David Nelson Nelson's Blog, page 5
September 12, 2015
Author Goes Beserk
“The Open Door Policy”
“Whoosh” went the air brakes from the semi tractor-trailer that was now parked in front of my house. I saw the driver walk towards my front door. Oh boy, I was excited. He was from Roadway Express and here to deliver my metal shed. A shed I intended to put to good use as storage in the pool area. But first I had to put it together.
“Where do you want this thing?” the driver asked.
I walked a fast pace in front of him, and pointed. “ Here, I’ll show you. Can you get it up here under the carport?”
He scratched his head and looked puzzled. “There’s no way my forklift will make it under here. But I’ll try to get it as close as I can.”
And the next thing I knew, the noise of the forklift starting, the loud tailgate dropping, and the racket from him loading my shed, brought out a couple neighbors and then kids on bicycles. Cars were lined up behind the semi because there was not enough room to pass. I just realized that it was 5:30 P.M. and the neighbors were coming home from work.
I felt the heavy thud on the cement as he dropped the back half of the palate and shed. The closest he could get to being under my carport was halfway. I signed the papers and turned to look at what lay in front of me. Cautious optimism fell over me and I swallowed a big gulp. I can do this thing, I said to myself. How difficult can it be?
Having been out of graduate school for three years, my thinking was still in the scientific mode. I learned to think that way because of my didactic training. I took the 147-page manual into the house, sat at the table, and began using my yellow highlighter leftover from my biostatistics class.
The first step was to take an inventory. Great. I thought. That makes perfect sense. That is logical. I could not contain my excitement, and after I finished supper, I decided to start my new project. It was only after I headed out the door that I remembered it was 7:10 P.M.
Earlier, I had skimmed the first forty-three pages of the manual and my highlighter was dry from everything I’d underlined. But that didn’t matter because the seven pages of inventory were cut and dried. Any idiot could follow those directions. Using a steak knife I sliced into the taped carton on all sides. I lifted the five-foot by seven-foot cover off and set it out of my way on the far side of the carport. That cover reminded me of a larger version of the donut boxes outside The Milk House in Dubuque. Those stolen donuts sure tasted great.
I turned on the porch lights and found the bags of screws, nuts, bolts, washers, miscellaneous parts, and unknown plastic pieces. I squatted with both knees bent, tightened my stomach, and lifted the first thirty-pound bag of fasteners out of the box. The second bag was not nearly as heavy.
I used the lid for a collection surface for all the pieces. I marked each lettered item on the lid and then placed the corresponding pieces next to it. I placed a check mark by each item in the manual. I was up to the stock letters AAAA when I finished inventorying the first bag. Thankfully, I had a piece of plywood leaning against the pool fence. I lugged the sap-soaked board under the carport to use as a collection surface for the second bag of fasteners. Weeks before I learned how well gasoline removes tree sap. After washing my hands in gas and wiping them dry, I lit a cigar and marveled at the project I would complete in a day. It was now 9:25 P.M.
Heat lightening, I thought as I opened my back door to go inside and get a cold beer. I stood in amazement and gulped a few swigs of beer. I wiped sweat from my face. I had never seen so many pieces to one single unit. And those were just the small pieces. I didn’t inventory the main parts. I used my cap to wipe the sweat from my bald head and went back inside to get a dry cap. The heat lightening continued.
The humidity was so heavy it actually felt moveable, like a person could move it with their hands and arms. Within moments my new cap and my shirt were soaked. Having a second beer and still looking at what lay in front of me, I decided the only thing to do was to attack. Something nudged at me though and I remembered thinking how impressive the frequent heat lightening was that night.
It was about an hour later when the flashlight quit for the first time. I looked everywhere for size D batteries in the house and found none. I found that when I banged the flashlight against the cement it would glow just long enough to find a piece or a part. The process slowed my progress but not my enthusiasm. I was sort-of having fun. I was no longer soaked from the humidity or heat. As a matter of fact, I remembered being somewhat cool from the drop in temperature and slight breeze. That felt nice.
Somewhere around 1 A.M., I felt a little puff of wind. I was reading the manual on or around page seventy-six. I had three sides of the shed assembled. It became quite difficult to balance those sides, hold a broken flashlight and to read instructions at the same time. The wind began to increase and I noticed how the sides made warbling sounds. As the wind increased so did the tin melody. I saw the illumination of a porch light being turned on at one of the neighbor’s houses. And then I realized: I was trapped in a three-sided metal snarl.
I used what little common sense I had and shimmied and shoved the contraption across the driveway. It sure did make a lot of noise scraping against that cement. I made it to the side of the house and propped one end against the house. Two more neighbors’ lights helped illuminate my work area. I went inside and returned with a mop. I used the mop to balance the other sides. The music from the sides whipping in the wind stopped.
When the first pine cone fell, but didn’t hit the ground because of heavy winds, I suspected I could be in trouble. I was reading the manual when I noticed a red stop sign around a boxed-in information piece. It read: ”Caution. Do NOT assemble in High Winds.”
The rains came whipping sideways, pine needles were flying through the air like darts in a tournament, and the entire packing crate was soaked from the downpour. The box top skimmed across the cement like a magic carpet. I chased it down my driveway after tripping on that damn flashlight. All the hardware was scattered throughout the box lid. Most of my lettering was bleeding beyond distinction from the rain.
I pulled the box back under the carport and secured it with the corner of the plywood. In doing so, I slid all the hardware off the wood. I went into the house to make a pot of coffee. It was 1:30 A.M. The storm passed about forty-five minutes later and I was blowing on my cup of coffee looking at the mess. I brought out an extension cord and adapters. I took three table lamps from the living room and plugged them into the outlets. Presto! It looked like Yankee Stadium lit up for a night game. I felt like telling my thoughtful neighbors I didn’t need their lights anymore. There were now five houses lit up and a few dogs barking somewhere.
I re-inventoried the pieces I could find and sat on a lawn chair trying to figure what to do. I analyzed, synthesized, and hypothesized. My next goal was to get that fourth side up and screwed down so the unit was secured. I then noticed a cartoon of someone smiling in the manual.
The caption read: “Congratulations. You have completed Part One. You only have four more parts to go. This should have taken a total of two hours to complete.” It took me eight hours. Eight hours. I am trying to make this story acceptable for all ages – so I will not write what I said. I went to bed. It was 3 A.M.
In our family, whenever we screw something up or go about an activity the wrong way, we refer to that as the Rick Factor. The term is named in honor of my brother Richard. He can go off like a rocket with any mechanical failure or any time things don’t go quite right. One time I saw him throw rocks at his car when it wouldn’t start. I watched him bend the new oven burner in two parts because he could not get it anchored correctly and smacked and cut his head on the oven door. As I lay in bed evaluating the previous eight hours or so, I smiled and called my project the Rick Factor. I promised myself that my next attempt to finish the project would be much better. I drifted off to sleep thinking of that damn flashlight.
7 A.M. came early for me, way too early. I had a fitful four hours of sleep and I dreamt I was on a magic carpet made of cardboard. During the ride, I avoided asteroids that looked like screws, bolts and pinecones. After waking, I made coffee and went back to my project. I stood under the carport evaluating all the pieces remaining to connect while I enjoyed my morning brew. I turned to go back into the house and noticed something odd. I saw five houses with their outside lights still burning. Wasting electricity, I thought.
I scraped the four-walled structure across the cement. It had been propped near the house and I needed it to be in the center of the carport. I heard a dog howl somewhere nearby. There was no wind like last night, so the structure stayed in place. I connected cross-brace AABC to its counterpart on the side at the hole marked JJKY. Using washer NNOP, I balanced the bolt, labeled GOGD and used nut labeled POOP to secure the brace. One down and seven to go, I thought.
A couple hours later I had the bracing complete and was ready for the roof panels. The next and last thing would be the installation of the doors. I noticed quite a bit of fine print on each page, but didn’t slow down to read all of it. I could see where everything was really going and was on a roll now.
It took two more hours before I finished the top and while the doors were confusing, I connected them without difficulty. I remember one place in which there was no hole drilled for my bolt. I almost drilled a new hole, but decided to step back a minute and I’m glad I did. I was trying to put the door on upside down. That would indeed have been a Rick Factor.
Now, I only had three pages left go. I was excited, happy, and having fun – right up to the point where I fell off the ladder and into the metal roof. I had been on the top rung of my ladder anchoring the panels. I had just one more panel to go and it was quite a stretch. I felt the ladder wobbling. I lost my balance and put a huge dent in the left roof panel (item number WWOW) with my elbow.
Now another part of the Rick Factor is the loss of patience when things don’t go quite like they’re supposed to go. We cuss! We throw things! We scream! We may even break stuff. I calmly dropped to the cement, walked into the shed, and with my fist, I hit that roof with all my strength. One factor about metal is that it’s near impossible to return it to its original shape after being bent. I learned that in summer school in physics class.
I climbed back to the top of the ladder and didn’t need to look far to see the damage. That panel had a pretty good-sized bubble projecting out. Ah, nobody will see it anyway, I thought. I covered every nut with special tape on the inside of the shed. This was to keep it from leaking. I was pretty proud of myself and celebrated by getting a beer and lighting a cigar.
Moments later I was blowing smoke rings across the carport and into the shed. I bit down on my cigar with my teeth and stood facing my masterpiece and closed the doors. “Son-of-a-Bitch!” I yelled. The doors did not meet!
There was a three-inch gap. I bit my cigar in half and kicked the nearly full can of beer onto my plywood work surface. I threw a pair of vice grips, two screwdrivers, and a ratchet into the front yard. I let loose with a litany of cuss words that would have made a sailor blush. Have you ever noticed how many parts there are to a flashlight? I separated all of them with a few direct smashes against the driveway. All of them.
The neighborhood kids who were using my pool at that moment slammed into me, and sprinted out the gate towards their homes. My tantrum must have frightened them. They scattered in different directions like a nest of cockroaches when a light is lit in a dark room. I had forgotten they were using my pool. That same dog from the night before howled from all the commotion coming from under my carport. I yelled, I punched my fists into the air and finally screamed. THAT, my friends, is the Rick Factor!
It was two days later that I was calm enough to re-read the instruction book. I returned to the section about the doors. In the fine print appeared a stop sign logo that mentioned the exact way to connect the door panels. When I attempted to hang the door panel upside down, I had read the identifying letters incorrectly. All the M’s looked like W’s. As fate would have it, the door panel marked W was to be placed on the opposite site.
I gave some kid a dollar to look for tools in my yard while I removed the roof panel tape. Yep, I had to remove the entire roof, change the doors, and re-apply the roof - again. I finished just in time as several of my buddies began to arrive. They came to help carry the storage shed and place it along the fence inside the pool area.
We were all enjoying a beer except for Dan. He had not touched his. He was too busy inspecting the shed. He laughed. “Hey, Nelson why is there a bubble in the roof? Does that have something to do with physics also?”
The story above is from my book, “PALS: Part Two” and can be found at Amazon or my web page. www.davidnelsonauthor.com
“Whoosh” went the air brakes from the semi tractor-trailer that was now parked in front of my house. I saw the driver walk towards my front door. Oh boy, I was excited. He was from Roadway Express and here to deliver my metal shed. A shed I intended to put to good use as storage in the pool area. But first I had to put it together.
“Where do you want this thing?” the driver asked.
I walked a fast pace in front of him, and pointed. “ Here, I’ll show you. Can you get it up here under the carport?”
He scratched his head and looked puzzled. “There’s no way my forklift will make it under here. But I’ll try to get it as close as I can.”
And the next thing I knew, the noise of the forklift starting, the loud tailgate dropping, and the racket from him loading my shed, brought out a couple neighbors and then kids on bicycles. Cars were lined up behind the semi because there was not enough room to pass. I just realized that it was 5:30 P.M. and the neighbors were coming home from work.
I felt the heavy thud on the cement as he dropped the back half of the palate and shed. The closest he could get to being under my carport was halfway. I signed the papers and turned to look at what lay in front of me. Cautious optimism fell over me and I swallowed a big gulp. I can do this thing, I said to myself. How difficult can it be?
Having been out of graduate school for three years, my thinking was still in the scientific mode. I learned to think that way because of my didactic training. I took the 147-page manual into the house, sat at the table, and began using my yellow highlighter leftover from my biostatistics class.
The first step was to take an inventory. Great. I thought. That makes perfect sense. That is logical. I could not contain my excitement, and after I finished supper, I decided to start my new project. It was only after I headed out the door that I remembered it was 7:10 P.M.
Earlier, I had skimmed the first forty-three pages of the manual and my highlighter was dry from everything I’d underlined. But that didn’t matter because the seven pages of inventory were cut and dried. Any idiot could follow those directions. Using a steak knife I sliced into the taped carton on all sides. I lifted the five-foot by seven-foot cover off and set it out of my way on the far side of the carport. That cover reminded me of a larger version of the donut boxes outside The Milk House in Dubuque. Those stolen donuts sure tasted great.
I turned on the porch lights and found the bags of screws, nuts, bolts, washers, miscellaneous parts, and unknown plastic pieces. I squatted with both knees bent, tightened my stomach, and lifted the first thirty-pound bag of fasteners out of the box. The second bag was not nearly as heavy.
I used the lid for a collection surface for all the pieces. I marked each lettered item on the lid and then placed the corresponding pieces next to it. I placed a check mark by each item in the manual. I was up to the stock letters AAAA when I finished inventorying the first bag. Thankfully, I had a piece of plywood leaning against the pool fence. I lugged the sap-soaked board under the carport to use as a collection surface for the second bag of fasteners. Weeks before I learned how well gasoline removes tree sap. After washing my hands in gas and wiping them dry, I lit a cigar and marveled at the project I would complete in a day. It was now 9:25 P.M.
Heat lightening, I thought as I opened my back door to go inside and get a cold beer. I stood in amazement and gulped a few swigs of beer. I wiped sweat from my face. I had never seen so many pieces to one single unit. And those were just the small pieces. I didn’t inventory the main parts. I used my cap to wipe the sweat from my bald head and went back inside to get a dry cap. The heat lightening continued.
The humidity was so heavy it actually felt moveable, like a person could move it with their hands and arms. Within moments my new cap and my shirt were soaked. Having a second beer and still looking at what lay in front of me, I decided the only thing to do was to attack. Something nudged at me though and I remembered thinking how impressive the frequent heat lightening was that night.
It was about an hour later when the flashlight quit for the first time. I looked everywhere for size D batteries in the house and found none. I found that when I banged the flashlight against the cement it would glow just long enough to find a piece or a part. The process slowed my progress but not my enthusiasm. I was sort-of having fun. I was no longer soaked from the humidity or heat. As a matter of fact, I remembered being somewhat cool from the drop in temperature and slight breeze. That felt nice.
Somewhere around 1 A.M., I felt a little puff of wind. I was reading the manual on or around page seventy-six. I had three sides of the shed assembled. It became quite difficult to balance those sides, hold a broken flashlight and to read instructions at the same time. The wind began to increase and I noticed how the sides made warbling sounds. As the wind increased so did the tin melody. I saw the illumination of a porch light being turned on at one of the neighbor’s houses. And then I realized: I was trapped in a three-sided metal snarl.
I used what little common sense I had and shimmied and shoved the contraption across the driveway. It sure did make a lot of noise scraping against that cement. I made it to the side of the house and propped one end against the house. Two more neighbors’ lights helped illuminate my work area. I went inside and returned with a mop. I used the mop to balance the other sides. The music from the sides whipping in the wind stopped.
When the first pine cone fell, but didn’t hit the ground because of heavy winds, I suspected I could be in trouble. I was reading the manual when I noticed a red stop sign around a boxed-in information piece. It read: ”Caution. Do NOT assemble in High Winds.”
The rains came whipping sideways, pine needles were flying through the air like darts in a tournament, and the entire packing crate was soaked from the downpour. The box top skimmed across the cement like a magic carpet. I chased it down my driveway after tripping on that damn flashlight. All the hardware was scattered throughout the box lid. Most of my lettering was bleeding beyond distinction from the rain.
I pulled the box back under the carport and secured it with the corner of the plywood. In doing so, I slid all the hardware off the wood. I went into the house to make a pot of coffee. It was 1:30 A.M. The storm passed about forty-five minutes later and I was blowing on my cup of coffee looking at the mess. I brought out an extension cord and adapters. I took three table lamps from the living room and plugged them into the outlets. Presto! It looked like Yankee Stadium lit up for a night game. I felt like telling my thoughtful neighbors I didn’t need their lights anymore. There were now five houses lit up and a few dogs barking somewhere.
I re-inventoried the pieces I could find and sat on a lawn chair trying to figure what to do. I analyzed, synthesized, and hypothesized. My next goal was to get that fourth side up and screwed down so the unit was secured. I then noticed a cartoon of someone smiling in the manual.
The caption read: “Congratulations. You have completed Part One. You only have four more parts to go. This should have taken a total of two hours to complete.” It took me eight hours. Eight hours. I am trying to make this story acceptable for all ages – so I will not write what I said. I went to bed. It was 3 A.M.
In our family, whenever we screw something up or go about an activity the wrong way, we refer to that as the Rick Factor. The term is named in honor of my brother Richard. He can go off like a rocket with any mechanical failure or any time things don’t go quite right. One time I saw him throw rocks at his car when it wouldn’t start. I watched him bend the new oven burner in two parts because he could not get it anchored correctly and smacked and cut his head on the oven door. As I lay in bed evaluating the previous eight hours or so, I smiled and called my project the Rick Factor. I promised myself that my next attempt to finish the project would be much better. I drifted off to sleep thinking of that damn flashlight.
7 A.M. came early for me, way too early. I had a fitful four hours of sleep and I dreamt I was on a magic carpet made of cardboard. During the ride, I avoided asteroids that looked like screws, bolts and pinecones. After waking, I made coffee and went back to my project. I stood under the carport evaluating all the pieces remaining to connect while I enjoyed my morning brew. I turned to go back into the house and noticed something odd. I saw five houses with their outside lights still burning. Wasting electricity, I thought.
I scraped the four-walled structure across the cement. It had been propped near the house and I needed it to be in the center of the carport. I heard a dog howl somewhere nearby. There was no wind like last night, so the structure stayed in place. I connected cross-brace AABC to its counterpart on the side at the hole marked JJKY. Using washer NNOP, I balanced the bolt, labeled GOGD and used nut labeled POOP to secure the brace. One down and seven to go, I thought.
A couple hours later I had the bracing complete and was ready for the roof panels. The next and last thing would be the installation of the doors. I noticed quite a bit of fine print on each page, but didn’t slow down to read all of it. I could see where everything was really going and was on a roll now.
It took two more hours before I finished the top and while the doors were confusing, I connected them without difficulty. I remember one place in which there was no hole drilled for my bolt. I almost drilled a new hole, but decided to step back a minute and I’m glad I did. I was trying to put the door on upside down. That would indeed have been a Rick Factor.
Now, I only had three pages left go. I was excited, happy, and having fun – right up to the point where I fell off the ladder and into the metal roof. I had been on the top rung of my ladder anchoring the panels. I had just one more panel to go and it was quite a stretch. I felt the ladder wobbling. I lost my balance and put a huge dent in the left roof panel (item number WWOW) with my elbow.
Now another part of the Rick Factor is the loss of patience when things don’t go quite like they’re supposed to go. We cuss! We throw things! We scream! We may even break stuff. I calmly dropped to the cement, walked into the shed, and with my fist, I hit that roof with all my strength. One factor about metal is that it’s near impossible to return it to its original shape after being bent. I learned that in summer school in physics class.
I climbed back to the top of the ladder and didn’t need to look far to see the damage. That panel had a pretty good-sized bubble projecting out. Ah, nobody will see it anyway, I thought. I covered every nut with special tape on the inside of the shed. This was to keep it from leaking. I was pretty proud of myself and celebrated by getting a beer and lighting a cigar.
Moments later I was blowing smoke rings across the carport and into the shed. I bit down on my cigar with my teeth and stood facing my masterpiece and closed the doors. “Son-of-a-Bitch!” I yelled. The doors did not meet!
There was a three-inch gap. I bit my cigar in half and kicked the nearly full can of beer onto my plywood work surface. I threw a pair of vice grips, two screwdrivers, and a ratchet into the front yard. I let loose with a litany of cuss words that would have made a sailor blush. Have you ever noticed how many parts there are to a flashlight? I separated all of them with a few direct smashes against the driveway. All of them.
The neighborhood kids who were using my pool at that moment slammed into me, and sprinted out the gate towards their homes. My tantrum must have frightened them. They scattered in different directions like a nest of cockroaches when a light is lit in a dark room. I had forgotten they were using my pool. That same dog from the night before howled from all the commotion coming from under my carport. I yelled, I punched my fists into the air and finally screamed. THAT, my friends, is the Rick Factor!
It was two days later that I was calm enough to re-read the instruction book. I returned to the section about the doors. In the fine print appeared a stop sign logo that mentioned the exact way to connect the door panels. When I attempted to hang the door panel upside down, I had read the identifying letters incorrectly. All the M’s looked like W’s. As fate would have it, the door panel marked W was to be placed on the opposite site.
I gave some kid a dollar to look for tools in my yard while I removed the roof panel tape. Yep, I had to remove the entire roof, change the doors, and re-apply the roof - again. I finished just in time as several of my buddies began to arrive. They came to help carry the storage shed and place it along the fence inside the pool area.
We were all enjoying a beer except for Dan. He had not touched his. He was too busy inspecting the shed. He laughed. “Hey, Nelson why is there a bubble in the roof? Does that have something to do with physics also?”
The story above is from my book, “PALS: Part Two” and can be found at Amazon or my web page. www.davidnelsonauthor.com
David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Author Goes Beserk
David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Author Goes Beserk: “The Open Door Policy” “Whoosh” went the air brakes from the semi tractor-trailer that was now parked in front of my house. I saw the d...
September 5, 2015
August 28, 2015
David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Fun Filled Fishing Feat
David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Fun Filled Fishing Feat: Some People Should Not Be Allowed To Fish Today was my first venture fishing in some thirty years. The fella at Bass Pro Shop who s...
Fun Filled Fishing Feat
Some People Should Not Be Allowed To Fish
Today was my first venture fishing in some thirty years. The fella at Bass Pro Shop who sold me $350 worth of gear assured me I would catch at three trophy-size fish on the first day. Trying to remember what each purchased item was used for was not a good idea. After all, I am an old fart with a bad memory. That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it. So, I took photos of each item and made written notes using my cell phone. My purchases included a leather bag that contained five large plastic boxes where I could separate the swivel snaps, six packages of different sized hooks, lures that floated, sunk, hopped and bopped in the water. There were places to house my bullet sinkers, drop-down sinkers and split-shot sinkers. There were compartments for needle nose pliers, knife, map and even a bottle of water. I figured that water bottle space could easily hold a beer can. So I agreed to buy the tackle bag for $55. There were lures for night fishing, daytime fishing and some for when it was cloudy. There were lures for when there was an 80% chance of rain. Some were for catching trout, others bass and still more for bluegills. One lure only worked in the shade; another one was used only for Brown Trout and near structures stuck in the water – like downed trees, cement pillars and rocks – big rocks. It was called the Snag-It. “Hmm,” I thought. I hated getting snagged and losing tackle. There are two parts of fishing that I detest. Getting snagged is one and losing tackle is the second. Oh, and I forgot, I don’t have much patience and get bored fast. I figured with new technology I would enjoy myself – unlike decades ago when I threw my pole and tackle into the lake during a fit of rage after replacing my fifth crappie jig that had been sacrificed to a log or rock. I went home that day, placed an ad in the paper and sold my boat. I truly did. I had not fished since that day.Not this time though. I was older and wiser. I planned to listen to some classical music on my cell phone while my hook awaited the hungry lips of an unsuspecting fish. I pictured myself practicing deep breathing exercises to rid myself of my stress. Why, heck, I might even pose a few yoga positions while waiting to set the hook on a trophy fish. I suspected I wouldn’t use the Snag-It much. I assume I’d use the lures with names like: Slammer, Striker and Slayer. I knew with such powerful names I would certainly catch big fish.I asked the clerk what the round, red and white things were that he threw into the shopping cart and how did I use them. His one word response was, “Bobbers.”I quickly typed the word, bobber into my phone. After taking a photo.Later that day, I proudly pranced into Wal Mart here in East Tennessee, where the little girl wished me luck when I gave her $48 for a fishing and small game license. I told her I didn’t hunt and was there a cheaper license for fishing alone. She said, “Oh Darling, it’s nice to fish with someone rather than going alone.”I decided to begin this fun-filled fishing experiment as part of my stress management program. Before one initiates a new, (or at least, tarnished experience from the past), it’s good to research all phases of such a complex activity. I use the word experiment because that is exactly what it was.My hypothesis was that I might lower my blood sugar level, drop my blood pressure and eliminate my sleep deprivation. Why, heck, fishing might eliminate my jaw pain from clenching my teeth when I’m upset. What a grand experience this lay before me. Waking with a symphony of birds, watching water ripple from a rolling bass feet away from the shore and feeling the sun warm my face on a cool morning were “just what the doctor ordered” – as they say.Long ago I fished the ocean, in lakes and rivers. I liked the ocean best. One never lost tackle that became snagged on rocks, weeds and trees hidden under the water surface. You know, those “structures stuck in the water” – where the Snag-It was to be used. I hate getting snagged!And so I began my education about how to fish. Little did I know that each fish requires a different type of set-up or rig (as they say in the industry). One must first ask the question, “What type of fish do I want to catch today?”My self-response was, “A big one.” According to You Tube and Google there were no cross-references or videos based on my answer. I watched no fewer than five hours of You Tube postings. And that was only about sinkers! I made written notes, created a report that I inserted into the side pocket of my new $55 leather gear bag, marked “map” along with downloaded pictures of the tackle I took a few days earlier at Bass Pro Shop. I read. I studied. I was prepared to eliminate my stress.I pulled in and parked my truck in the darken parking lot. I saw shadows of other fisherman one hundred yards away disappearing into the woods on their way to the Little River near Walland, Tennessee. I turned my cell phone on so I had light to negotiate my way down the path to the secluded spot I chose to meditate and fish. At once I began my yoga routine when I stepped on the path that led to the water’s edge. Well, it was really several routines all in one. I hadn’t seen the muddy, steep bank and my arms flailed, my feet hopped and slid – all while trying to keep my balance and not drop my cell phone and my $149.99 rod and reel with the rubber worm attached to the hook. I chose the rubber worm because the nice fella at Bass Pro Shop in Sevierville, Tennessee assured me it wouldn’t get snagged.I slid to a stop on top of a large rock, mere inches from the flowing river. My high-pitched screams followed by several cuss words caused birds to leave in mass. Different species of animals jumped into the water alarmed by my intrusion.I opened my cell phone to listen to some classical music and begin to fish. No Service flowed across the screen on my phone. I set the phone down behind me because the sun began to shine through the trees and I no longer needed it as a source of light. I raised my arm and flicked my wrist. I let go of the line to hear and feel the rubber worm fly away. But there was no splash. No ripple. No bass jumping out of the water. There was silence, total silence. My eyes followed the line upwards to the tree next to me. There hung my line wrapped tightly around a tiny branch with my red rubber worm suspended in mid-air. The worm was dangling and jiggling as if it might have been giggling at me.My clenched jaw hurt. The litany of cuss words scared three birds away that had returned to perch in a tree a few yards away. My head dropped downward and my air-filled lungs deflated.There was no room to back up and yank the eight-pound line until it snapped free. I used my cigar lighter and burned the line. All tension on the pole released but flowed into me. I was ticked! I was had to re-rig my line and was forced to climb the muddy bank back to the parking lot where I left my $55 gear bag in the back seat of my truck.Moments later I was wiping the beer and mud combination off my hands and knees using a paper towel. I had crawled on all 4’s to reach the parking lot and I was caked in mud. There was no water, so I was forced to use the one beer I had inserted into the handy-dandy compartment that was labeled, water. In addition to having no patience I am a stubborn person. I was determined to catch a fish – even if it killed me. I slid down the bank once again and grabbed an exposed root from the tree that held my new rubber worm in branches high above my head.I moved away from the tree and with great precision cast my line into the middle of the river. It was a perfect toss. I looked down to my reel to tighten my line and low and behold, the line had a backlash! More birds flew away when I responded.Some five minutes later, I straightened my line and was able to cast for another fifteen minutes. My rule of fishing is that if I don’t get a bite in fifteen minutes it’s time to move to another spot. Remember, I told you I had no patience.I decided to try another location. When I drove into Charles Young Park the smile on my face disappeared quicker that a kernel of corn on a hook teasing a trout. Rocks were everywhere along the shore. They were huge rocks that would snag a hook for certain.It wasn’t just the rocks that concerned me. It was the tire, downed trees and logs scattered along the bank that made me question my sanity when I pulled my gear out of my truck. However, I figured I’d give it one final try to see if I could get a fish to bite my hook. I lost two rigs to those boulders, threw my equipment into my truck and drove away. So much for my stress management program for this day. I decided to do something less stressful. I drove to the golf course.For more short stories be sure to check out my books found at my web site. www.davidnelsonauthor.com
Today was my first venture fishing in some thirty years. The fella at Bass Pro Shop who sold me $350 worth of gear assured me I would catch at three trophy-size fish on the first day. Trying to remember what each purchased item was used for was not a good idea. After all, I am an old fart with a bad memory. That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it. So, I took photos of each item and made written notes using my cell phone. My purchases included a leather bag that contained five large plastic boxes where I could separate the swivel snaps, six packages of different sized hooks, lures that floated, sunk, hopped and bopped in the water. There were places to house my bullet sinkers, drop-down sinkers and split-shot sinkers. There were compartments for needle nose pliers, knife, map and even a bottle of water. I figured that water bottle space could easily hold a beer can. So I agreed to buy the tackle bag for $55. There were lures for night fishing, daytime fishing and some for when it was cloudy. There were lures for when there was an 80% chance of rain. Some were for catching trout, others bass and still more for bluegills. One lure only worked in the shade; another one was used only for Brown Trout and near structures stuck in the water – like downed trees, cement pillars and rocks – big rocks. It was called the Snag-It. “Hmm,” I thought. I hated getting snagged and losing tackle. There are two parts of fishing that I detest. Getting snagged is one and losing tackle is the second. Oh, and I forgot, I don’t have much patience and get bored fast. I figured with new technology I would enjoy myself – unlike decades ago when I threw my pole and tackle into the lake during a fit of rage after replacing my fifth crappie jig that had been sacrificed to a log or rock. I went home that day, placed an ad in the paper and sold my boat. I truly did. I had not fished since that day.Not this time though. I was older and wiser. I planned to listen to some classical music on my cell phone while my hook awaited the hungry lips of an unsuspecting fish. I pictured myself practicing deep breathing exercises to rid myself of my stress. Why, heck, I might even pose a few yoga positions while waiting to set the hook on a trophy fish. I suspected I wouldn’t use the Snag-It much. I assume I’d use the lures with names like: Slammer, Striker and Slayer. I knew with such powerful names I would certainly catch big fish.I asked the clerk what the round, red and white things were that he threw into the shopping cart and how did I use them. His one word response was, “Bobbers.”I quickly typed the word, bobber into my phone. After taking a photo.Later that day, I proudly pranced into Wal Mart here in East Tennessee, where the little girl wished me luck when I gave her $48 for a fishing and small game license. I told her I didn’t hunt and was there a cheaper license for fishing alone. She said, “Oh Darling, it’s nice to fish with someone rather than going alone.”I decided to begin this fun-filled fishing experiment as part of my stress management program. Before one initiates a new, (or at least, tarnished experience from the past), it’s good to research all phases of such a complex activity. I use the word experiment because that is exactly what it was.My hypothesis was that I might lower my blood sugar level, drop my blood pressure and eliminate my sleep deprivation. Why, heck, fishing might eliminate my jaw pain from clenching my teeth when I’m upset. What a grand experience this lay before me. Waking with a symphony of birds, watching water ripple from a rolling bass feet away from the shore and feeling the sun warm my face on a cool morning were “just what the doctor ordered” – as they say.Long ago I fished the ocean, in lakes and rivers. I liked the ocean best. One never lost tackle that became snagged on rocks, weeds and trees hidden under the water surface. You know, those “structures stuck in the water” – where the Snag-It was to be used. I hate getting snagged!And so I began my education about how to fish. Little did I know that each fish requires a different type of set-up or rig (as they say in the industry). One must first ask the question, “What type of fish do I want to catch today?”My self-response was, “A big one.” According to You Tube and Google there were no cross-references or videos based on my answer. I watched no fewer than five hours of You Tube postings. And that was only about sinkers! I made written notes, created a report that I inserted into the side pocket of my new $55 leather gear bag, marked “map” along with downloaded pictures of the tackle I took a few days earlier at Bass Pro Shop. I read. I studied. I was prepared to eliminate my stress.I pulled in and parked my truck in the darken parking lot. I saw shadows of other fisherman one hundred yards away disappearing into the woods on their way to the Little River near Walland, Tennessee. I turned my cell phone on so I had light to negotiate my way down the path to the secluded spot I chose to meditate and fish. At once I began my yoga routine when I stepped on the path that led to the water’s edge. Well, it was really several routines all in one. I hadn’t seen the muddy, steep bank and my arms flailed, my feet hopped and slid – all while trying to keep my balance and not drop my cell phone and my $149.99 rod and reel with the rubber worm attached to the hook. I chose the rubber worm because the nice fella at Bass Pro Shop in Sevierville, Tennessee assured me it wouldn’t get snagged.I slid to a stop on top of a large rock, mere inches from the flowing river. My high-pitched screams followed by several cuss words caused birds to leave in mass. Different species of animals jumped into the water alarmed by my intrusion.I opened my cell phone to listen to some classical music and begin to fish. No Service flowed across the screen on my phone. I set the phone down behind me because the sun began to shine through the trees and I no longer needed it as a source of light. I raised my arm and flicked my wrist. I let go of the line to hear and feel the rubber worm fly away. But there was no splash. No ripple. No bass jumping out of the water. There was silence, total silence. My eyes followed the line upwards to the tree next to me. There hung my line wrapped tightly around a tiny branch with my red rubber worm suspended in mid-air. The worm was dangling and jiggling as if it might have been giggling at me.My clenched jaw hurt. The litany of cuss words scared three birds away that had returned to perch in a tree a few yards away. My head dropped downward and my air-filled lungs deflated.There was no room to back up and yank the eight-pound line until it snapped free. I used my cigar lighter and burned the line. All tension on the pole released but flowed into me. I was ticked! I was had to re-rig my line and was forced to climb the muddy bank back to the parking lot where I left my $55 gear bag in the back seat of my truck.Moments later I was wiping the beer and mud combination off my hands and knees using a paper towel. I had crawled on all 4’s to reach the parking lot and I was caked in mud. There was no water, so I was forced to use the one beer I had inserted into the handy-dandy compartment that was labeled, water. In addition to having no patience I am a stubborn person. I was determined to catch a fish – even if it killed me. I slid down the bank once again and grabbed an exposed root from the tree that held my new rubber worm in branches high above my head.I moved away from the tree and with great precision cast my line into the middle of the river. It was a perfect toss. I looked down to my reel to tighten my line and low and behold, the line had a backlash! More birds flew away when I responded.Some five minutes later, I straightened my line and was able to cast for another fifteen minutes. My rule of fishing is that if I don’t get a bite in fifteen minutes it’s time to move to another spot. Remember, I told you I had no patience.I decided to try another location. When I drove into Charles Young Park the smile on my face disappeared quicker that a kernel of corn on a hook teasing a trout. Rocks were everywhere along the shore. They were huge rocks that would snag a hook for certain.It wasn’t just the rocks that concerned me. It was the tire, downed trees and logs scattered along the bank that made me question my sanity when I pulled my gear out of my truck. However, I figured I’d give it one final try to see if I could get a fish to bite my hook. I lost two rigs to those boulders, threw my equipment into my truck and drove away. So much for my stress management program for this day. I decided to do something less stressful. I drove to the golf course.For more short stories be sure to check out my books found at my web site. www.davidnelsonauthor.com
August 23, 2015
August 20, 2015
August 19, 2015
June 28, 2015
David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Bunkhouse Bits of Bull
David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Bunkhouse Bits of Bull: Bunkhouse Bits of Bull By David “Buffalo Bill” Nelson Moments ago I shined my flashlight into the coffee pot sitting ato...
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