Baby Duty with a Splash of Fly Casting

My son is nearly four months now, and it's true what people say about kids growing up so fast.  He's changing a little bit every day, and the past four months have been a blur. When I try to recall the first few weeks with him--or even the first month---I find it hard to remember the details. I understand now why my mother-in-law has trouble remembering specifics about my husband as a baby when I ask her for comparisons. I guess it's one of those clichés that are totally true, but you just can't realize it until you're experiencing it firsthand. I try to keep this in mind when I'm struggling to get our son back to sleep at 3:00 am or trying to comfort him when he's fussy. If I find myself daydreaming about "easier" times down the road, I try to remember that these days are fleeting and will be missed down the road. I've heard the time with a young child described as the "longest shortest time," which is a totally accurate description so far. Some days and nights drag on and I start wishing for a break, but then I look at my son and realize just how fast he's growing up. I know that the frustrations we're facing at the moment will be distant memories soon enough.

 

 

I'm fortunate to be able to stay home with my son for the first six months of his life,  which I try to appreciate when I start feeling stir crazy. I know many women have to go back to work much earlier and it must be very difficult for them. I currently get to spend every waking and sleeping hour with my son, which I'm greatful for, but it's nice to get some time to myself every once in awhile.  Thanks to my husband and the fact that our son will now take a bottle when needed, I've recently been able to get out of the house for some "me time."  These short breaks help me re-energize and I look forward to returning home to my family afterwards.  Fittingly, most of these outings have revolved around fly fishing.

 

 

My first official solo trip away from home since my son's birth was to a casting open gym. Some friends recently formed the Madison Fly Casters Club as a way for area fly fishers to get together during the offseason for some winter casting practice.  They reserved a couple basketball courts at a local sports arena and arranged for a couple hours of casting, beer drinking, and socializing.  At first it felt strange getting into the car without the baby carrier and diaper bag---I had the feeling I was forgetting something--but it didn't take me long to start enjoying the drive. I turned up the music and took in the rolling hills on each side of me. Once there, it was really nice to chat with some old and new friends about fly fishing and babies. Finding out that other parents of young kids have gone through and survived all the same problems my husband and I are facing made me see the big picture. It helped me realize that the things currently stressing us out are pretty insignificant in the grand scheme of things. So overall, the open gym was a great way for everyone to fight cabin fever and get their casting arms moving again. I'm looking forward to the next one scheduled this month.

 

Photo courtesy of  https://www.facebook.com/madflycasters 

 

Just a few nights ago, my husband volunteered to babysit so I could attend the Fly Fishing Film Tour (F3T) that was in town. It was nice to sit back in the theater with a cold beer and get lost in some good fly fishing footage. It was also good to see friendly faces and visit with friends. I've met a lot of great people through fly fishing, and it's always nice to catch up with them. Though there were a few too many salt water films and not enough spring creek footage for my taste, it was a great reason for a night out in subzero temperatures.

 

 

As my son gets older and the frigid temps become more manageable, I'm sure it will be easier for me to get out of the house--with or without the baby. I'm very thankful to my husband for encouraging me to do so. He's had to work off and on over the past four months and probably feels a bit guilty that I've been "stuck" at home so much on baby duty. If it weren't for him, I wouldn't have been able to get these moments to myself that helped me gain perspective and return home happy to be back on baby duty. I used to envy my husband when he had to leave for work; he was able to socialize with other adults, get out of the house, and experience some freedom without having to battle our son during naptime. I now realize, though, that I was the lucky one who got to stay home with our baby. If the first four months have gone by this quickly, he'll be a year old before we know it. Instead of worrying about whether our son is getting enough "tummy time," we'll be worrying about gating off the stairs. I'm sure as time goes by we'll look back wistfully on these early months, and rather than lamenting the weeks stuck at home on baby duty, I know I''ll appreciate the amount of time I was able to spend with my baby boy.

 

**If you're in the Madison area and interested in joining the Madison Fly Casters Club, check out their Facebook page:   https://www.facebook.com/madflycasters

Ephemeral Moments

When you're pregnant, people tell you that your life will never be the same once your baby arrives, but it's hard to fully prepare for it.  My son was born six weeks ago and the time has passed by in a flash.  Our initial days together have blended into one short window of time, yet it seems ages ago that I gave birth.

It's still strange to call him my son.  Just as it took time to start calling my boyfriend my husband after our wedding, I'm still not used to calling this baby that I carried for forty weeks and one day my son.  It sounds so official.  It's as if the use of that noun immediately moves me into the realm of full-fledged adulthood.  It was a move I was ready to make but it just hasn't entirely sunk in yet.

My maternal feelings are growing more every day.  It wasn't love at first sight as some mothers describe it, rather my son initially felt like a stranger to me.  Even though he shares half of my genetics and was a fixture inside me for nine months, it still took time for us to get to know one another once he entered the world.  We experienced some struggles the first four weeks but seem to have figured each other out recently.  I've become better at deciphering his needs and wants and he has become more reassured by me.  It's still a bit surreal at times to realize this baby belongs to me, is part of me, and that I am currently responsible for 99% of his health and wellness.  It's both sobering and comforting to realize how much he needs me at this stage of his life and how his future self will be influenced by how well I care for him now.

During the intense crying jags or the 3:00 am feedings I sometimes think wistfully about a time down the road when my son will be able to tell us what he wants and will sleep through the night, but I'm making a concerted effort to appreciate everything about these early days. I know many parents that look back longingly on this newborn period, and everyone says that kids grow up so fast.  There must be something to that cliché.  Therefore, I'm consciously trying to savor each moment with my son because there's no reversing to clock once you realize how precious this time was.


So, although I'm looking forward to the day he can walk along a trout stream with me and turn over rocks to find caddis casings, I'm appreciating the time I have with my son right now.  I inhale the smells of his milk breath and diapers, both of which only a mother can love.   I watch his eyes flutter and face contort as he falls asleep in my arms.  I enjoy our daily routine, as mundane as it may seem, because I realize how fleeting this window of our lives will be.

Does Simms make Maternity Waders?

I've discovered something that is totally ubiquitous yet completely foreign to me.  Pretty much every mother on the planet has gone through this, yet I know next to nothing about it.  I'm speaking of pregnancy.

I am currently beginning my tenth week of growing an embryo, and the whole process is still very abstract to me.  This was a planned event, though my husband and I were taken a little off guard by the speed of conception.  We had spent the last thirteen years making sure that conception never occurred, so it was very strange to reverse our mindsets and actually start trying to make the sperm and egg meet.  I just assumed that it would take a long time for me to get pregnant after being on birth control pills for over a decade.  I guess a woman never knows whether her ovaries are working right until she actually gets pregnant.  For some reason I thought I'd be one of those women with weak ovaries.  Obviously I was wrong.

I have spent zero time around pregnant women, so I'll be learning as I go for the next seven months. Of my close girlfriends, none of them have started a family, and the news of my pregnancy actually makes most of them a bit uncomfortable.  They're not sure how to deal with me, and I'm not sure how to deal with my new pregnant self or them.  I guess we'll be figuring that out as we go.  I've never really had a particular affinity towards womanly things, and I have more male friends than female.  I previously had little need for womanly advice or company--I didn't feel I shared much in common with other females--but now things have changed.  Since I have few friends to discuss my pregnancy with, I've been drawn more to my mom, my mother-in-law, and random women I overhear discussing baby stuff at the grocery store.  I've never felt the need for "girl time," but lately I've been craving more matronly company.  I want more women in my life that can talk about pregnancy and help me wrap my brain around what's happening to me.

So far, the first two months of my pregnancy have gone quite smoothly.  I assumed all pregnant women suffered from nausea during the first trimester, so my total lack of morning sickness and nausea worried me.  Was mine a weak pregnancy because I wasn't getting sick?  Was the embryo not implanted correctly?  The internet is an amazing source of information about pregnancy, but it can get me into trouble at the same time.  When I searched for information regarding a lack of nausea among pregnant women, I found some sources saying that a quarter of pregnant women never experience nausea and that I should count myself lucky.  Another site said that a lack of morning sickness is very rare and can mean a higher risk of miscarriage.  The internet is a double edged sword.  For every pregnancy question I research, I can find sites supporting opposite opinions on the matter.  As it turns out, my mom never was sick with my brother and me.  So I guess I'm just one of those lucky women.

The most difficult part of my pregnancy so far, besides giving up coffee, has been the realization that I am not in control of my body any more.  I've always been an active and healthy individual with a healthy body type, but I'm already beginning to grow out of my jeans.  I know I should be mostly concerned with the health of the baby growing inside me, but it's hard to accept the fact that I can no longer control what my body will look like.  I basically use to "eat to survive."  I didn't get that excited about food; I ate what was good for me and didn't care too much about flavor.  I definitely had my weaknesses for ice cream, but overall I maintained a very bland but healthy diet.  Since being pregnant, I've been experiencing hunger pains like I've never felt before.  They occur every couple hours, and I'm now craving completely different types of foods.  I've gone from a vegetarian to a meat-eater (I had forgotten how delicious a hamburger can taste!) and from a sporadic eater to someone who needs to eat every three hours.  Women aren't supposed to gain much weight during their first trimester, but my waistline is already growing.  Is it selfish and vain to worry about weight gain during pregnancy?  I've seen plenty of women who've given birth and gotten back into shape in no time, but what if it's a struggle for me?  Is my self image tied that much to my physical appearance?  I guess I should appreciate these early months regardless of any slight weight gain because it's only the beginning.  My body is being hijacked by another being, and my belly is only going to get bigger from here on out.  In five months I may be wishing to return to these early months of pregnancy when I could still fit into most of my normal clothes.

For now, I take my prenatal vitamins on a daily basis, eat about five meals a day, and feel my pants get a little tighter each morning.  I know there's no such thing as maternity waders, so thankfully I have a pair with ample room to grow into.

An Escape to Supai, Arizona

My husband and I have been together thirteen years (yikes!) and married for seven. We've only had one real vacation together in all those years where it was just the two of us. All the other vacations we've taken have been separate of each other or together with friends. Until recently, our work schedules just never meshed well. When I had vacation time from teaching, my husband was in the throes of the peak greenhouse season. When he had downtime in the winter, I was in the midst of teaching biology to a bunch of pubescent teenagers. Once I left my teaching career to assist him with our small business fulltime, we finally were able to schedule in a real vacation....just the two of us.

I must admit I was a little nervous. We spend a lot of time together at work and at home, but we'd always had buffers when it came to extended trips together. What if we got bored with each other's company? It wasn't a serious concern, but it was something to ponder during lulls in conversation.  How would we get along together for a week without any traveling buffers around?

When it came to deciding where to go, I really wanted to take my husband to Supai, AZ, which I had visited in 2007 with a friend. It's an amazing place, as you can see from the photos below. My husband wanted to see the Grand Canyon, so I booked plane tickets to Las Vegas, which would be our jumping off point for the rest of the vacation.

We arrived in Vegas and spent the first several nights absorbing the overt stimuli of the Strip. I much prefer nature to nightlife, so it wasn't the best part of the trip for me, but the hubby got to gorge himself at a couple major buffets and check out a couple shows, and our visit to Hoover Dam was impressive. We left for the South Rim of the Grand Canyon on our third day and spent the afternoon walking the overlook trails.  I had been to the Grand Canyon before, but it was just as magnificent the second time around.  We tried to take in as many views as we could, but it really is too vast to comprehend.  It's difficult to grasp how deep and wide the canyon is unless you actually hike to the bottom.  Luckily, we had plans to head west of the Grand Canyon National Park to the Hualapai Indian Reservation to take on that challenge

After staying a night in Tusayan, we loaded up our gear and set out for the Hualapai Highway, also called Indian 18. This is a dead-end road that brings you to a stark trailhead, which leads to the village of Supai. Supai is located in the bottom of a canyon, surrounded by red rocks and blue skies. It's populated by only a few hundred year-round residents, and it's only accessible by hiking, mule train, or helicopter. All of the village's supplies are brought down via helicopter or mule, and all the waste generated there is brought out in the same way. Havasu Creek runs through the canyon and results in beautiful, turquoise waterfalls a few miles downstream from Supai. The water gets its color from the loads of mineral deposits it accumulates from the surrounding rocks. Against the red rocks of the canyon, the water takes on an unreal color. I had taken the journey to these falls before, and I don't normally choose to visit the same place twice when there's so much to see around this country, but I thought the falls were spectacular enough to visit again. There's something about flowing water that pulls me near.  Maybe it’s a result of growing up just a stone’s throw from two great rivers—the St. Croix and the Mississippi.  Regardless, it was the moving water that was calling me back to Supai.

These waterfalls aren't nearly the biggest in the world nor the most beautiful, but there's something about the color of the water against the surrounding landscape, as well as their unique setting, that makes them so brilliant. Some experiences can lose their luster when repeated; the novelty wares off.  I was really hoping my return trip to the waterfalls of Supai would be equally as gratifying as my initial visit.

We set off from the trailhead around lunchtime and completed the eight mile hike down to Supai in three hours. The weather was perfect and the scenery was expansive. Once we arrived in Supai, we checked into the lodge and relaxed a bit in our spartan room before heading to the cafe for a filling dinner of burritos.

Hualapai Hilltop

 

The next morning we loaded up water, lunches, and cameras for our six mile roundtrip hike to three different sets of waterfalls.  We came into view of Navajo Falls just a mile outside of Supai. They had changed drastically since 2007 due to extreme flooding that hit the canyon in 2008 and 2009.  The Navajo Falls I saw five years ago no longer existed, and the Navajo Falls of 2012 were completely new to me. I think the floods actually made them more beautiful, and these falls definitely spoke to the power of water.  I tried to imagine a wall of water rolling through the canyon with enough force to literally move mountains and change the landscape in such a drastic way.  Evidence of the severe flooding was apparent not only in the changed water routes but also in the large amounts of debris strewn throughout the canyon.

Navajo Falls

We continued our hike and made it to Havasu Falls a mile downstream. These falls had also changed since my last visit. The rerouted water upstream has resulted in water flowing over just a third of the rock face it had covered before the flooding events. Even though Havasu Falls in now much narrower, it is still a beautiful waterfall with inviting side channels and pools.

 

Havasu Falls

 

After a lunch break and some gin rummy at the base of Havasu Falls, we hiked one more mile to reach Mooney Falls. These are the tallest of the falls we visited, and it was a precarious climb to reach them--one that required crawling through tunnels chiseled through the rock face and climbing down steps etched into the sheer cliff.

Mooney Falls

Later that night after hiking back to Supai, we fell asleep to the muffled sounds of three dozing yet alert village dogs lying outside our lodge door.  (Impressively, these same dogs were dozing in the shade at the top of the trailhead the next morning.)

We began the eight mile hike back to Hualapai Hilltop early the next day.  We fell into a good pace and were at the 6.5 mile marker before we knew it. The last 1.5 miles were the most daunting since they’re composed almost entirely of steep switch backs cut into the canyon wall. We took it step-by-step, rested when we needed to and reached the top without too much trouble. Surprisingly, we made the eight mile hike out of the canyon in the same amount of time it took us to go down. Our speedy exit was likely a result of my competitive nature coming out. When I have a destination to reach, whether it's by walking, hiking, biking, or skiing, I fall into a racing mentality. I end up in either an imaginary race with myself, or if there are people in front of me, in a race to beat them. Regardless of the pace I set, my husband was right on my heels the entire way and took the lead for the last, most difficult mile.

The final ascent to Hualapai Hilltop.  Notice the mule train, which provides a good scale for the size of the climb.

After celebrating our successful ascent, we hopped in the rental car and headed down the Hualapai Highway towards Las Vegas for our flight home the following day.

All in all, it was a great trip. My husband and I spend a lot of time together at work and at home, but it was nice to spend time together outside of our daily grind. It was nice to be on a solo adventure-- just the two of us--and my halfhearted fear of having no buffers along was totally unwarranted. Even after being together for thirteen years, I think our little vacation actually made our relationship stronger. We're sometimes a bit too competitive with one another; we frequently argue over which of us has worked harder on a given day even though we both regularly put in over seventy hours of work each week. During this vacation, however, I felt like we were a well-oiled team, especially while heading in and out of Supai. We accomplished the adventure together, and I think we both needed to temporarily escape from our day-to-day lives to gain an improved perspective on things.

I'm very glad I made it back to Supai. Not many people can say they've been there, let alone been there twice in their lives. In a way, I can't help thinking that it was a last hurrah for my husband and me. We've come to the consensus that we'd like children in our near future, so this might have been the last chance for the two of us to take a trip like this as a couple--at least for the next decade or two.  I realize that having children means postponing some adventures, and I’ve finally gotten to the point where I’m okay with that.  I may never get back to Supai again, but I'm glad my husband and I made it there together.
 

Low-end Gear. High-end Enjoyment.

The opening of inland trout season in Wisconsin can be a bit stark.  Picture snow, bleak skies, an openess of the landscape, stinging fingers, numb toes, and frozen guides.  The last month of the season is quite different with its high grass and weeds, bright blue skies, constant snags on surrounding vegetation, mosquitoes, and sweat trickling down your back.  Since my summer months are filled with keeping our greenhouses running, these are the two periods when I do most of my trout fishing.  Therefore, I love both March and September fishing, though I think I'd still love these two months of the season even if my fondness didn't grow out of necessity.  So when I managed to fit a rare day off into the work schedule last week, I jumped at the chance to head to the Driftless for a day. 

The trout weren't very active, but when they hit a hopper pattern they hit it hard. I found myself totally zoned out, just going through the repetitive motions of casting upstream, stripping line, taking a step, and casting again. The only thing that would disrupt my trance would be snagging my fly on one of the inumerable overhanging weeds in an attempt to float the hopper as close to the undercut back as possible, or by a sudden, splashy take that would snap me to attention.

Like most outdoor recreational activities, fly fishing lends itself to the accumulation of gear.  Anyone with some money in their pocket can quickly spend mad cash on fly fishing "stuff."  I have a couple friends who are true gearheads, and buying new fly fishing gear makes them happy. More power to them, especially when they occasionally let me borrow said gear.  I, on the other hand, seem to rebel against the newest and greatest fly fishing paraphernalia. It was the same way during my college softball days. The newest and most expensive bats might help a bit with distance, but they weren't going to turn a good hitter into a great hitter. I stubbornly stuck with my dinged up bat and re-laced glove, and I did quite well with them if I do say so myself.  I've ended up doing the same with fly fishing gear.  If your casting is lacking to begin with, the newest and greatest rod isn't going to make you a great caster.  I think my avoidance of new, high-end gear is in part due to my own frugality and in part my desire to avoid the accumulation of "stuff."   I like simplicity.  So I enjoy getting by with average hand-me-down gear.  Perhaps a better rod would help get me get more distance and accuracy, but it wouldn't necessarily make for a more rewarding experience.

My husband and I recently visited my brother and his family for a grill out of wild turkey and venison kabobs and fresh corn on the cob.  It was delicious.  My little brother and I share a lot of commonalities:  we both love the outdoors, we're hard workers, and we'd look like twins if I shaved my head and were six inches taller.  Yet, whereas I appreciate a Spartan-like lifestyle, my little brother definitely likes "stuff."  He already owns enough hunting and fishing gear to last three lifetimes.

Despite my aversion to extra gear and because he has more than enough, I took the opportunity during our visit to snag a special fly rod from his garage.  My brother doesn't trout fish much, but he spends fifty times more days on the water than I do.  As a graduation gift several years ago, I had a friend build him a fly rod.  My brother uses it quite a bit for pan fish, but I wanted to take it back to its roots as a trout rod.  The friend who built the rod actually took me out on my first fly fishing adventure before I knew anything about the sport let alone owned a pair of waders.  I basically tagged along and became overwhelmed with all there was to learn, but I came home knowing it was all something I wanted to learn.  We get chances to fish together now and then, and it's always a nice reminder of how far I've come in a short amount of time.  Living five hours apart, we don't get to fish together as much as I'd like to, so I figured taking this rod to the stream for a day would be the next closest thing.

The rod casted like a charm.  Technically, it may be no better than my regular rod, but because of its origin it was like having an extra friend on the stream with me for the day.  I'll continue using it during the last month of the Wisconsin trout season or at least until my gearhead brother asks for it back.  I'll be the one enjoying my time on the stream despite (and in part due to) my leaky waders, rusty reel, and other low-end gear.

True love is cleaning chicken butts......

My husband and I recently surpassed the seven-years-of-marriage mark, and this fall will mark our thirteenth year of togetherness.  We don't get all wishy-washy about these events on our life timelines and I'm not one to willingly share my feelings, yet it makes me reflect on how good I've got it. 

I love my husband because he puts up with the CRAZY that comes out of me sometimes.  I love how hard he works at his job and how motivated he is to be successful in life.  I love how kind and generous he is to others.  I love his goofiness and intelligence.

I absolutely LOVE that my husband helps me pick dried shit off the butts of my chickens.  As a "city boy," he was not excited about having backyard chickens in the first place, but he put together a great coop for the girls, helps me dust them for mites when needed, set up a fan to keep them cool in the heat, and takes care of them when I'm away.

Speaking of away.........

I also love my husband because he doesn't begrudge me too much for escaping on fly fishing trips throughout the year.  Though he's not a fly fisherman himself, he respects my zeal for the sport and supports my hobby, whether that means leaving for a weekend in March or an entire week in July.  I'll be leaving on one of these trips shortly, which means my husband will be responsible for my daily chores while I'm gone......and he won't complain about it.  For seven days he'll have to wake up earlier than normal to water the vegetable garden, feed the cats, feed and water the chickens, move the coop, scoop out poop, and collect eggs.  All this while I'm off fly fishing on a mountain stream with other men........

I'm a lucky girl.

Blue & Red Memories

With our greenhouse season in full swing, I don't have much time during the day to think about anything besides plants and customers. My days are so busy that I actually need to remind myself most days to eat.  Needless to say, the month of May does not afford time to relax and contemplate life like the month of January does.  The craziness of the past few weeks has actually been a welcomed distraction, though, because any fleeting moments of reflection I experience lately have been bringing pangs of realization that my Grandma Blue is gone.

I was luckier than most kids growing up.  I lived within a few miles from both sets of grandparents and spent a significant amount of time with them during my childhood.  My parents were barely into their twenties when I showed up, so I'm sure having my grandparents so involved in my upbringing was a huge help to them.  I greatly appreciate the fact that I was able to have four grandparents throughout the first three decades of my life. 

It wasn't until sixteen months ago that I lost my first grandparent.  My Grandpa Red suffered a fatal heart attack while trimming a tree in the August heat.  My Grandma "Blue" seemed lost without her husband and, after a stint in the nursing home this past year, passed away quietly last week. 

Death is so unbelievably final, but I'm very grateful for my memories.

My Maternal Grandparents--Blue and Red

My Grandpa Red grew up in Richland Center, WI and was the all-American type of teenager.  He was a standout athlete and student leader. He was one of the gentlest people I knew, and I miss him dearly.  I miss the way he always called his grand kids, "Dude," and how he would grip tightly to the top of my shoulder as a way to show his affection.  He could fix anything and had his garage packed with tools, spare parts, and coffee cans of miscellaneous screws and bolts.  He always seemed to have at least one black-and-blue fingernail, and I can still picture him sitting in a lawn chair cleaning his fingernails with his ever present pocketknife.  His eyes were the palest blue.

My grandma grew up in New Richmond, WI and graduated from UW-La Crosse with a physical education/history degree.  She was a high school phy. ed. teacher who took great pride in my athletic accomplishments.  She's the reason I became a tomboy at an early age, and she instilled in me the attitude that women can do anything they want to do--no explanation needed.  She was a strong woman with strong opinions who cherished her family.  I wouldn't be the strong, independent woman I turned out to be if it hadn't been for her.  She had a sun-kissed tan complexion year round, and I have her to thank/blame for my unladylike, large hands.

Both my grandparents were active individuals.  They maintained an annual membership at the local golf course and golfed at least three days a week every year that I can remember.  When we were kids, they would take my brother and I with them golfing throughout the summer.  We would ride on the back of their golf cart, and my grandma would toss a ball near the green for each of us to chip and putt.  As we got older, my brother and I carried our own clubs and golfed alongside them, with my grandma wearing her trademark pastel baseball cap with the pom-pom on top. 

My grandparents also taught me to swim.  Being a lifeguard in college, my grandma made sure I was swimming by the age of three.  I can remember quite vividly going to the local pool with her to meet up with her friend Doris.  The three of us would swim laps in the pool and steam in the sauna each morning before my grandma dropped me off at afternoon kindergarten.  My grandparents also took me to the local beach.  I clearly remember clinging to my grandpa's back as he swam us out to the dock in the middle of the St. Croix River.  His cannonballs made the biggest splashes.

During high school, both of my grandparents were permanent fixtures at all of my home athletic events.  Whether it was in the bleachers during volleyball and basketball games or in their lawn chairs along first base line, they were there cheering me on constantly.  I could do no wrong in their eyes, and my Grandma Blue and Grandpa Red were proud of everything I did. I know I took this for granted growing up, and I will miss having these two individuals in my corner through thick and thin.

It's funny how memories, ones that were tucked away in a brain's recesses, begin flooding your consciousness once a loved one is gone.  Anytime I get a quiet moment to think, my brain begins recalling interactions I had with my grandparents--ones I will never have again.  You don't know what you've got 'til it's gone.   I am very thankful for these piles of good memories associated with my grandparents, but they make the loss harder to get over.

It makes me sad to think that any children I might possibly have will not experience such a close and long term relationship with their own grandparents. I am much older than my parents were when I was born, and every year I put off having children is one less year those children will have with their grandparents.  I owe so much to my Grandpa Red and Grandma Blue, and I can't imagine how my life would have been without them.  By putting off childbearing, am I making my future children's childhood less fulfilled because the time spent with their grandparents will certainly be much less than the time I had with my own? 

On the way home from my grandma's funeral, I took a few hours to fish a piece of water located a few miles from where I grew up.  It's hard to believe I had never been there before, and I greatly appreciate the directions provided by a friend.  It was just the type of fishing I needed that day; it was a quiet, solitary place.  The hike to the river took me down into a steep ravine strewn with limestone rocks, moss, and ferns.  The ravine eventually led to the water I was seeking.  The first trout I caught was a very nice brook trout on a dry fly, which fittingly had bright Red and Blue markings.

They would still be very proud of their granddaughter.

Streamside Therapy

My husband and I normally make a pretty solid team.  My weaknesses are his strengths, and vice versa.  We can usually pick each other up when we're feeling down, but last week we discovered what our kryptonite is:  a dying pet.   With heavy hearts, we said goodbye to Jeffrey last Saturday.

Jeffrey was not your ordinary cat.  He had a lot of special quirks that made him quite amazing, and we're certain we'll never have another companion like him.  Most people who've lived with pets understand how important they can become to you and what an integral role they can play in a household.  Jeffrey was that way.  He was a little guy with a huge personality, and we'll greatly miss his company. 

We've thankfully now arrived at the acceptance stage of our grieving process, but it was touch-and-go for a few days.  After a long period of mourning together, we each chose different ways to dispel our sadness and head down the path towards the sunnier side of life once again.  My husband buried himself in work (partly out of necessity), while I chose streamside therapy.


I was very thankful for the chance to head to the Driftless with a couple good fishing partners the day after Jeffrey was sent to the Great Beyond.  There's nothing like a day on the water to put things in perspective and to refocus your mind on the things that make life good.  The day was the epitome of spring:  warm breezes, blue skies, the smell of rotting humus, and green shoots peeking through mats of dead grass.  There were also the sounds of cranes flying overhead, returning from their southern wintering grounds, and red-wing blackbirds marking their territories in the stubbled fields. 

As the sun sank closer to the horizon, with only the sounds of the breeze blowing and birds singing, we enjoyed some cold beer and watched the tell-tale rings form on the shimmery surface of the stream below.

If that's not a Zen moment, I don't know what is.  Though I'm still catching phantom glimpses of our lost companion multiple times each day, and though I miss him tremendously, my streamside therapy somehow provided closure.  Maybe it was the trance-like state I found myself in while fishing up enticing runs, the refreshing blast of spring air for eight straight hours, the soul-cleansing flow of water, or the good company on the stream.  More than likely it was a combination of many things.....including friends who care enough to send flowers. 

Thanks, Katie and Janie :)

                         



Trout Madness

.......or Why Fly Fisherwomen should be Avoided like Wood Ticks

One of the greatest gifts my mom ever gave me was the love of reading. I started to read at a fairly young age and have been a voracious reader ever since. One of my earliest memories involves the two of us sitting on the living room couch while she quizzed me with oversized flashcards. Each card had a capital and lowercase letter from the alphabet along with a colorful image of an item beginning with that letter. I can still see the "Aa" card with a bright, red apple on it. Throughout school, whenever the teacher would be calling on students to read aloud to the class, I would secretly be hoping they'd call on me. I have no doubt that being a good reader at a young age helped set me up for a future of academic success.  I can also picture my younger self reclining in an old, yellow bean bag reading one of the Little House on the Prairie books while the scent of Pledge hung heavily in the air and the noise of my mom's vacuuming drowned out all other sounds. Getting immersed in a good book was a valid excuse for postponing household chores in my family, and I loved getting lost in books; that remains true today.


I still read a tremendous amount of literature, especially during our greenhouse off-season. There's nothing like curling up on the couch with a cup of coffee, a cuddly cat, and a good read.  I even started keeping a literary notebook years ago so I can keep track of the books I go through. A large number of notebook entries over the past few years have been related to fly fishing. One way I've found to keep spirits up during the long closure of the Wisconsin inland trout season is to fly fish vicariously through the writings of other fly fishers. One such book I just completed is Trout Madness by Robert Traver (aka John Voelker). It was a quick and entertaining read that transported me to many remote trout streams in Michigan's Upper Peninsula.

Within the first few pages of this book, I was already hooked by Traver's candid prose. Even his preface contained several proclamations that still ring true today:

…sometimes [a fisherman] fishes not because he regards fishing as being so terribly important but because he suspects that so many of the other concerns of men are equally unimportant. (p. viii)


In my view the best time to go trout fishing is when you can get away. (p. x)


It's interesting how the simplest phrases are often the most profound.


Because Trout Madness was published in 1960, the hint of chauvinism that appears in a couple chapters is excusable.  If I were to travel back in time to cross paths with John Voelker, I doubt I would be invited to tag along on any of his fishing excursions and would likely be looked upon as a curse to the sport of trout fishing, much like those damn bait fishermen he despises, but I forgive him for this folly (and secretly think I could win him over if given the chance).

 Some of the most enjoyable quotes from Trout Madness allude to the cursed female species:

When [fishermen] aren’t fishing they gabble and prattle about fishing much as clusters of idle women run on about babies and clothes—and the witch-like tendencies of other women. (p. 127)

Ignoring the offensive remark about idle women, Traver's description of the tendency for many fly fishermen to fill up their time off the water by prattling on about anything and everything related to the sport of fly fishing is spot on in my experience.

 And my favorite:

Women Fishermen:  Avoid them.  One kind will quietly out-fish you and generally get in your hair while another variety will come down with the vapors and want to go home just when the rise gets under way. Avoid all of them like wood ticks.

            (p. 144)

I don't think I've ever come down with the "vapors," but I do remember out-fishing some partners on rare occasions.


If something like the above quotes were published in fly fishing literature today, I'm sure you'd hear a huge outcry from both sexes, though I'm not so naive to assume all fly fishermen welcome women into their fishing camps with open arms. I've been lucky in my exploits to come across a good number of fly fishermen who have accepted me into their clan. I doubt they worry about me coming down with the "vapors," but if they secretly regard me as a blood sucking parasite, at least they keep it to themselves.
 

Hand-Me-Down Bamboo

In the world of bamboo fly rods, mine is nothing special.  It’s an 8’ South Bend with interchangeable tips that allow it to be used as a two-piece spinning rod or three-piece fly rod.  From what I've been told, it was mass produced in Japan during the 1940's and 50's.  In terms of aesthetics, it’s seen better days:  some of the wraps are beginning to unravel, the cork grip has taken on an unattractive patina, at least one of the ferrules have come loose, and there's a noticeable bend at the end of the middle section.  I  don't have much experience casting anything other than graphite, but I took it out the other day and made some casts in the backyard with my 5 wt line and reel, which was probably too heavy of a setup for this rod.  Overall, the rod had a very loose feel to it and casted better than I expected it to, but the butt section felt a bit heavy.  Perhaps with a lighter line and reel the casting would improve, assuming the rod stays in one piece. 

Despite these faults, I take great pleasure in this rod because it was a gift from my grandpa   The rod was given to him by a friend that served overseas in Japan, and it apparently has not seen water for at least forty years.  Once I began fly fishing, my grandpa decided it should be taken out of storage and passed on to his oldest granddaughter.

Grandpa Jerry, and the rest of my family for that matter, takes great pride in the fact that I fly fish.  Being a tomboy is a commendable attribute in my family, so they were not the least bit surprised when I took up the sport.  My grandpa likes to tell stories about taking my brother and me out fishing when we were very young.  I clearly remember sitting on a padded bucket on the ice, pulling up blue gills and trying very hard not to complain about the cold.  I also remember staring at panfish flopping in the bottom of metal pails while we cleaned them in my grandparents’ basement.  My grandma would be upstairs heating oil for the imminent fish dinner.  Apparently my grandpa also took us to the Kinnickinnic as young kids to fish for trout, but unfortunately I don’t remember those outings.

It's interesting to contemplate the rod's history, and I hope to learn more details in the future, but what I find really fascinating are the accessories found inside the rod's box.  The rod is in its original case, which has the look and feel of balsam, and inside the lid are several compartments covered by two sliding covers.  These compartments contain the original silk gut, wired hooks, wooden bobbers, and flies that were sold with the rod.  Though the flies have become a bit disheveled over the years, they look very pretty in their small, individual quadrants.

Since this rod came into my possession, I’ve been content to keep it tucked up high on a shelf out of harm's way, to be brought out and admired occasionally when the desire arises.  Lately, though, I’ve been thinking that this has been a disservice to the rod.  Lately I’ve been thinking this rod deserves to taste water from a spring fed creek.  It deserves to feel warm sunshine along its length.  It deserves to cast a dry fly to a riser and to feel the bounce of a healthy, Driftless trout through each of its fibers. 

For these reasons, I've decided to fish this rod next season and land a trout with it.  Though it makes me a bit nervous to do so, the worst that could happen isn’t as bad as never realizing the potential of the rod. 

It deserves a chance.

Phase 1

My husband and I have made a decision:  It’s time for us to throw our collective hat into the childbearing ring.

We’ve been married for six years now but have been together for over twelve.  During that time, children were something we said we’d think about later or avoid entirely.  It wasn’t until this last year that we began considering the topic more seriously.  The time has now come to either move towards or around the process of reproduction.

For years, my husband and I both insisted that we’d be content never having children.  We’d squirrel our money away, have more time to devote to our small business, and take more opportunities to travel.  Slowly but surely, we both began to falter at different points this past year.  Now we both agree that children will bring us a different type of contentment down the road.  We’ve also begun to consider our own parents’ futures.  My parents are both relatively young being in their mid- to early fifties, but my wonderful in-laws are already in their mid-sixties.  If we wait much longer to start a family, that severely reduces their time to influence the lives of their grandchildren.  My in-laws support everything my husband and I do, but they very much deserve to have grandkids in their lives, and they will be the most loving grandparents a child could ask for.  We owe it to them to begin the process.  I also think about my husband’s future.  If something happened to me somewhere down the road, I’d hate to think of him being alone.  I don’t think he would handle life on his own very well if I was out of the picture, but having children around could ease his pain.  My husband thinks this is a very morbid reason for having children, but it’s a reason nonetheless.

I’ve never felt any motherly instincts towards children, though I am very nurturing towards my cat.  It’s amazing how the baby talk that used to repulse me comes very easily with my animal companions.  I am also not one of those women who look forward to pregnancy.  I’ve always had a very athletic build and would’ve been happy keeping a slim, boyish figure throughout my life.  Perhaps partly because of athletics and partly due to genetics, I didn’t even start menstruating until college, which was wonderful and embarrassing at the same time.  In middle school gym class, the girls were required to line up at the start of the period and count off for roll call.  We were all assigned numbers to call out, and if anyone was having their period that day, they would add a “half” after their number.  I was never able to call out “seven-and-a-half” because I never had my period.  Menstruating, breasts, and curves were a scary, foreign concept to me at that age, yet I was also self-conscious of not being like the other girls who were going through puberty.  There was always a question on the form I filled out as part of an annual physical that asked the date of a girl’s last period, and I would inevitably make up a date.  Looking back at this time of my life, I wish my mom had shared more information with me, but I know I would have died from embarrassment if she had tried.  Instead, I didn’t ask any questions and my mom didn’t volunteer any information.  It’s hard to believe that she would have been my current age at the time I was going through this stage of life.

I finally started menstruating regularly at the age of twenty once I began taking the pill, and have been on the pill ever since.   When my prescription ran out last month, I officially began Phase 1 of this childbearing process:  I stopped the pill, began taking prenatal vitamins, and started researching ovulation.  Though I taught human anatomy and physiology for years to juniors and seniors in high school, and I’m very much familiar with the textbook process of conception, pregnancy, and birth, I can’t quite fathom going through this process myself.  I assume that it will be difficult for my husband and I to conceive, even though people get pregnant everyday when they’re not even trying.  I guess this assumption stems from the disconnection I have with my own femininity, and also from the newly acquired knowledge that mine would be a “geriatric” pregnancy, as loudly stated by a registered nurse acquaintance.

My husband has also started his own Phase 1:  he’s begun the nesting process of removing extraneous “stuff” from the house and reorganizing the garage and basement.  Though he genuinely worries that he won’t be a good parent, the amount of love he’ll have for a child will be immeasurable, which is really all that matters.  What he lacks in parenting skills will be made up in love.  He worries that he won’t be good at setting boundaries, but from my years of teaching experience, I know how to set expectations and follow through on discipline.  I accept that he will be the good cop and I the bad cop.  I still worry how a child will impinge on my independence and how we will continue to have time and money to invest in our small business, but I guess we’re getting ahead of ourselves.

Phase 2 has yet to begin.

Continuation

My Grandma Bonnie sent a little piece of herself home with me this Christmas. 

Growing up, it was not unusual for my brother and I to spend most nights after school at my grandparents' farm while my dad helped my grandpa with the nightly chores.  Some nights we'd follow Dad outside, but other nights we'd spend in the house with our grandma.  It was with Grandma Bonnie that I learned to bake chocolate chip cookies, to cross stitch, use a sewing machine, and to crochet.  This is the grandma who wins blue ribbons at the county fair for her quilting, as well as the grandma that donates homemade baby blankets to families in need.  She's also the grandma that tied her hair up in a blue handkerchief when she needed to head to the barn in the middle of the night to bottle feed the lambs that failed to nurse themselves.  She's also the grandma that planted zinnias in her garden so her grandkids could use them in bouquets, which they'd place in the neighbors' mailboxes.  Grandma Bonnie is also the one who'd make batches of soup to send over to the ninety-year old bachelor farmers living down the road.  She's the grandparent that insists every Christmas, ignoring the half-hearted protests from everyone, for family photos on the living room couch, which seems to get smaller and smaller each year.  She's the grandma that was the oldest child growing up on a hard scrabble farm who responds with a genuine, "Uff-da," when the occasion arises.  Besides the skills she's taught me, I've inherited my freckles, blue eyes, and Norwegian pride from her.

After all the gifts were opened this Christmas and the day was winding down, my grandma went upstairs and returned with a shoebox containing balls of yarn in varying shades of green.  She also carried a bag of granny squares.  She had begun crocheting this granny square blanket some twenty-odd years ago and thought I might be interested in finishing the project.  Though I saw recognition in my grandpa's eyes as he watched on, I don't think my grandma realized what this half-completed project meant to me.

I've already begun completing my half of the granny squares, using the same pattern and size K crochet needle that Grandma Bonnie used.   Though it's hard to pin down exactly what makes them different, our finished squares are not identical.  Could it be because my grandma's squares were made left-handed, which adds a slightly different angle to her stitches?  Does my grandma crochet with a slightly smaller gauge?   Do I think too much about each stitch making them look less organic?

As I work, I find comfort in finishing something my grandma started.  I try to imagine what she was doing while she completed her own half of the squares.  Was I underfoot?  Was she thinking about a list of chores that needed completing?  Had she attached notes to the door reminding my grandpa to apply sunscreen before heading to the fields?  Did she have her very cliché "World's Greatest Grandma" coffee mug next to her on the end table, which she still uses today?   Was she worried about any of the same things that cross my mind and make sleep sometimes difficult? 

Once my half of the squares is completed, I'll join them all into a blanket; my grandma's squares intermixed with mine.  Grandma suggested donating the finished project to a local organization of my choice, but as my grandpa pointed out, it would be hard for me to give up something containing pieces of my Grandma Bonnie.  It will eventually get tucked away safely somewhere in my house; out of reach of a cat's stretching claws, coffee stains, or food crumbs.  It will get taken out on occasions when I want to feel close to my grandma, and though it may not be obvious to others that the squares were made by two different sets of hands, I will always be able to pick out my Grandma Bonnie's work. 


That will be a comforting thing for me.