I come from a family of
leisurely fisherfolk, so
even before I was born
(I am certain) I’d been cast
by my folks and theirs and
so on as the little buster
who reels in the catch. And
so I was placed in all of the
fishiest high-falutin’ perches
known to exist by the general
public in the land of my youth
(that’s The Natural State, which
had up until recently and most
unnaturally been nicknamed,
rather, the Land of Opportunity).
So just picture me, as I do, if I
try hard to recollect, peering
down through the current from
the banks of the Arkansas River,
trying to envision what was im
possible to tell: whether or not
any yellow-gilled catfish were
slithering the surface of the
riverbed, that is. This was a
sport in which I was least
likely to participate (al
though there’s not many
a sport in which I’d but
reluctantly join). And
yet I spent many a long
and grueling hour at this
minnow and worm and kid
finger-puncturing activity.
I’d try so hard to concoct
a way to make the days
go by more swiftly when
I’d be stuck at this eternal
family ritual, but to no avail.
In fact, the harder I’d try, the
longer the day would become.
This diversion, I’d strain to
envision, was something
so crucial, was my heroic
version of divining, or of
that alternative sport
which was practiced, and
just as religiously, in those
local parts: dowsing with a
twin-forked twig (which was
but another yawn-fest, in my
humble opinion). In retrospect,
there was an even better
analogous elevated hobby,
career or condition, one that
was also quite popular there
abouts, if but a bit more modern,
and it, too, was performed quite
often along the same riverbanks
and creek beds where you’d find
dreary me on many a weekend.
Also similarly, this was a sport
most ordinarily performed by
elderly numismatist retirees,
ones who’d get antsy if sunk
in their La-Z-Boys for longer
in duration than an episode
of Wheel of Fortune. This
was surely a means for an
escape into something more
solitary; no kids or grandkids
or wives would ever seem to
accompany. And they’d always
remind me of zombies, playing
miniature golf, only in very slow
motion and without any golf balls.
They’d swing those things just
a bit to the left then a bit to the
right, and back and then forth and
yet ever so slightly directly in front
of their slow-dancing gait, a weird-
wiggled walk that at least the first
generation of the undead always
seemed to have. Golf clubs, in
reluctantly join). And
yet I spent many a long
and grueling hour at this
minnow and worm and kid
finger-puncturing activity.
I’d try so hard to concoct
a way to make the days
go by more swiftly when
I’d be stuck at this eternal
family ritual, but to no avail.
In fact, the harder I’d try, the
longer the day would become.
This diversion, I’d strain to
envision, was something
so crucial, was my heroic
version of divining, or of
that alternative sport
which was practiced, and
just as religiously, in those
local parts: dowsing with a
twin-forked twig (which was
but another yawn-fest, in my
humble opinion). In retrospect,
there was an even better
analogous elevated hobby,
career or condition, one that
was also quite popular there
abouts, if but a bit more modern,
and it, too, was performed quite
often along the same riverbanks
and creek beds where you’d find
dreary me on many a weekend.
Also similarly, this was a sport
most ordinarily performed by
elderly numismatist retirees,
ones who’d get antsy if sunk
in their La-Z-Boys for longer
in duration than an episode
of Wheel of Fortune. This
was surely a means for an
escape into something more
solitary; no kids or grandkids
or wives would ever seem to
accompany. And they’d always
remind me of zombies, playing
miniature golf, only in very slow
motion and without any golf balls.
They’d swing those things just
a bit to the left then a bit to the
right, and back and then forth and
yet ever so slightly directly in front
of their slow-dancing gait, a weird-
wiggled walk that at least the first
generation of the undead always
seemed to have. Golf clubs, in
deed! In those days, these metal
detectors appeared as if out of
nowhere, and by the plethora. I
was in awe. I’d so rather have
been in what we called the
city playing a round or three
of miniature golf. Occasionally
I’d have the good fortune,
between reeling in minnows
and worms, that is, of witness
ing one of these patient loners
bend over, reach down, and
pick up something, which when
wiped a bit by a handkerchief
or the bottom of a button-up
oxford, would glimmer at me
for a moment before it went
into a pocket or a backpack.
And I can tell you for certain
that, if given the chance, I’d
have traded my rod and my
reel in a heartbeat for one of
those gizmos that looked like
weed whackers, and hovered
just above the earth like a tiny
UFO (while making all kinds of
UFO noises). Instead, I was stuck
in a boat or on the bank under
a glaring sun counting every
excruciating minute until it
was time to “Let’s reel ‘em
all in,” which I’d gleefully do,
and help hitch up the boat
before hopping into the cab
of the pickup for the ride
back home, during which
I’d be nothing but fidgety
and hungry and daydream
ing (well, it would have
been twilight by then) of
what I would find in the
sand or the soil if instead
of wasting so much time
with a rod and a reel
attempting to lure in
a slippery fish or two
I’d have had in my grip a
metal detector, scooping up
loot and getting rich, to boot.
in a boat or on the bank under
a glaring sun counting every
excruciating minute until it
was time to “Let’s reel ‘em
all in,” which I’d gleefully do,
and help hitch up the boat
before hopping into the cab
of the pickup for the ride
back home, during which
I’d be nothing but fidgety
and hungry and daydream
ing (well, it would have
been twilight by then) of
what I would find in the
sand or the soil if instead
of wasting so much time
with a rod and a reel
attempting to lure in
a slippery fish or two
I’d have had in my grip a
metal detector, scooping up
loot and getting rich, to boot.
