The Worst Day Fishing Is Better Than the Best Day at Work

I recently overheard someone at an area coffee shop say, “The worst day of fishing is better than the best day at work.” I’m not sure I agree 100 percent, but any day with a baited hook tossed out, waiting for a nibble is a good day. You’re near water, catching sunrays, listening to birds twitter, and smelling that nose teasing scent of mud, water plants, and fish. If you happen to reel something in to put on the dinner table, it’s a bonus.

With the recent abundant rains, western Kansans are seeing water in long dry ponds and in city lakes like the one in Ellis. Anyone who’s lived in the area for a while remembers catching or seeing someone land a good size bass or catfish out of these pools. It was a blessing to spend an hour before or after dinner enjoying quiet time on the creek bank and maybe hooking a big one.

With the extended drought, hopes of snagging a trophy or even minnows turned into dusty dreams. Deep holes that once housed massive channel cat and huge carp made fine homes for ant lions as the water evaporated. Thoughts of netting those lunkers that survived in ever shrinking deep spots were for naught. There was nowhere to transfer the monsters. Any wannabe Tom Sawyers and Huck Finns who loved to fish had to wander the crick bottom examining big and little skeletons of creatures that were once the object of anglers’ tall tales.

Since big rains recently filled some of these water holes, you can see a sparkle in your favorite fisherman’s eyes. Some of these ponds in Ellis, Graham, and Rooks Counties are full to the brim and look like an angler’s paradise. Despite appearances, those of us who live around here know there hasn’t been time enough to re-establish aquatic populations. Even if the Department of Wildlife, Parks, and Tourism races to stock these, it’ll take a while to re-establish the numbers necessary for serious success. 

So what does a guy or gal say to a visitor that tosses a line in a creek that was dry only few short weeks before? This seems like a trivial question, but it’s warranted some philosophical thought. How do you know for sure no one has caught some big fish somewhere else and transferred them into this body of water? If folks enjoy spending time relaxing outdoors with a pole in hand, do you take their excuse away from them? Is it morally right to dash dreams? 

The individuals involved cussed and discussed the topic a considerable time before agreeing that a bad day of fishing was still better than a great day at work. So while we wait on restocking and regeneration of vibrant fish populations in these freshly filled water holes, it’s not a bad thing to claim a spot under a big old cottonwood and cast out a worm. The worst thing you can reel in is hope.

Fourth of July Fun

“Gramma, wuuuhms (worms), pops!” giggled my three-year-old granddaughter, calling from western Kansas. It’s July 3, so I realize her parents have taken her to buy childhood firecrackers such as black snakes and those little poppers that I, our daughters, and now our grand love to throw on hard ground. Sure enough, my little caller’s mother confirms that’s what happened. This is G’s first year to enjoy these holiday favorites, and she wanted to share her excitement.

This sweet, unexpected phone call sent me down memory lane to my own first visits to firecracker dealers. It’s been long enough since those shopping trips that the recollections count as antiques. I still remember the feel of silver coins, probably dimes and a nickel, in my hand and the sense of importance as my parents took my brother and me to select patriotic noisemakers.

Back then, folks didn’t have air conditioning the way they do now, so we were hot before we started shopping. It seems the stands were always under some kind of awning, perhaps old military tarps left over either from Korea or WW II. I recall stepping into the shade and appreciating cooler temperatures in the dim, gunpowder scented interior. The bad part was it made it harder to see kid- friendly fireworks displayed on homemade plywood and saw horse tables.

While I was older than our granddaughter when I picked out my first 4^th stash, I still needed to stand on my tippy toes to peer at the dazzling merchandise with pictures of black cats and Chinese letters and wrapped in crinkly cellophane. Our parents guided us to sparklers, snakes, poppers, and a string of tiny ladyfingers they would help us light. Miracle of miracles, when we handed the clerk our sweaty change, she gave us each a free punk.

Once we bought our treasures, our father selected some surprises of his own. He was partial to Roman candles and cherry bombs, which were legal then. As we climbed into the furnace-like car to go home, he made it clear that we were not to touch his fireworks. After I met a boy who’d had a Roman candle burn and scar his chest, I understood why Dad was so emphatic about this.

Back home, the oven-hot sidewalk became our launch pad. Our parents sat on the porch step, watching us arrange little black kernels that would become long, spiraling, snakes. We oohed and aahed watching them writhe and stain the cement black and grey. After those were ash, it was time for a popsicle and pockets full of poppers that we threw from distances and close up. We even stepped on them to make them explode. 

After our stash was shredded tissue, our dad helped us use our spicy smelling punks to light one ladyfinger at a time and throw it safely away from our bodies. He had us save one string so we could hear a bunch pop at one time. When we’d had our fun, he would light a cherry bomb or two far enough away from us that we were safe, but close enough the explosion vibrated our eardrums for a spell.

After dark, we slurped bowls of mom’s homemade ice cream and watched dad launch his Roman candle display. While these don’t compare to modern pyrotechnic displays, they were magical to late 50s and early 60s youngsters. To end the evening, my brother and I waved lit sparklers and danced wildly about the yard. 

We must have fallen asleep before our parents carried us inside. I’d be so surprised to wake up on July 5^th to a yard full up burned up snakes, exploded popper tissue, shredded firecracker paper, and torched sparkler skeletons. Cleaning up wasn’t nearly as much fun as lighting them.

I’m so glad Little Miss G called Gramma about her wuuuuhms and poppers. I enjoyed her excitement and my memory.

Labor of Love

Picking and shelling peas is a labor of love, not practicality. After three evenings bent over knee-high vines finding and shelling full pods, I conceded the payoff—healthy calories—doesn’t match effort expended. Some folks might wise up and start buying canned or frozen peas at the market, but they’d miss what some researchers call the intangibles.

A first value added of this pea crop was that day in January or February when too many gray days made me doubt the arrival of the first spring robin. Blue as an indigo crayon, I searched garden catalogues online (that’s how they come nowadays) and planned this summer’s garden. After looking at all the pea varieties, I decided which ones would perform best in our region and decided to add snow peas to our selection for something different.

Our next bonus was the day we decided we could till our now warm enough patch of soil and microbes. Anyone who loved playing in the dirt as a kid has to love that magic of turning hard packed earth into loamy particles that sift through fingers like fine flour. When you combine what you feel and see with the rich scent of fresh turned soil, that is a red-letter day on the calendar.

Plotting the garden’s layout is another joy for those of us who relished planning wars or building new worlds in our sandboxes. Arranging areas for barracks and battlefields in that square confine got creative juices flowing in childhood. Now planning where to put peas, tomatoes, onions, peppers, potatoes, strawberries, asparagus, and melons for maximum development stimulates dreary weather-dulled brain cells. You never really know if you made good decisions until you see the outcome in mid-July.

When you look at corn seeds in your palm, it’s hard to imagine that one shriveled yellow or white nugget will produce two ears with approximately 700 kernels each. That’s a return of about 1,399 times what you invested. I’d love to see my savings perform so well. Peas don’t pay off nearly so effectively, but still for the one you plant, you harvest 40 to 100. Who on Wall Street can claim better yields?

Gardening isn’t only about the end result. You have to factor in getting your daily dose of vitamin D while weeding. Time hoeing and repacking soil along rows or making wells around tomato plants doubles as meditation or prayer time. Some people pay for CDs with nature sounds to improve their relaxation practices. Soothing noises come free with gardening.

When you’re outside tugging invasive grass out by its deceptively long roots or picking potato bugs or tomato worms off your plants, you’re listening to at least a dozen different birdsongs and untold numbers of insects as they hum and buzz. Most gardeners meet s beneficial neighbors as well while they check dense rows of green to discover they host bees, praying mantises, ladybugs, a toad or two, a lizard, and maybe a garter snake hiding amidst the foliage. 

I like to maximize these bonuses so we set two metal lawn chairs near the garden. After I’m done picking, I can enjoy evening breezes and insect serenades whileI sit there shelling peas for supper or maybe just letting sweat dry from my hair and face.

Finally, canned and frozen peas don’t compare with the color and flavor of those fresh picked from the garden. No matter how much butter or spice you add, those little green orbs taste better when you grow and shell them yourself. Cheaper is not always better.