederation, former Premier of Nova Scotia and the man who won freedom of the press in Canada. We won first prize for that float for the non commercial category. We won because we did it with vigor and elan. Some teachers might have thought that our time would have been better spent on books and reading about history. Not a bit! I remember the jubilation I felt when going through an old copy of one of Joe Howe's columns, I came across the quote than was on the side of our float. "That Nova Scotia shall have a free and unshackled press!"
There was the project I started about the West Nova Scotia Regiment. I found the original roster of the regiment in the archives. My Dad had served in the regiment in the Second World War. I had encountered a roadblock as the archives of the military units are open only to members of the Armed Forces or by special permission. I consulted Mr Watson. "Why not call them?" "I'm researching there past not their present." I said. "Call them ." He said simply. I did. I found out that the unit is now a militia unit. I explained my inquiry to the secretary that answered. "The Commander is at work right now." she explained. I was staggered to think he had a regular job. He called me back the next night. He was delighted to help. He invited me to spend the weekend with them at their headquarters in the Annapolis valley. I had a great weekend playing soldier and eating at the officers mess. I got exclusive access to primary documents, like a receipt the unit had for the first German Soldier captured in WW2 by a Canadian unit. The Colonel was delighted to know that the original roster for the regiment still existed. He had never heard of it. I got him a low light photocopy. Some of the men in the unit had the same names as some of the men on the roster form the 1700's. The fire in me burned a little brighter. "Uncle Gordy" as we called him was delighted with my work. "I told you!" he gloated.
I am writing this by way of telling "Uncle Gordy" thanks. Thanks for lighting a fire in me and so many other students over so many other years. For it is a mighty fire. A fire that will burn down walls of ignorance. A fire that will clear the fields of our minds of old stubble and clear the way for new growth. A fire that cleanses. A fire that radiates and warms. I should have told him in person. I would have if I had run into him on my trips to Nova Scotia over the years. I shouldn't have left it to chance. I should have looked him up and told him face to face. Woulda shoulda coulda... The point is moot now. Uncle Gordy passed away this week. Way too soon. He should have had a long and happy retirement. He deserved it. Yeats was right education is the building of a fire. There are too many teachers out there filling buckets. When you meet one that lights your fire, tell them, please. I know it's too late, but thanks Gordon.

Thanks for the light....

Sunday, February 15, 2009

Cottage Cheese

Fly Fishing, that most sacred art. To be practiced by only the most privileged anglers. When I was young I imagined it was the domain of men is tweeds and plus fours. Certainly not the purview of clay footed mortals like me. I was a bait fisherman, a meat fisherman through and through. My father never really did fly fish, though he kept a few in his tackle box. He too was a bait man. I never thought I would join the ranks of the initiated. Then one day the fellow who delivered the milk for the restaurant where I worked showed me some trout flies he had bought. I marveled over the tiny things, so small, so perfect. "You're a fly fisherman? " I asked. Taken aback by my tone he replied "Yeah, why?" "Nothing, I just have always wanted to learn. Can you teach me?" It was soon resolved that I would meet him that Saturday in the parking lot of the Volunteer Fire Department in Chezzetcook N.S.

We fished all day in some beautiful local streams. He landed a few beauties. I got nothing. I thrashed the water and spooked the trout for a thousand mile radius. Even if the fish weren't hooked, I was. I am sure that Roderick Haig Brown was rolling in his grave. I had borrowed gear for my first trip. I soon purchased a few items and was given others. I planned my next trip by myself. Armed with five dollars worth of flies from K-Mart I headed for a lake I have favored for some time in the same area as we had fished the week before.

The day was magic. I borrowed my Dad's chest waders, two sizes too small. My feet were cramped and throbbing but I was so enraptured I scarcely noticed. I had a great morning several fish rose to my dry fly but I managed to spook them or snatch the fly from there mouth. In the afternoon I switched to wet flies. I tied on a pattern called a McGinty that imitates a bumble bee as there were lots around. Folks I would like to tell you that my first trout on a fly was taken with the classic cast, the snap of the line with the fly settling on the water. The slow measured stroke of the retrieve. The tug as trout sipped my cunning fly gently offered in the classic fashion you see in early watercolors. Rod arched net proffered. I would like to tell you this good reader, but I cannot. Even the fisherman in me could not polish the lump of coal that was my first victory of man over beast into a diamond. It was rather a comedy of errors that broke the ice for me. Mark you, I was alone and I could have used my poetic licence to paint a prettier picture, but it would probably be revoked.

It happened shortly after lunch. I had an eventful morning and was determined to break the ice. I waded a good distance from shore. I worked the line out swishing it in a great arc over my head. Ten and two was what I had been told, but the line was doing more of a nine and three, slapping the water on each movement of the line, whipping up a foam on the still May waters of the placid lake. Behind me was a huge Birch tree it's majestic limbs stretched out over the lake, reflected in it's crystal waters. I felt my line touch a limb on the back cast. Fearing I had snagged my line I let it drop to the water behind me. Instantly my line went taut. Instinctively I raised my rod tip. A trout broke the water. My pulse raced. I turned and began reeling in line. As I had been mid cast there was a considerable amount of loose line and it was bellied to the water. As my rod shook it wrapped around my rod and the line came to a halt. The fish swam away from shore, toward me. The line went slack. I was going to lose him! I dropped my rod and grabbed the line where it came from the tip. I began to walk toward the fish hauling in line hand over hand. When I had taken up the slack I was delighted to feel the pulse of the fish at the other end of the line. I hauled him in hand over hand and held him proudly. A beauty of fifteen inches about three quarters of a pound. I looked around the lake which was dotted with cottages. No one stirred. I had gotten away with it. My first trout on a fly! Not pretty but hey, who was to know. Well, you, now. I slid him into my creel and retrieved my rod. As the afternoon wore on I got better and so did my score by the end of the day I had caught eight and released five. I had raised and lost quite a few too. My McGinty was just a couple pieces of twisted yarn barely attached to the hook. The more ragged it became the more bites I got.

Sometime later I learned to tie flies. I learned from a book with some advice from tackle shop owners. I am sure I drove some of them crazy with my naive questions. One day in the following spring I was standing in the hallway outside my philosophy class. I had removed a small aluminum fly box from my pocket and was showing my buddy Larry some flies I had tied. Among them were some McGinty pattern. He held the box in his hand turning it to the light as the Professor walked by. He stopped. He held out his hand. Larry passed him the box. He too held the flies to the light. "McGinty's , eh?" "Yes." I replied, "You fish?" "Oh yes my boy , in fact I love this pattern. It works great at the lake where I have my cottage." "Where would that be?" I asked, half expecting him not to tell me. "Big Mill Lake, in Chezzetcook. Do you know it?" "Know it? I replied."I caught my first trout on a fly in that very lake! On that very pattern! It's why I tie them." "There's a deep pool just in front of that huge Birch tree." "I know it!"I replied "It's my favorite spot!" "Well don't spread that around. My cottage is the green one on that little point." I smiled. "Ah, it is all clear to me now! I had always wondered about the crooked sign on the gate to your property." He returned my smile warmly. "My little piece of paradise! Who else but a Philosopher would give his cottage such a name. The perfect place for a thinker to take a break." He left us and headed to the dais. I closed the fly box and returned it to my pocket. As I started in the door Larry became animated. "Hey, what's the deal? What;'s the name of his little piece of paradise?"



"Moot Point!" I replied.

Saturday, February 14, 2009

And the bait goes on...

In the world of fishermen there is a hierarchy. On the top of the heap are the fly fishermen, wading streams in designer hip waders from LL Bean. Waving featherlight rods eight feet long that cost a month's wages for a working man. They cast delicate flies onto swirling waters to be greeted with a splashy rise of some beutiful jeweled trout.

Then there are the aficionados of lures and plugs, terminal tackle to use the vernacular. They ply the waters with shiny metal spoons or brightly painted pieces of wood or plastic. They carry tackle boxes the size of suitcases full of neon rubber jigs. They spend thousands on every imaginable device to tempt a bass, perch, or pike.

On the bottom of the pecking order are the bait fishermen. They chuck simple hooks, on which is skewered a worm or minnow,beetle or leech. Something juicy and tempting. I am a charter member of this fraternity. In fact I am a legacy; my father and his father before him were also bait fishermen of some renown. I learned the ropes at their feet.
n fact the gathering of the bait was part of the magical process of getting ready for our weekly fishing trips. Truth be told the process was as much fun, or sometimes even more fun than the trip itself. For in the planning is the concept of the trip. It is the sine qua non, the ne plus ultra of fishing trips. While preparing the trip we build the trip in our minds. We paint it stroke by stroke like some massive canvas. Every cloud is light and fluffy every trout rises to our hook. The very trail rises to meet us. The fish bite and the flies don't. What follows is reality, a flat tire, running out of bug dope. Rain. The fish don't bite. That is reality. But the worst day fishing really is better than the best day at work.

For my Dad and I gathering bait meant a trip down the eastern shore for minnows. This necessitated a twenty minute drive along some of the prettiest roads in eastern Canada. We would look for the hand painted signs, a piece of cardboard in the case of the johnny come lately bait guys. A tired looking plywood affair for the seasoned veterans of the bait world. "Always look for the oldest tiredest looking sign." my Dad said. "They will be back next year, they won't cheat you!" He had a favorite and we always went there first. The guy was short and stocky. He kept his minnows in an old coke cooler. He dipped them out onto an old window screen and asked what size you wanted then he quickly scooped out more minnows packed the chosen ones in tobacco cans filled with dry leaves. They would stay alive for another two days. He usually had worms too, if we didn't have any in our garden we would buy them too. Night crawlers were extra. The deal sealed, hands shook and luck wished, we headed back home to pack.

On this one particular trip there were just the three of us. Me, Dad and Dad's best friend John, with whom he had fished for over fifty years. We left home in the wee hours, long before dawn broke. Dew still clung to the windshield and I would wipe it off while Dad started the car. We drove the half hour or so to Johnny's house. He met us in the driveway, with his pack at his feet. We took our gear out of the trunk and started the seven mile walk that would take us back to the lake.One of the things I like about heading back into the bush is that all you need and all you have to rely on is on you back. I suppose that it could be said that we did have some things at the camp, but all food, except trout we brought with us. This creates scarcity. It also makes you value the things you have with you. Often they are simple things. It takes you back to your roots. It strips away the dependency on society and makes you a creature like the other creatures that wander the forest. You cease to be apart from nature and you become a part of nature. You are a self contained unit dependant for survival on what you have with you.

What we had with us was considerable. Dad and Johnny carried homemade packs the size of a bar fridge. I always marveled at what they carried in these massive one compartment canvas boxes. The straps were old seat belts. Everything went in there from spare clothes to food and fishing gear. Johnny could reach into his massive pack, the third day out on a long weekend trip and pull some home made treat his wife Lottie had prepared. My pack was tiny by comparison, it was my Dad's army pack, it had 1942 stamped into the flap. My spare clothes, toiletries, and rain gear. A pair of runners hung from the strap. They come in handy after a long day wearing rubber boots. My fishing tackles was carried outside my backpack in a respirator bag identical to the one my dad used for his tackle. I had bought it in a surplus store. Over my other shoulder I carried the creel which held the bait for the trip in.

This particular trip had gone well. We had some trout to take home. We had some more in our bellies after a couple of shore lunches. We always carried a bag of "Fixins". with us. This was a mixture of flour, salt, pepper and corn meal, with some secret spices in it for dredging the trout in after they had been splashed with some canned milk. Fried in a cast iron pan the size of a hubcap, whose handle had been broken off many decades ago, they tasted wonderful. The weather had been beautiful, something that was never guaranteed in Hants County. The lake ran north south and wind could whip up in minutes and trap you in the south end of the lake. But on this May weekend the weather was picture postcard perfect. Maybe even a bit too good for trout fishing. Brookies are shy and like a little overcast. The fishing had been good and for every one we landed there were the inevitable two that got away. With the bait. Remember I mentioned scarcity? The bait was running low. and there was still half a day of daylight left. I had baited my hook with my last worm and threw it out into the dark waters of the lake, whose waters were the color of strong tea. As I began my retrieve I had a sudden hit, my line shook violently left and right. I raised my rod tip only to feel the fish slip away. With my bait! I reeled in my line, staring blankly at the bare hook. What now?

Desperate, I rummaged through my tackle bag. There were; snelled hooks, floats, a few flies, bug dope, leaders, spinners and a couple of metal spoons. "How about this?" I said holding a gaudy metal lure aloft. It turned in my hand on the built in swivel. It was hard to tell which was brighter the gaudy neon paint or the highly polished nickel chrome metal side. "GOOD GOD, boy!" piped Johnny "You'll scare everything away for three lakes in every direction." "I don't think those things work on trout, maybe dumber fish like bass or perch!" My dad added. "Well it's either this or I stand here twiddling my thumbs!" I said testily. "Well alright, son.But walk out to the point and fish in that direction."

"Ever catch anything on one of those lures John?" Dad said. " Nah, I don't place much stock in them." Johnny replied. I took up my new position. I hooked the lure to my line and determined to make the best of it. I regarded it as a challenge. I was the representative of the next generation. Sure the old ways were good but I would be the champion of the new way. I am sure that lots of research had gone into this lure, choosing the right color, testing the shape in a wind tunnel. Surely science would conquer all. I would make converts of Dad and johnny, soon they would be begging me to use the other lures in my bag.

I made a monstrous cast, the lure sailed out over the water. After allowing it time to sink I begam my retrieve. Slow and steady. The lure was just becoming visible on the edge of the granite shelf that stuck out into the lake at my feet when he hit. Hard. My rod bucked I let out a cry. There was only a few feet of line left to play him on. I watched as he tore at the hook. I raised the rod to set the hook and was so excited I lifted the trout clear out of the water he skittered across the rock and to my horror came off the treble hook. I made a diving tackle that sent me, rod and trout flying. I clutched him to my chest and we rolled across the rock, stopping just short of the water. "Hold on to him, boy!" shouted Johnny. "Nice one, son!" Dad said/ I stood up wiping the slime from my shirt. He was a beauty about twelve inches and half a pound. A keeper.

I lay him on the rock to admire him. "First cast!:" I yelled. "With the new lure!" It was then that I noticed the tail of a minnow coming out of the mouth of the trout. I gently pulled on it and a three inch shiner slid out of the trout's mouth. As it did a two inch chunk of night crawler slid out too. "Hey dad! Look at this he had a minnow and a worm in his mouth and he still took the lure, pretty good , eh?" Dad and Johnny jumped up, obviously they were impressed. They came straight for where I was standing. "Worm, eh?" Dad said. "Minnow too?" added John. "Yep! and he still took the lure." I was beaming. Dad and Johnny did not seem to notice. Dad scooped the worm and put it on his hook. Johnny took the minnow and they both went back to fishing.

Soon they both had trout of there own. Caught with the bait they had filched from me. "You just can't beat the old ways can you?" Dad said to Johnny. "I'll never get used to those new metal things. Better off with a minnow."

Nervous, Rex?

Stress kills. It's a terrible thing that builds up in layers like varnish or old paint. Flaking off and making you look and feel old and tired. When I need to shed a few layers of the stuff I put rod in hand and head to the wooded shores of some beautiful lake or stream. Beautiful lake or stream? I don't think I know an ugly one. I do however know a few that are even more beautiful than others like a slightly larger or better faceted diamond. Sometimes I go alone. I can and have spent days in the bush by myself, even in the wilds of northern Alberta or the NWT. Usually with rod or gun, my trusty dog and always my camera. Often too I go with my friends. Not just any friends either. Sportsmen have friends and they have fishing or hunting buddies. They are often quite different groups although usually they overlap.


Years ago while working for McDonald's one of my best friends John and I decided to take a stress day and head out into the bush and do a bit of fishing. Just the two of us. We fished together many times and the trips when there was just the two of us would be serious fishing trips. That is to say that the purpose of the trip would be to put line in water and catch fish. Any fish, depending on the season. Early season would be trout, brook trout, beautiful chunky little things eight to fourteen inches. one half to two ponders usually (more of the former than the latter). We also went for small mouth bass, at the height of their season in late May, they were marvelous. Possibly the Best fighting sport fish ounce for ounce. Caught on 4 pound test ultra light spin cast rods they rival Pike and Walleye for flat out adrenaline pumping action. But we would fish for anything.


Sometimes we were joined by others, and depending on the mix of the group the nature of the trip would change. Sometimes the beer and the carrying on overtook the fishing but always it was enjoyable, just different. So it was that John and I happened to be sitting in the break room discussing the logistics of the trip. Where were we going, to catch what? Whose car? Who was bringing the bait and what kind? If we were bringing beer who was bringing the beer? When were we leaving? Truth be told I think I love the planning and preparation as much as the trip itself. Sometimes even more. While we were talking people were coming and going as shifts changed. We were coming off shift others were going on. Soon Mark was leaning over the table. "Going fishing eh? Count me in!" he said, thumping the table. Mark was a lot of fun and he was always welcome. Peter who was on our shift was staying late to cover for someone who had called in sick. "Fishing? Whooo Hooo!" I'm in! Don't matter what for or where I'm in!" Good a car full. This was the perfect size group for fishing. Only one vehicle, not too big a group everyone can find a good spot to fish. Perfect.


Perfect has a way of not staying perfect. Suddenly out of nowhere, appeared Dave and Kevin. "What's up boy's? You guys planning something?" "Fishing!" Mark expounded, before he noticed my finger go to my lips. "YES SIR!" Shouted Kevin. "I'm bringing the beer! You can drive'" He said looking at Dave. Things were getting complicated. "All right!" I said a trifle testily. "Six is enough." No sooner were the words out of my mouth when Rex walked in. Rex was the boss. In theory his shift should have been over hours ago but here he was still in his shirt and tie. His wife Carol was with him. "Did I miss a staff meeting?" he said cheerily as he entered the room. "Fishing!" shouted Mark. "We're going fishing!" John and I shot a glance at each other. Things were rapidly spiralling out of control. Carol dug an elbow into Rex's ribs. "You should go fishing! You never take a day off!" It was true. Rex was a workaholic of the first order. He was the first one there in the morning and very often the last one out at night. He looked like a workaholic. He was rail thin, with a nervous laugh and quick movements. He smoked constantly. He never stood still. He had never struck me as a fisherman. "Right!" said Rex ""I'm in!" John and I were staring at each other eyes wide. In a matter of minutes the details were worked out. We would meet the next morning way before dawn for the forty minute drive. to a lovely little lake.


I picked John up a few minutes before the appointed time. We got a drive through coffee. We had our favorite fishing duds on. In the parking lot of the restaurant the others were waiting. We split the load between two cars. The drive was pleasant enough, we were headed east but the sun had not even risen when we reached the road to the lake. We parked the cars and took the ten minute walk to the lake. We formed quite the procession as we headed through the bush which was still wet with the dew. The boys in front held back the branches and let them fly, soaking the guys behind. There was general merriment and cavorting. We exchanged insults. Somebody farted. Everyone blamed everyone. Rex looked chagrined. A huge branch caught him in the chest. His windbreaker was soaked. Suddenly there was an uncomfortable silence. "Sorry!" Said Mark, the most boisterous of us all. Rex brushed the water from his chest picking a leaf from his lapel. We reached the lake. We spread out along the shore. Everyone filed past the cooler that held the beer, everyone that is except Rex. There was the sound of six beers being cracked at once. "It isn't even 6 am.!" Rex said in a disdainful tone. "Yeah," said Mark "This might be a record!" "Hey, get off my rock!" Someone shouted there was a bit of good natured pushing as we spread out in a line along the shore. We limbered our rods, lines were being cast. I watched Rex, he seemed not to know how to cast his rod. "New rod?" I asked. "Yeah. I got it for Christmas. Three years ago. Never used it." "Three years ago?" I replied " Holy Cow, Rex you really should get out more." He snapped on a lure and drew his rod back. He brought it forward in a mighty arc, but did not take his finger off the line. There was a mighty crack and the lure sailed fifty rads out into the lake with a splash that broke the morning calm. "Great cast, boss!" Mark added cheerily. "That" I replied "Was not a cast, his line broke!" "You're telling me!" Rex replied "That lure cost me $2.59 not to mention the swivel. They're 3 for a dollar." "So $2.92" John added with not a small amount of sarcasm in his voice. "No, John, that's $3.13 with tax! I will be taking a closer look at your inventories." John seemed to shrink. Rex was the kind of guy who knew what he paid for everything even at work. He would say, "Hey watch those drink lids, they cost $3.22 per hundred you know." In fact I did not know. Unlike Rex I did not memorize the prices in the food catalogue. Rex was one of these guys who , to steal a line from Oscar Wilde, knew the price of everything and the value of nothing.



I took his rod and his small tackle box which held only a few measly items. I tied a new swivel and a new lure. "Tie it good I can't afford to keep losing lures." Rex said. I shivered. I checked the knot twice. "Here, let me make the first cast, you retrieve it." This he did, retrieving the line so fast that no fish known to man could have caught up with it. He made a successful cast and then retrieved this the same way. When the line hit the rod tip the second time he said something I couldn't even comprehend. "There's nothing in this lake let's go!" "I haven't even made my first cast!" I replied. "No one is getting anything!" he added. "Well we've just opened beers so let us finish them first." I glanced at John, he looked at me with eyes wide. He looked stressed. I felt stressed. Normally about this time I would be sloughing off layers of stress like a Boa Constrictor shedding skin. John lit a smoke, his hands were shaking. I made my first cast and took a sip of beer. My line slid effortlessly through the guides of my rod and landed perfectly where I wanted it too. There's a deep spot there that always seems to hold trout. No sooner had I started my retrieve when I felt the familiar shaking strike. I raised my rod tip and my voice at the same time. "I got one!" I cried. Then Rex raised his voice "Me too!" he cried. At first I was elated. I figured if he caught something he would relax. Then my heart sank, his line was over top of mine. He had a fish alright, only it was mine! "We're tangled." I said, my voice full of despair. "Let me take your rod Boss" John added. Rex handed him the rod. "Don't lose my lure." Rex scolded. John winced. John has a deft touch and is an expert at unraveling lines. We reeled in together but the lines were hopelessly tangled and soon my trout had spit the hook. We got the lines in and cut mine so we could save Rex's lure. "There, your $3.13 is safe." he added handing Rex his rod. Actually this one cost $3.79 so that's $4.40" John gave me a stunned glance. He was visibly shaking now. I retied my line and cast again. Not far off I heard Mark cry with delight. "I got one!" his rod tip bent and his reel sang. Soon he had a dandy trout on the shore. "Hey!'He's bleeding from the corner of the mouth must be the one you lost!" "I lost!" I bit my lip. Rex piped up again. "That's it this lake is fished out let's move." We all looked at each other. We hadn't been here half an hour. The first streaks of dawn were just paling the sky.


By now everyone was eyeing Rex. They all had a hint of impatience in their eyes that I had never seen there on a fishing trip before. Usually the mood was light, the jibes were friendly and jovial. This group was beginning to look like they would take each others heads off. I could feel a knot in my neck that was tightening by the minute.



I gritted my teeth and tried to make the best of it. "How about a cup of of Joe?" I said to break the ice. A cheer went up so I built a fire and dragged out my cowboy coffee pot a blue enamel peculator that has seen many a campfire. Soon the smell of good strong coffee filled the air. The guys put aside their beer and we enjoyed a hot cup. The chatter lightened and the boys returned to fishing.


Rex made a cast as I put the coffee pot away, In mid retrieve his line stopped. I knew it was not a bite. Right away he was reefing on the line the rod bent double. "You've caught the biggest thing in the lake!" I cried. "The bottom!" the rest of the guys chimed in unison like a well rehearsed choir. They had been fishing with me many times and had heard the joke before, many, many times. Rex didn't seem impressed and he definitely wasn't laughing. "John!" I cried and John took Rex's rod and gently tried his magic on it. "It's hopeless." he whispered, nudging me. "Great! " I moaned. I broke the news to Rex. "We'll have to cut the line." "The hell we do!" stormed Rex. He sat down, took off his boots and waded out to where his line was stuck and retrieved that hook. He returned with it held over his head in triumph.



A few more casts and he was ready to move again. This time we all filed to the vehicles. Heads down. John seemed to be shaking worse than ever, the knot in my neck was the size of a baseball. We drove to a nearby stream and again the boys spread out, some on the bridge some on the banks. Lines were crossing like crazy. Tempers were fraying. Hardly anyone was getting even a bite, it seemed that the mere presence of Rex and his impatience was casting a pall over the whole trip. Soon we moved again. We stopped for lurch at the shore of a lake that had an actual beach. We cut hot dog sticks and roasted wieners. We broke out ketchup packages to season the roasted franks. "Hey, these are our ketchup packets. These cost seven tenths of a cent!" Rex said. " Each!"Everyone looked at each other. We always took a few packets with us when we went fishing we never even gave it a thought. We ate in silence.



The afternoon didn't get any better. Rex did catch a fish. Which was good. I was skunked and so was John. It was almost a relief when the sun began to set over the last of many fishing holes we had visited. I was almost running out of new places to fish. We filed to the cars and mercifully Rex was going back in the other car. I drove white knuckled to the city, slowly shedding the boys as we went. I dropped them off in silence. Usually there would be cheery good byes and derogatory remarks about who was the best fisherman. John was the last one I dropped off. He looked at me exhausted. "I feel like I just got off a very long shift!" " No kidding." I replied. The knot in my neck was the size of a grapefruit. "See you tomorrow!"



We were on night shift the next day. We met at the staff room at around four pm. The gang was filing in for work. "The next time we go fishing..." John said, his finger raised like my fifth grade teacher making a point. "don't breathe a word of it until we are alone." "Fair enough!" I replied "These walls have ears." Just then Carol, Rex's wife burst into the room. She had her coat on. "We are just on our way out for dinner!" She said cheerily. "Dinner, Rex?" both John and I said in stunned unison. "Yes, he's like a changed man. He even slept through the whole night last night. He never does that. Fishing is so relaxing! You must take him again next time you boys go!" She turned on her heel and was gone. John's lip was trembling, I rubbed my neck. "Yeah, very relaxing!" I said.