Courage and Cowardice

It's been a summer of introspection lately. I got around to finishing Jeff Shaara's trilogy about the Civil War, knocking off Gods and Generals and The Last Full Measure while at the beach. I've long been a history buff and keen on the Civil War in particular. I grew up in a household that still referred to the conflict as "The War of Northern Aggression" and I didn't know the south had lost the war until sometime around 6th grade. I was the only kid in elementary school who could perform all the dialogue from "Gone With the Wind." I relished the idea of being called to duty, answering a higher purpose, meeting a date with destiny on a battlefield far from home and earning a share of glory. It was some time before I realized there was precious little glory in the whole affair, that it was a four year agony of violence and suffering for millions in and out of uniform on both sides of Mason-Dixon. Still, I've always hungered for more, to understand what happened in those nightmare years, what compelled so many to leap headlong into it, what it felt like to live the reality of those days. Of course, the question always arises: what would I have done?

I spent a day this summer at the battlefields in and around Petersburg, Virginia. For those who don't know, this was the death knell of the Confederacy. North and south had struggled for four years with staggering losses on both sides, and the pendulum had swung both directions by 1864, favoring the south at first, then the north. For a long time, Union strategy had focused on the capture of Richmond as the key to ending the war. It took three years for them to realize that Richmond was in fact only a city, that the capitol could be easily relocated and Confederate armies in the field could continue to operate if Richmond fell. The key to ending the war was to eliminate the forces capable of continuing it. That meant targeting Lee and bleeding him of manpower through engagement after engagement. It meant a war of attrition.

Petersburg was the artery by which Richmond (and Lee's army) was supplied with food and munitions. Railroads crisscrossing eastern Virginia came together here, and so it was here that the two armies came together as well, settling down to a long siege of nearly a year. Visiting Petersburg today, you can hardly throw a stone without hitting 150-year-old earthworks. You find trench lines side by side with subdivisions and peaceful farms watched over by earth forts. These people live alongside history.

I came here in late July, around the same time of year as some of the major engagements of the campaign, including the Battle of the Crater (you know, the opening sequence in "Cold Mountain"? You gotta see it if you haven't already.) I soaked it all up, reading the signs and listening to the stories and following the maps and trails and reading the monuments, but there were a few moments that crystallized the whole affair for me.

The first was at a place called Five Forks. It's just a few miles out of town at what was a major intersection in 1865 that now barely merits two stop signs. I stopped in the visitor center - a tiny little place that I almost skipped, it looked so insignificant - and learned more about what happened here that was worth a visitor center.

Holding the railroads was key to Lee's ability to supply his army, but holding the roads was key to survival itself. Lee might be able to hold the Union army at bay around Petersburg and so save Richmond, but if Union cavalry managed to take control of these five roads, it would cut off his escape route to the west. Five Forks was critical, and so of course it was contested.

Here on April 1, 1865, Union cavalry charged lines of trenches hastily dug by Confederate infantry. Their attack on the right end in particular was so powerful as to knock the rebels back on their heels, so to speak, forcing them to re-fuse their line. This meant that rather than breaking and running, they turned at a right angle to face the enemy trying to get around behind them. It's a bold move and a desperate one.

The ranger at the visitor center had already stunned me by taking a name I'd been carrying around for fifteen years and turning it into a service record with a person behind it. The name was William D. Brooks, my husband's great-great-grandfather whom we had known only through pictures. Our sole knowledge of him was that he married the widow of Peter Kesler, who died at Gettysburg. With that name and a few minutes internet research, the ranger soon was able to tell me that William had in fact been here himself as part of Pickett's division, Steuart's brigade (formerly Armistead's). He even showed me on the map where he had fought - stop #2, The Angle.

I drove out to the Angle along an unlined lane-and-a-half road through thick woods, thinking to myself how much it looked like my road at home - the same road Bill had lived on, by the way. I parked in a tiny pulloff at stop #2 and stepped out into the sultry air. Grasshoppers hummed and the sun beat down on overgrown roadside cornflowers and Queen Anne's Lace. I stepped into the woods and caught my breath.

I was looking at a line of pits - three-sided squared earthworks between two and three feet deep - that stretched off some 200 feet into the woods. They were rough, shallow, clearly thrown up in a hurry. This was the work of desperate men. I turned, looked back across the road, tried to imagine the sound of horses coming, shouting, shots. It would have been agony, waiting here in a hole in the ground, understanding that this might well be your grave you're sitting in.

Bill would have known this for sure. He'd seen many of his neighbors and friends die in places like this already. I wondered how much he understood about what was going on, why he was here and why it mattered and how close they were to end of this thing. Could he feel the end coming? Could any of them sense that there just weren't men enough and food enough and time enough to win anymore? And if they did, why did they stay here in this ditch in the woods with death bearing down on them?

That's when I realize I don't know that I would. With all of it lost and nothing to show for it and nothing to gain, why would anyone? The only answer I can think of is those around you. You stand your ground because the person on each side of you stands theirs. You know this person, you've been through hell with them, and you stand with them. It looks like courage, like devotion, but it may in fact simply be cowardice of a different kind.

I tried to imagine who I would stay in this ditch for. I imagined my colleagues and friends, people I knew, hunkered down here in this pit beside me, looking at me with an unspoken question on their face: are you going to run? And in each case, I answered the same: no. Even people I didn't much care for, I couldn't bring myself to leave them. It wasn't courage. It was shame - the fear of the feeling I'd carry if I left them behind.

I have no idea what I'd really do if the chips were ever down. I'd like to think I'd do the right thing because it's the right thing to do, not because I'm afraid of being embarrassed or ashamed of myself. But I suppose whatever calls us to courage can't be wrong. Can it?

I don't know. Maybe Bill and his messmates stood their ground because they were afraid of being shot for desertion if they ran. Maybe they still believed this was the good fight. Maybe they knew they were beaten in the long run but determined not to go down easy. Maybe they stayed and fought because the enemy stayed and fought. But whatever motivated them to stay, the end was the same. The intersection and the roads fell into Union control, Petersburg was surrendered soon afterward, and Lee retreated west, trying desperately to hook up with a supply train to feed his starving soldiers before escaping to the south to continue the war. The train - and the Union army - were waiting for him two weeks later at Appomattox.

If a soldier falls in a forest for a lost cause, does his legacy make a sound?

I think so. For me, it was the call to come to Petersburg this summer and to Five Forks in particular, where I finally found the source of the sound I've been chasing since I was a kid. Not bugles and drums calling souls to martial glory, but the sound of human voices, caught up in extraordinary times, speaking their truths as they lived it. Of this I am certain: that's courage.

Appearances Can Be Deceiving

We just got back from the beach, in case you were wondering why there've been no new posts lately. You know how it is - first you have to spend all that time getting ready for the beach, then an equal amount of time at the beach and recovering from the beach trip.

There's the requisite fourteen bottles of sunscreen to be purchased, plus a new float for wave surfing guaranteed to last all of five runs before being punctured by a sharp shell or a wayward sandburr. But I digress...

The theme of this year's trip was appearances and second looks. For example, we spent hours waiting for a storm to pass that sat just to our south and finally skirted around us, passing innocently off to the west. I paddled my arms off trying to get back to shore from one mile out in the sound when it began thundering out of a clear sky. Turns out it was the sound of several military jets booming along on practice runs.

Then there was the shark.

We had just gotten back from a long walk around the lower end of the island. On our return, we passed my stepdad Lawrence fishing in the sound near the house we were renting. He already had half a dozen nice-sized spots and pinfish in his bucket and reported they didn't show any signs of letting up. I decided to grab my gear, load up the fishing kayak, and join him.

The house we rented was right beside the sound, so it only took me a minute to get home and get changed and outfitted. I had just gotten my tackle box and bug spray when my phone rang. It was my mom, calling from the sound. Probably Lawrence wanted me to bring him a drink or a snack. "Hello?" I answered, holding the phone in one hand and tugging on my fishing vest with the other.

"Lawrence needs help! He's caught a shark!"

This is not as uncommon as you might think. Sharks are part of sea life, and since they have to come from somewhere, it's not unusual to catch a baby shark or two if you fish much at all. They're about 18 inches long and look like miniature versions of their parents. And like their parents, they can bite and should be handled with care.

But catching one hardly called for tone I heard in Mom's voice. This tone gave me visions of Lawrence standing hip-deep in the water, holding a nearly-doubled over rod, struggling to keep a razor-toothed monster off a nearby group of swimming preschoolers. Just how big was this shark?

"I dunno! It's got a lot of teeth and a broad flat head!  It's a sand shark or maybe a tiger shark. He needs help!"

Shoot, if Lawrence needs help, it must be a helluva fish. The man worked as a meatcutter for Kroger's since God stopped wearing short britches. He's big and he knows his way around meat. What the heck was going on?

"Does he not have his glove or pliers?" I asked Mom. Every fisherman knows you keep a leather glove handy for dealing with ocean fish, since unlike their freshwater cousins, they tend to be toothy and bristling with sharp parts. Pliers are recommended for removing hooks in order not to lose digits in the process.

I got no reply from Mom and the long silence sealed the deal. "I'm coming down!" I said.

"Okay!" Click.
 
Immediately, my priorities shifted. I was no longer going fishing. This was now a rescue mission, a matter of public safety and family preservation. I left behind the kayak. There was no way I was getting in a boat with a shark in the water, even if we got the bugger freed successfully. I got my tackle box, checked my vest to make sure I had my pliers, glove, small knife, big knife, really big knife, and phone. I briefly considered bringing along a shovel in case we needed something to move the guy back out to sea with, or maybe to stun him with if he started thrashing. Then I remembered that many shark species are endangered and thought maybe it wasn't a good idea to bludgeon a threatened species on a public beach. Should I call the cops instead? Or maybe the Sea Turtle Hospital people? They were just up the island... But they weren't open and did they even deal with sharks, since sharks can eat sea turtles and wouldn't that be some kind of conflict of interests to rescue them both? I pictured a sea turtle and a shark in adjoining tanks, glaring at each other.

I realized I was wasting time. I decided to go and see for myself before calling out the cavalry.

When I got to the beach, there was a small cluster of people around my stepfather. His fishing pole was pointed at the sky, the line slack. I thought for a moment the shark must have gotten away. But no, there were still people here like there was something to see. Where was the darn thing?

"It's right there in the water," Lawrence said, pointing just a few feet away at the water's edge.

I followed his line with my eyes to where it met the surface, then peered closer into the crystal clear water. Nothing. "Where?"

He wound in his line and I saw it as it broke the surface, a slender brown torpedo-shaped abdomen with darker vertical stripes running its length, scimitar-shaped fins that gleamed in the sun. It sported a wide mouth, stretching from one side of the head to the other, filled with several dozen needle-shaped teeth. It was no shark, but it was clearly a lean, mean, carnivorous machine. It also was about 11 inches long.

"Lawrence, that's a lizard fish," I said with a sigh.

"A lizard fish?" he asked. The people standing nearby echoed the name. "Lizard fish," they said to each other, nodding heads like, "Yep. That's a lizard fish. Knew it all along. Gotta watch out for them lizard fish."

"They live on the bottom," I told him. "They're ambush feeders, like a flounder. They wait for things to swim by and grab them. They're like oyster toadfish; they'll grab your bait as you move it along. Just kind of pesky, more than anything," I finished as I reached in my vest for my pliers and glove.

I took the fish in hand and began working the hook loose. Still, I wondered. "Lawrence, why didn't you just unhook it yourself? Why'd you call me? Do you not have your pliers and glove?"

"Are you kidding me?" he replied. "Look at those teeth! I'm not sticking my hand near that mouth!"

It figured. "But it's OK for me to do it, right?"

"Absolutely!"

I wiggled the hook out, dropped the line, and placed the fish back in the water, swishing him back and forth to get water moving through his gills again. "OK, buddy. You're good. Live long and prosper." He slithered out of my hand into the green depths and vanished in a flash. I chucked the pliers and glove back in my tackle box, snapped the lid shut with a flourish, and stood up. Mission accomplished. The crowd began to move off, disappointed at the lack of a shark but pleased to have seen something toothy and scary nonetheless.

Just another case of mistaken identity, all the way around.

A More Perfect Union

Brace yourself. This is gonna be kind of deep.

I think we should celebrate September 17th rather than July 4th. See, July 4th is the day the Declaration of Independence was signed, but September 17th is the day the US Constitution was signed. If the Declaration established the United States, the Constitution defined it.

From the Preamble:

"We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America."

We make declarations all the time. We announce, expound, exclaim, shout, bellow, and hold forth on a regular basis. But it's what we do about what we say that matters. It's what we go on to do, enact, create, and compose (or constitute) that matters.

You'll notice the Constitution indicates that part of our purpose is the establishment of a "more perfect union."  That's tough to do with so many different peoples, interests, and values in the mix, and yet those who created this nation seemed to believe it could be achieved, choosing "E Pluribus Unum" - "One Out of Many" for the new nation's motto.

It's sad, though, that declaration has taken the place of genuine discussion these days - shouting down those who disagree, belittling differing opinions, and refusing to compromise. It's tough to build "one out of many" when we drag out emotionally-charged labels and demonize our  opponents. We see far more "Divide and Conquer" than "E Pluribus Unum" these days.

But doesn't each of us have the right to share our point of view? Isn't this just the first amendment in action? The loudest voice is loudest because it represents the majority, and the majority rules, right?

Look closer.

"in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity"

According to our national goal statement, this isn't about me and my freedom or you and yours - or rather, it's not JUST about those things.

We're in this for each other.

We're here to establish justice for everyone, regardless of their background, income, status, race, or anything else. We're here to maintain the domestic peace of this realm so we can focus our energies on improving and advancing together, not tearing ourselves asunder with hidden agendas and verbal venom. We're here to promote the well-being of each American, to create a culture of opportunity combined with humanity. We're here to ensure the liberty of every citizen, even those not yet born.

Sounds pretty civic-minded, doesn't it? That's because it is. The Constitution is more than a set of rules for selecting leaders or balancing powers. It's a promise that we make to each other as citizens. If the Declaration defines our liberties as individuals, the Constitution affirms our commitment to each other, creating one out of many.

It's a noble undertaking, one that calls on the better angels of our nature, certainly better than the ones we show in public discourse these days.

We deserve better. We can do better.

I'm fine and you're welcome

These are the times that try a woman's soul. And probably a few men's as well. It's swimsuit weather.

I'm not a young woman anymore; people only call me "young lady" now to flatter me at the checkout counter or to close the deal on a major purchase. But I'm far from over the hill, either, and when summer rolls around, I don't spend hours agonizing in front of the fitting room mirror with a pile of swimsuits heaped at my feet. I find what I can live with, I buy it, and off I go to enjoy myself - usually by myself, or with just family and a few trusted friends.

But then comes the dreaded "get-together". You know what I'm talking about: you're invited to a lake party or a pool party. You're excited, you love these people, it'll be so much fun relaxing and talking and enjoying each other's company.

Then you realize: this will necessitate public display of the swimsuit with you in it.

Perhaps this isn't such a good idea. But it's too late, you're committed, and your kids will be heartbroken if you don't go. So you pack a subdued blowsy coverup, make up your mind to spend as much time as possible submerged to the neck, and to dive into clothing the moment you emerge dripping from the water. Nobody should be subjected to the spectacle of your cetacean-sized self in drydock.

But I saw a picture recently of a woman my age (who wasn't exactly bikini material) wearing a bikini and holding up a sign that said, "Society says I'm unattractive but my mirror says I'm beautiful." Hmmm...brave. Outrageous, even. Maybe she's on to something. What does my mirror say to me?

Well, we're not usually on speaking terms, me and my mirror. We're like a couple that's filing for divorce but too broke to live separately just yet. We pass each other a few times a day, give each other dirty looks, and move on. But if we did break the ice for a moment and talked frankly about the view in the mirror, what would it tell me?

It would say, "You have stretch marks and a C-section scar the size of Montana."

And I would snap back, "That's from giving the world the most amazing human being I can imagine. You're welcome, by the way."

It would say, "What about that spiderweb of veins behind your knee? And the varicose veins starting up on your calves? Don't tell me that's from your little miracle."

And I would say, "Nope. They flared up when I started spending seven hours a day on my feet teaching other people's children. You're welcome for that, too."

"But those tree-trunk legs and arms! Come on, lady, that's not from some noble self-sacrifice! That's from a breakfast of Mountain Dew and Little Debbbie too many times!"

"Maybe," I'll say, "but these legs can carry me anywhere I want to go, and these arms can lift sixty pounds of animal feed, a loaded kayak, a crying child, or a whole stack of mirrors all with ease. You're welcome."

"The bug bites?"

"I like to be outdoors. So do bugs. It happens."

"What about the freckles?"

"Genetics."

Long stretch of silence. "Sounds like you've got an answer for everything."

"I suppose I do."

"And you're OK with all this?"

"You know, I think I am. I don't think I realized it until just now with this little conversation." A pause. "I'm fine, thank you. You?"

"Ditto. And you're welcome."

Three pounds of poop per day

That's how much the average Canadian goose creates.

I now know this because three dozen Canadian geese have taken up residence at our cabin at the lake. We found massive quantities of "product" on the dock and shoreline a few days ago when we went down to swim. At first we thought it was the two mallard ducks who have been hanging around since spring. But there's no way Soup and Quackers could produce the volume of poop found down there - no matter how many Cheetos they consumed.

Then I came in from fishing last night and found 72 pairs of eyes blinking back at me from the shoreline as I pulled the boat into the slip. For a moment, nobody moved, each uncertain who was the intruder, they for settling down on my property or me for breaking up an avian slumber party. On the one hand, I was clearly a human and they mere geese. On the other, they seemed to understand they wildly outnumbered me and could, in a pinch, take me if necessary. I decided to bluff before they could form a plan of attack. "Shoo! Git! Beat it, you---" and a string of expletives followed worthy of even the saltiest boatman. They guiltily filed down to the water and slid into the darkness.

Now I have to find out how to keep them from coming back. A google search found that there are chemicals that can be sprayed (around the water? I think not...), a sprinkler with a motion sensor (what's that gonna cost?) or I can get a stuffed coyote. Seems coyotes are natural geese predators and a coyote decoy should do the trick.

Mmm-hmm. Now, where do I find a coyote? Maybe the nice folks at Wal-Mart will let me borrow the one from their ammunition display in sporting goods.

Maybe I can convince them to throw in the mountain lion, too, just for good measure.

We thought that if the dog urinated around the shoreline, that might do the trick as well, since the scent would make them wary of settling down in dog territory. My daughter asked the obvious: "How are you gonna get Zeus to pee in the right place?"

I have no idea.

"Maybe you could catch it in a cup?" she offered helpfully.

"I'm not following the dog around with a pee cup," I replied indignantly.

"You could wear gloves," she added. "Doctors do it all the time."

"And they get paid a ton of money for doing it, but I'm NOT FOLLOWING THE DOG TO CATCH HIS PEE! And besides, the doctor doesn't do it, either. He sends you into the little room with a cup and some directions and you do it yourself and then some nurse whisks it away and nobody follows anybody anywhere!"

I briefly consider asking my husband to manage this task in the middle of the night when everyone on the lake is sleeping. I know what he'll say. Maybe I should pick up some ammunition and let the chips fall where they may.

Or maybe I'll just hook up the garden hose and go clean the dock.

I have one great love - fishing.

I know, I know. "What about shoes? Hair? Shopping?"

They've got to be able to take water, it must fit under a hat, and my favorite store is Gander Mountain. Get the picture?

I grew up in a family that once had a love affair with fishing that seems to have petered out once the babies started coming.

My mother has told me many times about all-day fishing trips to area catfish ponds with my dad, her brothers and sisters and their children, and my grandparents. She describes with pride the best day of fishing they ever had, when she mixed up a batch of catfish dough and “I decided to add a little Manischewitz to it instead of water. We caught fish like you wouldn’t be-LIEVE that day!”

This was all over by the time I came along.

When I was growing up, my grandparents were the fishers – bank fishing on Town Creek and Smith River, flounder and spot fishing on the Scotch Bonnet Pier. They had a freezer full of fish all year long. For his part, my dad described it as a colossal waste of time ("unprofitable"). My mom was already worried about my being such a tomboy that encouraging my love of fishing might just wash me out of the young lady department completely and condemn me to life as a spinster living in her basement or the neighborhood crank and cat lady.

It was clear that if I was going to get any fishing in, it was going to be with my grandparents.

I begged them every chance I got. Christmas and New Year’s, when I’d see them, I’d ask, “When are we going fishing again?” They always patiently explained that it was too cold, that we had to wait until warm weather and they’d promise to come get me out of school one day and take me. Come Easter, I’d see them again and I’d ask faithfully with that long memory that all young children seem to have for the things they really want, “When are we going fishing?” Again, they’d explain that we needed to pick a day when the trout had been stocked and I could leave school.

They kept their word.

There would always come a day in spring when I didn’t have to go to school, when the bus drove right on past the house and I hid behind the curtains so my friends didn’t see me. Soon afterwards, Grandma and Papa would pull up in their truck, the camper-shell-covered bed stuffed with fishing gear, and off we’d go.

The first stop was always Biscuitville, a chain restaurant specializing in breakfast food, where we’d have to go in and sit down and eat. I couldn’t choke down my food, I was always so excited. Finally, they’d finish and we’d be back on the road, following a two-lane road around tight curves between forested hills until we came to cleared fields where the river lay exposed, like a snake sunning itself in the warming air.

We’d turn off the main road, following gravel and dirt roads thick with brown silt from floodwaters, lurching over potholes and washboarded sections. Finally, Papa would find the place – usually identified by the other trucks already pulled off the shoulder into knee-high grass and chiggerweed. He’d pull off and Grandma would make him come around to our side and stomp down the grass some for us kids. He’d oblige, and Grandma, my little brother, and I would pile out of the truck and into the morning.

The smell is what I remember most: a cool, damp, earthy, green smell. The smell of soil and water all bound up together, of richness and vitality. I love that smell, and even today at any lake, river, or stream, I cannot help but catch my breath as it meets my nose. For me, it’s the smell of perfect harmony, of things as they are meant to be.

Everybody had to help carry gear to the river bank: fishing rods, tackle boxes, folding stools, bait, coolers, snacks. It seemed like a lot at the time but it probably wasn’t. We’d follow Papa step for step through the tall grass into the thickets of honeysuckle and grapevine snaking their way up locusts, poplars, and sycamores until we emerged in the cool, wet shade along the river’s edge.

There, we’d be all a-bustle, setting up stools, plunking down the cooler, rigging lines, and of course, getting the ground rules from Grandma about how close we could get to the water and how far to stay from the weeds. They’d put worms on hooks for us and Grandma would insist we spit on our worm. “For luck!” she said.

We’d put our rods in sections of PVC pipe driven into the soft mud, or we’d prop them up in forked sticks. Then came the waiting. Usually there were other people fishing close by and they’d strike up a conversation with our grandparents while we explored the river bank. Minnows at the water’s edge, smooth stones to turn over and pile up. Eventually, a line would bend and a shout would go up. The pole snatched up, then held absolutely still to see if the fish would strike again, if he’d taken the bait and ran, or maybe he was waiting to see what would happen next, too. If nothing, the line would be hauled in to check the bait.

But sometimes, in the moment of waiting, there’d be the faintest tingle in the line that let you know something was on the other end, trying hard to hold still and not be noticed. Then one would break and yank, and the other would yank back and the struggle would be on.

It was exciting, watching a fish come in. How big would it be, what kind was it. Nothing seemed finer to me than a fish freshly pulled from the water, slick and shiny and alive. It looked like a jewel. Papa did the unhooking using a rag from his pocket and his needlenose pliers. Then the fish would be checked for size and kept or tossed back. If kept, it was placed as-is in the cooler to slowly cool down and go to sleep, as my Grandma explained it to me. This always troubled me, this idea of just going to sleep and dying.

Eventually, the sun would grow hot and the air would get thick with insects and humidity. We kids would be sticky and restless, ready for a change of scene. We’d pack up our gear, grab a bite of lunch at a mom-and-pop restaurant or eat on the curb someplace, then head along home to clean and freeze fish, eat ice cream, and take a nap.

Fishing was wonderful to me. Not just the catching of fish, but the whole experience. The anticipation, the excitement, yes, but also the waiting, the exploring, the chance – the requirement even – to be still and just watch and listen. I didn’t get that much anywhere else. And there was so much to see and hear, when I had no choice but to listen and look.’

To this day, that’s what I love most about fishing. I never know what’s going to happen when I go out. And even if nothing happens in terms of the fish, it’s never time wasted. There’s so much to see and soak up. The rocks, the colors, the sounds of birds and the water itself. I’ve never seen perfection like the perfect equidistance between waves on a lake. I’ve seen the most amazing hues on leaves in every season and in the sky. I love the energetic swishing of the water on a windy day, the deep still green of a summer afternoon. I’ve seen herons on their nests, turkeys at roost, otters at play. I’ve picked blackberries from a kayak and napped in a canoe. I’ve waited out sneaky catfish until the sun sank and the moon rose and then paddled them home behind a kayak, all of us bathed in silver. I come closer to God than anywhere else when I’m sitting in a kayak, on a boat, or on the shore, with a rod in my hand, waiting for whatever’s going to happen and kind of hoping nothing does in order not to disturb the perfection of the moment.

God, I love fishing.

 

I know this is the first post, and you're probably expecting something amazing or at least mildly funny. But I've got zip just now. So instead, I'm just gonna be honest.

 I'm kind of tired of summer.

Yes, I know that's blasphemy. I know how we all longed for these days when we were cooped up inside our stuffy, dusty little classrooms. I know I dreamed of shouldering my way through a hallway of filing cabinets and broken desks, boldly pushing through those dented metal doors at the end of the hall, and charging headlong into sunshine and sky and whatever adventures the next 50-odd days might hold.

I know how vibrant, how lush and vivid these days seemed when it was February and Christmas was over but it wasn't spring yet and there was nothing to do but WAIT. Wait for the days to get a little longer, the nights a little warmer, the trees a little greener until finally Glory! Hallelujah! Stand back, ladies and gentlemen! The peep frogs are singing and the first lightning bug has been spotted!

But it's not like I thought it'd be.

I pictured myself fly fishing a robust river in southwest Virginia.

But I can't get a babysitter...

I wanted to visit the battlefield at Gettysburg since reading a lot about it this winter, and maybe better understand the tragedy that unfolded there.

But it's really hot... and I bet it's really crowded in July...

I was going to draft a plan for overhauling the environmental trail at school, and work on a new strategy for teaching writing, and the plans for the field trip, and research integrating yoga into my classroom as a disciplinary aid and maybe use it for my professional goal this year.

But there are reruns of "Frasier" on... and it's a free HBO weekend...

So I suppose I've succumbed to the lazy days of summer. It could be worse.

I could be teaching summer school.