Got One!

Yesterday, I caught a fish while casting my rod from the dock. Immediately I panicked. No Big Guy to take it off the hook for me. Worse yet, I didn’t have my camera to prove I caught it by myself. Putting on my Big Girl panties (a Candy Squared saying), I grabbed the good-sized bass, yanked its fish lip free of the hook and threw it back. I can hardly wait to catch another one.  

While Big Guy sparked my recent interest in fishing, my grandmother “Forwee,” which in the South comes out said as “Fa-wee,” was the first to take me fishing on Clark Hill Lake. Once each summer, Forwee would capitulate to a grandchild’s plea and load 5-7 youngsters into the ski boat.

In the big water outside the cove, Forwee anchored the boat. Then she handed each of us a long cane pole baited with a minnow and issued her standard reminder:  Watch the red and white bobber and don’t drop the pole. Ten minutes later, two of us would yell “Got one!” Turns out, 10 minutes is about how long it takes for two minnows to find each other and wind their fishing lines together. Sometimes, more than two lines would tangle, which really got the boat yelling.

With lines untangled and hooks freshly baited, the excitement of fishing quickly died. Maybe one of us would catch a sunfish or a small crappie. More often than not, we evolved into bored, hot and hungry whiners. Our fishing trip would end. Back at the dock, we jumped in the water. Forwee pulled minnows off poles, stashed poles high in the dock rafters and put away the tackle box. All without much in the way of thanks, or help.

A saner adult would not have taken a bunch of impatient kids fishing armed with cane poles and sharp hooks. But I’m lucky to say, Forwee was my grandmother. She wanted each and every grandkid to love lake life in all its glory. And I do, especially when the fish bite.

Soldier's Brand

At Fort Campbell, KY, Gunner prepares for his fifth tour in a war zone. A branded cross marks his right shin. A brand. Not a tattoo. Gunner's Mom, a rural Tennessee mountain of a woman, works as a home health care aide.

On Tuesday, my mother was one of her many charges. Mom is recovering from a knee replacement. I didn't expect to have much interaction with Gunner's Mom. But she works carefully and makes the time to talk with families. 

That's how the brand came up. Five years ago, in a war zone, Gunner scratched a cross with "Jesus Saves" into the door of a Humvee. A week later, an enemy combatant blew up the vehicle as it traveled with a full crew including Gunner. 

The blast mangled Gunner's right thigh and propelled him to the ground. Munitions inside the Humvee caught fire and exploded causing the red-hot, cross-etched door to burst free. It landed on Gunner. The cross he made then seared into his flesh, just inches below his wound.

In Germany, doctors patched Gunner together. Surgeons at Walter Reed Army Hospital rebuilt Gunner's thigh with a titanium rod. His mother says, Jesus kept him from losing his leg with its cross. The medical care made him well enough to go back to where he wanted to be, in the war zone. 

Gunner's Mom explains: Gunner believes that soldiers are all that stands between America's sworn enemies and civilians. And soldiering is in his blood. Though she also thinks the Army brainwashes its young soldiers so they won't quit.

The emotions run deep in Gunner's Mom. Others were less fortunate when the Humvee exploded. Gunner pulled one soldier friend--on fire--from the wreck. He survived with 85 percent of his body burned.

And there's the dead lieutenant. Sitting near the front of the Humvee, in an instant she became the 90th female solider killed in that war. She was the commanding officer and Gunner's friend, notes his mom.

Mother to mother, she keeps in touch with the lieutenant's mother, who lives five states away in Colorado.

"She is not doing well," says Gunner's Mom. "In the summer, she has horses to take care for and can get outside.  In the winter, when it gets cold and with all that snow, it's hard."

An Inquiring Mind

Birdie and Big Guy think I ask too many questions. But that's how they and I learned Crown Candy Kitchen deep-fries 300 pounds of bacon per day--10 pounds at a time with the grease changed after every 80 pounds--and that there's a dedicated fry person.

Candy Squared had it on her bucket list to visit Crown Candy Kitchen while in town for Birdie's graduation. In her memory, Big Guy, Birdie, Sis, Sis-in-law and I made the journey for her, which as we plowed through mammoth BLT sandwiches, brought up the discussion of how Crown Candy could possibly produce enough superbly crisp bacon to satisfy the 90% of customers (my estimate) who go for their world famous, heart-stopping concoction.

It's amazing what can be discovered by asking a question. For example, I found out where not to go for a tattoo. While Birdie was shopping for prom dresses, we stopped by a shop where someone she knew from school worked. They were talking over the dilemna of how to have a tattoo either "show" or "not show," as a tattoo cut in half is not a pretty sight. The clerk said she had selected a dress that didn't show her recently acquired tattoo.

Being a question asker, I asked about the tattoo. Shop Girl pulled up her shirt to show off a honking big, vertical scripted 'no regrets' running down her side.

"It's bigger than I thought it would be," said Shop Girl, "But I really like it. "

"Wow," I said, "Where did you get it?"

"I went with my ex-boy friend to a shop he knows off Kingshighway. I got a discount."

Birdie purchased her prom dress from another place on another day. She chose an empire-waisted pomegrante and tangerine gown. Prom night, Birdie looked incredibly beautiful and self-possessed, inside and out. But then again, dress that girl in rags and she'd still look that way to me. And for the record, in case you want to ask, Birdie's prom dress covered her tattoo.

Daisy Skype

Daisy is in the Dominican Republic. But Skype keeps her close. She pops up on the computer screen. Already I've met--and chatted with--the Big Sis of Daisy's host family. And what I see on Skype confirms that it is really hot in the DR. Daisy's hair curls in tight humid circles around her face. And the fan is blowing. Daisy speaks longingly of showers even as she fills me in on what she and her new friends, and her borrowed family, are planning. And I am so glad to see her, to know that she's o.k. Thank you Skype for keeping Daisy as close as the laptop propped open on my lap tonight, even as she grows into a world citizen two time zones and many latitudes away.

Already Missing Daisy

One-half of the dining room table is covered with Daisy clothing. A neatly laid line of Daisy shoes sits underneath the table edge. In less than 24 hours, all of that stuff, and Daisy too, will be in the Dominican Republic. Daisy, who wants to be a nurse, will spend seven weeks in the half-island nation living with a host family and taking classes in Spanish medical terminology and public health. Already I miss her. She is not gone until tomorrow, but I feel the void creeping in. No Daisy sleeping on the sofa five minutes into a t.v. show she just had to watch. No Daisy drinking all the milk. No Daisy blocking my car with hers or calling me to come back to her room to see for myself how cute Cracker her cat looks as he sleeps. I think Big Guy feels the same. He has given Daisy lots of advice today, telling her everything at least twice. This D.R. trip is a big deal, especially as Daisy is our No. 1 Baby. The parent part of me misses her even when she is only 10 miles away working in Chesterfield. Birdie is less sentimentally attached to her sister. She is a bit fed up with sharing the bathroom. But I know she will miss Daisy when she isn't here to split mowing the lawn or help take out the trash. From experience, I know sibling love is a bit self-serving. But that is o.k.  Daisy will miss Birdie in the same way--when there's a spider to be killed or clothes to be borrowed.