And that ain't no fish tale...

Fishing fever; fishing lies; fishing tales and fishing hives! According to my grandson, Logan, age 5, there ain’t nothing like reeling in a fish or watching the pole while the fish sneaks up on the hook and snap-- You’ve got him. All fish are referred to as him! Though many have eggs and have to be female because even fish can’t do without the opposite sex!

Today was another day Pawpaw and Logan decided to take a trip to Town Lake and wet a hook. They enjoy the comradery with other fishermen. Now here is the latest fish story told from the mouths of two fishermen named John and Logan.

Pawpaw was sitting in his chair fishing (mostly sitting), and Logan had two fishing poles in the water. One was propped up waiting for the big one and the other he was fishing for brim. The propped up pole started jerking up and down. You know what that means! FISH! Logan threw his brim fishing pole at Pawpaw to catch. Pawpaw didn’t catch it. Instead the hook caught in the crotch of his pants and he couldn’t move. All he could do was concentrate on where that hook was seated. Logan was hollering, “Somebody help me, help me”. “Help” as he was pulling the fish in. A nearby fisherman heard him and came to his aide while Logan reeled in a 7 pound carp. That was a BIG FISH for a little boy. Someone else saw him and came and took his picture with his prize catch of the day. Chick was still working the hook out of the crotch of his pants, but he was a proud Pawpaw. That boy can fish!

The man who took the picture was to send it to me on my email, but I think Pawpaw gave him the wrong address because Logan and I keep waiting for that picture and so far it’s the picture that got away.

Dwindling Hours

July 28, 2008

There he sat in his hospital bed, sort of bent over, staring down like an old cowboy who had been shot in the back. He knew who we were but he had no strength to sit up straight. However, he wanted to sit up. He was as pale as the spirit he was to become. His shaggy eyebrows seemed to cover what he felt. He tried so hard to lift his head and make eye contact, but instead his head hovered and could not rise to make eye contact. I walked through the crowded room with too many bright lights and too many people crowding around. Everyone wanted to bring comfort to the dying. His hair was uncombed; there were big round flat perfect circles on his head and body. They were pooching out, looking like inverted moon circles. He was dying from the enemy (leukemia). He had fought it until he couldn’t win. It grew bigger within him than WILL, the power that he thought would save him. The shining light had gone from his pupils. I leaned down to speak. What to say! There was nothing to say. I said, “How’s my boyfriend?” “Alright”, I heard him say. He asked about the man, meaning Chick. I told him he was doing pretty good but has a cold and can’t come see him. He said to me “Hang in there”. I answered that we were hanging in. I asked if he felt like going to Steak Kountry and he said, “I’m not hungry, but I’ll go with you and watch you eat”. I rubbed his head. Linda was sitting there on the floor holding his hand. She cautioned me not to touch the crown of his head (it was covered with the reminders that the enemy was here to take his life - - lumps) and I rubbed his forehead, as I always did for my children to soothe them, rubbing softly back and forth while I silently prayed for him as well. He said the motion felt good. Shortly afterwards, I moved away from him, the room was filling up with more relatives.

Frances and I went out the door to talk. She said he is angry because he is dying and he is taking it out on the closest one to him - - her! Why do husbands use us as their anger posts? I guess they feel we can handle it and who else can they take it out on? Frances was big enough to understand and to handle it. She knows Charles and SHE KNOWS he does not want to leave her. I told her we have been married to our spouses so long we are like old comfortable chairs to one another. We can be who we are with those we have lived with for so long; they know we’ll take them back no matter how they treat us, they relax in the arms of our unconditional love.

Now I pray that God will let Charles return home to Princeton to die as he wishes so he can wind up the financial end of his and Frances’ lives to make life a little easier for his soon to be new widow. God hold him up that long! Let him die surrounded with his family and friends. The old cowboy will join his heavenly family soon and we’ll not be that far behind him. We’re only a breathe away from Heaven.

The Circle Will Be Unbroken, by and by Lord by and by

Cousin in the Country Music Hall of Fame

Me and Chick were talking this morning about his cousin Joe Allison (whom I have never met), and Chick asked me to pull up some articles about him on the web. Here is one we read this morning, though there are several. http://www.nashvillesongwritersfoundation.com/fame/allison.html Chick does not have any glasses he can see out of right now so I read it to him and a gush of memories came at me when I read about Tommy Sands and his golden record, Teenage Crush.

I remember that night so clearly. Tammy Minette, (I think that is how her name was spelled) was one of my good friends in 1957, 1958 and 1959 in Evansville, Indiana. They lived in a big old house across the street from our other friend, Pam Baird. We were in the era of slumber parties and such. I was 13, 14 and 15 during those years. Anyway, we also had a friend named Patsy Ward who lived in that same neighborhood. Tammy’s mom surprised us all with tickets to the local Amphitheatre to see Tommy Sands.

We got ready that night and put on our best clothes. I had on a blue dress with a large cumber bund and some pearlized heels and little pearl earrings, sprayed a little Blue Waltz (remember that) behind each ear and waited on my friends to pick me up. They dressed in their best as well. We were in hopes of seeing Tommy Sands up close and personal. We screamed, we squealed, our hearts palpitated out of our chests.

After his performance, we went down to the back of the Amphitheatre to use the ladies room. There were security guards posted so that we could not go around to the door where the stars entered and exited. We came out of the bathroom and the guard was busy talking to someone and walked away from his post. We took off running in our high heels and sheath dresses to the door where the stars entered. We tried the door – gasp! It opened! We were in luck! We went in.

We could hear the other acts on stage performing. We sneaked down the hallway and there was the sign in front of us Tommy Sands with a star on the sign. We went in. It was empty. We opened the suitcase (OH NO, we were becoming JUVENILE Delinquents) I took a shirt and stuffed it up my dress between my knees to hide it in the event someone saw us. Tammy yelled, “Someone is coming, let’s go, we’ll get in trouble”.

Her mom was involved with the Amphitheatre (I think, my memory is dim as far as how she got the tickets, etc. I know that her dad was a clarinet or horn player of some sort). We didn’t want to go to jail for breaking in and entering so we ran. Pam said, “Throw the shirt down”. I couldn’t run well with the shirt between my knees and fell down the steep stairs and scraped my ankle enough for it to bleed. We ran to the back and hollered, “Tommy, Tommy we have your shirt”.

Three guys looked out the window (no Tommy). They were back-up singers with Tommy Sands. They came out and talked to us and I gave them the shirt back. They promised to tell Tommy we loved him. We went back to our seats. My ankle was bleeding onto my hose. I was happy. Ever so often, even now, I catch a glimpse of the scar (now faded) on my ankle and I remember my youth. The next day a fat girl was on the front page of the paper that she broke into Tommy Sands dressing room and met him. Tammy, Patsy, Pam and I sat around and talked about that until I moved to Texas. Now I find out Chick is kin to the guy who wrote the song. I guess that is the next best thing to being with Tommy who later married Frank’s daughter, Nancy Sinatra (these boots are made for walking and that is what I'll do one of these days these boots are going to walk all over you). Nothing lasts forever I guess! She was married to him about as long as we were behind the Amphitheatre.