Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Family - Fly Fishing - Fun
There was a time when every weekend meant hours prowling the Loxahatchee River, the Intracoastal Waterway, Jupiter Inlet, and the edges of the Atlantic Ocean out to the Gulf Stream. Most often, it was our boat, but there were many times when a ride was hitched with friends. There were also numerous trips to Lake Okeechobee as well as infrequent journeys to the Everglades, Stick Marsh, and even the cooling ponds at the FPL power plant in Indiantown. A lot of time and effort was put into fishing, but catching? Not so much.
Times changed. Kids grew up. Kids built lives for themselves. Good times became fond memories. Tough times required serious commitment to families, jobs, and health. The boats were sold or simply stopped running. The rods were put away. Contact dwindled to occasional brief phone conversations or even less frequent email messages.
Then, the phone call came: "Hey Dad, I want to tell you something..." Six months later, the door that was opened has enabled me to pass into a world so precious it defies definition. John, my eldest, had stopped into John B's Fly and Light Tackle in Stuart. He had heard that it was the place to go, that John B had a heart of gold and a burning desire to turn every man, woman, and child into a fly-fisherman. My two granddaughters had tagged along with their dad on this expedition and patiently passed the time sitting on the floor engrossed in fly-fishing magazines. When the hour-long process had culminated in a $3.50 transaction and my son gathered the kids to leave, John B insisted that they wait until he finished rummaging around in the back of the store. He finally returned with a juvenile rod and reel, which he offered to the sisters as a gift.
All my life, I have lived by the belief that there is goodness in every person. A young person sometimes has difficulty grasping that concept especially after struggling mightily to find success and happiness. That day, my son became a believer.
John B had told my son that a friend of his gave free fly-fishing lessons every Saturday morning at Indian Riverside Park in Jensen Beach. "Do you want to go with me this Saturday?" The stars were properly aligned. The wind was in the right quadrant. Everything fit together perfectly, and the park became my Saturday morning destination.
Even with no expectations, the experience was a continuing series of surprises. John and I arrived nearly 1/2 hour early to an open expanse of grass on the edge of the Indian River, which seemed like as good a place as any to wet a line. The day was off to a beautiful start. While some shy from the sun and heat of an August day, I thrive on it. Even at 8:30am, the temperature was poised in the high 70's on its way to a real scorcher. The heat had stolen the wind leaving a dead calm weighted with humidity. My kind of day!
The slate gray Suburban with US Army, Stars and Stripes, and Airborne stickers rolled into the parking lot and backed lazily to the curb. Finally settled into place, the tank's door popped open and belched out our instructor. There was no doubting ownership of the vehicle, as his belt buckle carried the same military theme with the impressive winged parachute front and center. A body that had experienced one too many low altitude jumps in full gear was twisted like a pretzel. It didn't slow his gait. Gigantic hands formed a grip that did not hide their strength. The voice was clear. The gaze was sharp. Our instructor was a force to be reckoned with. Introducing himself as "Sarge," we quickly learned that he was a retired Command Sergeant Major, an original member of the Special Forces, and was in his mid-80's.
His sidekick who arrived shortly thereafter is a retired Air Force colonel who is fighting the vagaries of Agent Orange. I was stunned to discover the depth of Sarge's warmth, his innate ability to simplify a complicated process and his patience as we struggled to duplicate his effortless cast. Instead of fish in the river, we were casting to bare patches in the grass. Typically, 15-20 feet of line ended up in a pile within 10 feet of where we were standing. Sarge can drop a perfect, straight/taught line over a squirrel's back at 90 feet! We had a long, long way to go.
The hour passed too quickly. The following week passed equally fast, but with one exception: multiple phone conversations with John reviewing the events of that fateful Saturday, discussing fruitless practice sessions, and planning the next excursion. The weeks and months have marched inexorably onward with mundane work and life experiences punctuated with entertaining fly-fishing classes. If I can somehow learn to stop bending my arm, the endless pushups might come to a halt. Each week, others have joined us, but none have remained. John and I continually return, more for the contact with a truly wonderful old soldier than for perfection of our cast.
John B died. He died way too soon, way too fast. No one was ready to let him go. The memorial service at that same park was attended by hundreds of family, friends and acquaintances. John and I were there. We shared the grief. We laughed at the stories. We marveled at the tightness of the fishing community in which he thrived. While we frequent other similar stores, we try hard to make our purchases where they will in some small way help John B's family.
John and I talk nearly every day. Once a week we meet at his home and work on a 14-foot johnboat that we plan to use this summer in quest of snook, trout, and redfish. John's brother, Morgan, has a new "best friend forever." Dan is the salesman in the Orvis store in Alexandria, VA, Morgan's home. During his infrequent visits to the area, the three of us manage to squeeze in some time to try a new stream, canal, or pond.
It's not like "old times." Everything has changed. John and Morgan's mother, my first wife, is fighting cancer. Morgan is battling a chronic illness. We all seem to have a fair share of dents and bruises, but we have also found a place in our minds and hearts where we can escape to lie back and immerse ourselves in the comfort of relationships that are totally devoid of rules, exceptions, or disruptions.
Fly-fishing has opened the door to a world populated almost exclusively with John Bs, Sarges, Colonels, and other equally warm, generous, good people. The space that world has provided for my sons and me cannot be defined. We are learning to simply accept it with the deepest gratitude.
Times changed. Kids grew up. Kids built lives for themselves. Good times became fond memories. Tough times required serious commitment to families, jobs, and health. The boats were sold or simply stopped running. The rods were put away. Contact dwindled to occasional brief phone conversations or even less frequent email messages.
Then, the phone call came: "Hey Dad, I want to tell you something..." Six months later, the door that was opened has enabled me to pass into a world so precious it defies definition. John, my eldest, had stopped into John B's Fly and Light Tackle in Stuart. He had heard that it was the place to go, that John B had a heart of gold and a burning desire to turn every man, woman, and child into a fly-fisherman. My two granddaughters had tagged along with their dad on this expedition and patiently passed the time sitting on the floor engrossed in fly-fishing magazines. When the hour-long process had culminated in a $3.50 transaction and my son gathered the kids to leave, John B insisted that they wait until he finished rummaging around in the back of the store. He finally returned with a juvenile rod and reel, which he offered to the sisters as a gift.
All my life, I have lived by the belief that there is goodness in every person. A young person sometimes has difficulty grasping that concept especially after struggling mightily to find success and happiness. That day, my son became a believer.
John B had told my son that a friend of his gave free fly-fishing lessons every Saturday morning at Indian Riverside Park in Jensen Beach. "Do you want to go with me this Saturday?" The stars were properly aligned. The wind was in the right quadrant. Everything fit together perfectly, and the park became my Saturday morning destination.
Even with no expectations, the experience was a continuing series of surprises. John and I arrived nearly 1/2 hour early to an open expanse of grass on the edge of the Indian River, which seemed like as good a place as any to wet a line. The day was off to a beautiful start. While some shy from the sun and heat of an August day, I thrive on it. Even at 8:30am, the temperature was poised in the high 70's on its way to a real scorcher. The heat had stolen the wind leaving a dead calm weighted with humidity. My kind of day!
The slate gray Suburban with US Army, Stars and Stripes, and Airborne stickers rolled into the parking lot and backed lazily to the curb. Finally settled into place, the tank's door popped open and belched out our instructor. There was no doubting ownership of the vehicle, as his belt buckle carried the same military theme with the impressive winged parachute front and center. A body that had experienced one too many low altitude jumps in full gear was twisted like a pretzel. It didn't slow his gait. Gigantic hands formed a grip that did not hide their strength. The voice was clear. The gaze was sharp. Our instructor was a force to be reckoned with. Introducing himself as "Sarge," we quickly learned that he was a retired Command Sergeant Major, an original member of the Special Forces, and was in his mid-80's.
His sidekick who arrived shortly thereafter is a retired Air Force colonel who is fighting the vagaries of Agent Orange. I was stunned to discover the depth of Sarge's warmth, his innate ability to simplify a complicated process and his patience as we struggled to duplicate his effortless cast. Instead of fish in the river, we were casting to bare patches in the grass. Typically, 15-20 feet of line ended up in a pile within 10 feet of where we were standing. Sarge can drop a perfect, straight/taught line over a squirrel's back at 90 feet! We had a long, long way to go.
The hour passed too quickly. The following week passed equally fast, but with one exception: multiple phone conversations with John reviewing the events of that fateful Saturday, discussing fruitless practice sessions, and planning the next excursion. The weeks and months have marched inexorably onward with mundane work and life experiences punctuated with entertaining fly-fishing classes. If I can somehow learn to stop bending my arm, the endless pushups might come to a halt. Each week, others have joined us, but none have remained. John and I continually return, more for the contact with a truly wonderful old soldier than for perfection of our cast.
John B died. He died way too soon, way too fast. No one was ready to let him go. The memorial service at that same park was attended by hundreds of family, friends and acquaintances. John and I were there. We shared the grief. We laughed at the stories. We marveled at the tightness of the fishing community in which he thrived. While we frequent other similar stores, we try hard to make our purchases where they will in some small way help John B's family.
John and I talk nearly every day. Once a week we meet at his home and work on a 14-foot johnboat that we plan to use this summer in quest of snook, trout, and redfish. John's brother, Morgan, has a new "best friend forever." Dan is the salesman in the Orvis store in Alexandria, VA, Morgan's home. During his infrequent visits to the area, the three of us manage to squeeze in some time to try a new stream, canal, or pond.
It's not like "old times." Everything has changed. John and Morgan's mother, my first wife, is fighting cancer. Morgan is battling a chronic illness. We all seem to have a fair share of dents and bruises, but we have also found a place in our minds and hearts where we can escape to lie back and immerse ourselves in the comfort of relationships that are totally devoid of rules, exceptions, or disruptions.
Fly-fishing has opened the door to a world populated almost exclusively with John Bs, Sarges, Colonels, and other equally warm, generous, good people. The space that world has provided for my sons and me cannot be defined. We are learning to simply accept it with the deepest gratitude.
Friday, January 15, 2010
The Last of the Best!
There were 1,829 manufactured in Australia by Holden and shipped to the USA. This is the only one remaining.
Why don't I buy it, you say? I bought mine on 3/31/09. After 22,000+ miles, I can only say that it is the most awesome vehicle I have ever owned!
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Saffron :: An Experience in Fine Dining
With bottle of Gewürztraminer in hand and not knowing what to expect (confirmation that the restaurant would be open having been made), we approached the three-story Victorian style mansion with uncertainty. As we entered, it was immediately clear that we would have a very private dining experience. Capable of easily accommodating hundreds, the sprawling rooms had only the tiniest population. Although the staff’s somber demeanor was somewhat off-putting, the overall experience confirmed the accuracy of the restaurant’s lofty rating.
Twenty-five years later, a first visit to Saffron, owner chef Mike Hussain’s newest of three restaurants, early on a Tuesday night was déjà vu all over again! A sparse crowd at the 1061 East Indiantown Road location in Jupiter brought back a flood of memories. Thankfully, the staff’s enthusiasm and the grainy Bollywood music videos broadcast on small, discreetly placed screens with a very low volume created a delightful energy.
While we explored the extensive menu, we nibbled on Masale-e-wale Papad, paper-thin, crisp bread that was served with three chutneys: tamarind, tomato, and mint. Each chutney is distinctive and memorable. While my partner found the tamarind refreshing, the slightly hot spiciness of the mint while not anticipated was excellent just the same. Our meal started with Lamb Samosa, two moderately sized puff pastries filled with lamb, peas and aromatic Indian spices for my partner and Aloo Tikki Chaat, potatoes with chickpeas, flour, yogurt, sev, and spices. Sev is string-like, gram flour based snack that is similar in consistency if not flavor to dried Chinese noodles. Both dishes were notable for the preparation and the presentation, which was very appealing.
The entrees, Lamb Chop Masala and Shrimp Vindaloo, were similar yet entirely different. Served in tureens with an abundance of sauce, their appearance caused one to wonder if both dishes were prepared in the same pot. We quickly learned that each dish was totally unique. The curry sauce with the lamb chop was rich and full bodied. The hot spicy sauce on the shrimp was fiery. Each had a slightly different texture, but both were ideal on an unseasonably cold night. Both dishes were well prepared.
The Riesling, chosen from a limited wine list was the perfect accompaniment to the meal. The delicate sweetness offered a perfect balance to the robust flavors of the meals.
No genuine Indian feast would be complete without one of the leavened breads with onions. Our choice was plain naan, the garlic being another concession to a cool evening.
The evening turned out to be a memorable experience that will be repeated in the coming weeks with friends who enjoy experiencing new flavors and aromas, who appreciate unique textures and colors.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
The Call
Barely able to return the telephone to its cradle, you suddenly discover rage boiling up inside of you. Stupid phone. Stupid damned phone. Goddamned stupid damned stupid phone! The cradle is no place for a stupid phone. Let’s see how it looks after it has bounced off a wall at 90 miles per hour. Why did I ever buy a stupid phone? Why did I ever allow myself to feel love? Why did I ever allow other people into my life? Why didn’t I run off and live a hermit’s existence totally removed from society, family, and friends?
Decisions suddenly come easily. I’m never going to feel pain again. I’m never going to let anyone into my world. I’m tough. Nobody is going to see me suffer. I’m going to focus on all that needs to be done. I need to be strong for the others. I need to set an example. No one will ever see me cry. I can get through this on my own…
Then, the questions. What do I do now? Who should I call? What about the arrangements? Should I go? Should I go alone? Should I go now? Can I get off from work? Can I afford the trip? Who will be there? What if I don’t go? How do I get there? Where do I stay?
Then, the commitment. I’m going… Right away! I have to be there. I’ll find a place to stay when I get there. Damned the expense. This is more important. I’ll sort out all of that when I get back. I need to be there for ________ (fill in the name of your choice). I need to be there; now!
There is a source for comfort in the most trying times involving the health of family members and loved ones. Little known and underutilized, there are small oases of comfort. Similar to a bed & breakfast, homes have popped up throughout the United States with one simple purpose: to provide affordable accommodations while you tend to the needs of those who are closest to you. Known as hospital hospitality houses, they are frequently affiliated or have close ties to hospitals and medical facilities.
The best-known facilities are the more than 270 Ronald McDonald Houses located throughout the United States and in 52 foreign countries. Started 35 years ago in Philadelphia, these facilities were created to offer families a way to stay together, in proximity to the treatment hospital where seriously ill or injured children receive care. Access to Ronald McDonald Houses is limited to parents of children under 18 years of age.
Similar services are available in homelike environments to families of adults as well as children who are hospitalized in medical facilities throughout the United States. Instead of sleeping in a hospital waiting room or even your car, you can stay at a hospital hospitality house where you can find rest in a warm and supportive environment, usually for a voluntary donation that is a fraction of the cost of a motel room. For more information and a directory of hospitality houses, visit the website for the National Association of Hospital Hospitality Houses (http://www.nahhh.org)
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Thanksgiving
Aunt Annabelle was born and raised in Port Jervis, NY, across the Delaware River from Pennsylvania. She became part of the Shannon (Mom’s side of the family) clan when she married my Uncle Booch (Robert), the youngest of seven Shannon siblings. One can only guess how my grandfather’s Irish heritage ever melded with my grandmother’s Pennsylvania Dutch (She was a Cristman.) background, but the union produced a feisty, fun-loving, passionate family that followed tradition closely: I have nearly 20 cousins! Few members of the family strayed far from their roots in the Delaware Valley or the family traditions.
Thanksgiving was half bedlam, half food. With rugrats clogging the corridors and carpets, adults setting tables, arranging chairs, and shifting serving platters, the clan would gather to share each wife’s contribution to the feast. Luscious aromas permeated the air, as idle chatter slowly focused on the reason we all gathered together under one roof.
A silence permeated only by Dad’s brief prayer was followed by a gentle crescendo of chatter as positive comments were made about Mom’s turkey, Jerry’s mashed potatoes, Aunt Millie’s dressing, the cranberries, gravy, beans, and brussel sprouts (Dad’s favorite). It wasn’t until the table had been cleared that people would begin to focus on the pièce de résistance: dessert.
As fresh, black coffee was poured into awaiting cups, a parade of pies made its way from the kitchen to the table. Pumpkin Pie, Apple Pie, Dutch Apple Pie, Mincemeat Pie, and Shoo-Fly Pie. Accolades filled the air as everyone proclaimed my Aunt Annabelle’s Shoo-Fly Pie to be the crowning touch to a perfect celebration. To this day, I can visualize her beaming smile, her glow of satisfaction. A simple, traditional dessert was the key my aunt used to open the door to our family’s hearts.
I have the recipe for that pie tucked away for safekeeping. I will never attempt to make one, however. Although I have hunted far and wide for a bakery that makes Shoo-Fly Pies (Believe it or not, there is one in Seattle of all places!), I have never bought one. I don’t want to cloud the memory of my Aunt’s creation with anyone else’s attempt at perfection. Aunt Annabelle’s Shoo-Fly Pie will always reign supreme.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Walt's Widow
At the intersection of Routes 202 and 206 in Bedminster, NJ, an insignificant Texaco gas station served as the home office for Walt Hansgen, one of the best road racers of the 60’s. Notably, the station also featured the U.S. Senator Harrison Williams/John Z. Delorean memorial telephone booth. Locals were accustomed to seeing long black limousines parked close to the phone booth as their famous, notorious occupants made calls from the presumably tap free pay phone.
Despite their public image, FBI agents are simply not that dumb. Not only had they tapped the residential phones of these local ne’er do wells, they also had all the local pay phones tapped and had a photographer capturing their furtive images inside Hansgen’s phone booth.
A horny high school student hitchhiked home from liaisons with his long-legged heartthrob along those same roads on a regular basis. Those experiences would have been forgettable, had it not been for the time that the free ride was provided in a late model, British Racing Green Jaguar “saloon” piloted by a raven-tressed, dynamic and spirited lady who stirred the manual gearbox with the alacrity of the Wicked Witch of the North’s potion preparations.
The Jag (not to be confused with “the car,” “the vehicle,” or any other mundane term) sang an ecstatic response to the driver’s delicate stroke: surging, pausing, surging, braking, leaning, gripping, diving, leaping with a fluidity of motion that belied it’s majestic proportions. This exotic, mysterious siren seemed to thrive on the energy she was able to coax from the highly refined driving machine.
Awestruck in the presence of incredible beauty, mesmerized by the intensity of pure passion, a young man who would in the not too distant future have all vestiges of innocence ripped from him in the violent struggle of military combat, could only sit silently and strive to understand inputs from senses that were on overload.
No gold and alabaster chariot pulled across the heavens by a team of 8 driven by Zeus himself could have elicited a more profound memory for this young man. A Jaguar was the ultimate expression of luxury and performance. That was a given in the minds of every boy over the age of 15. A Jaguar with a manual transmission was a mark of driving decadence. Only drivers addicted to performance lust for rising and falling engine tones played to the cadence of swift gear changes.
Who was this incredible vision of beauty and sexuality, this ethereal expression of all that is feminine and delicate who clearly thrived on danger, speed, and power? As in all singular moments, the answer came too late: my personal vision of pure perfection was the widow of one of the truly masterful, truly great sports car drivers in the world.
While others lust for wealth an power, the overriding goal in a long life containing innumerable successes and personal accomplishments has been to somehow capture the same raw emotions that filled a young man’s heart on that fateful day: to connect through heal and toe, hands and fingers with a mechanical thoroughbred, a purpose-built, refined automobile with the heart, power, and grace of a champion. Forty years later, every flick of the wrist, every whine of the synchros, every crisp and distinctive metallic click of the shifter brings light to a reality that seems more like a dream.
While Mrs. Walt Hansgen is long gone, her memory lives in the heart of a now old man as he strives in some small way to capture that oneness of man and machine, that synchronicity of thought and action which propelled us through the countryside with an impossible fluidity nearly fifty years ago.
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