Another Grayquill Moment

I was so hoping my Grayquill moments might be taking a turn toward more favorable results.

For months when I leave work, I see a young lady standing in the reception area of a technical high school waiting to be picked up. She always stands in the same place and it is easy to see her.

The school day ends early. By the time I leave, I know this poor girl has been waiting to be picked up for several hours.  It really bugs me seeing her standing there alone in a now empty building. Her posture communicates to me fear and sadness. I can only imagine the tension the young lady must feel waiting for hours in an empty building.  With the heat off, the building cools. Imagine the creaks, the groans she hears the building make, and what horrors must run through her mind as she waits alone.  Standing there she is at the mercy of anyone who comes into the building. As you might guess, night after night my feelings of pity for the young lady spring up and as a result my irritation toward her parents enlarges with each passing day.  

Last week, Tuesday, I left work later than usual. There she was still waiting to be picked up. Now I am angry. Who are these parent? Thoughts flashed through my mind of what I needed to do to correct this injustice. My first thought was, I am going to hang out and when that parent shows up, I will let Grayquill do his Jujitsu barn dance.  The main problem with that is, Grayquill doesn’t know Jujitsu. Rational thought prevailed and the next morning my first phone call was to the vice principal.  As I explained the reason for my call, I was encouraged to hear her shocked disdain for the plight of the young lady. The principal patiently listened to my passionate venting and assured me she would get to the bottom of this! She quizzed me with several questions and then she asked me, “Grayquill, where exactly does this young lady stand.”

“She is always in the same place, right on the right hand side in the entry way.”

There was a long pause, “Grayquill, that is a manikin.”

“Uhhh…what? Huh?” confusion….Grayquill could hear a large volume of laughter coming back through the telephone.  I hung up. My foolishness scored my pride but then I began to laugh. You gotta admit that’s funny.  

That night when I headed home I nodded to my favorite manikin knowing she was well protected under Grayquill’s watchful eye.

Grayquill has been warned…

I will warn you right now – if you have a tendency toward bad dreams and your creep meter pegs easily.

STOP reading NOW! This is your last warning and your last chance to save yourself.

Some might say this story is proof positive that I am being warned by our creator to stop killing His small creatures – I mean rats!

It was late. Dinner with my wife at our favorite diner was now over. She was headed to the store and I headed home.  As usual I drove on automatic and I let my mind run through the tasks ahead of me. I needed to start a load of laundry, maybe type out a blog post, and a must was to fill my birdfeeder, I mean rat feeder.

I arrived to a dark house and as is my usual routine I entered through the garage. Flipping on the light I then filled a container with bird seed. I headed into the house, flipped on the outside lights, slid the slider open, and went straight out into the back yard.  The birdfeeder could not be seen clearly. The light faded away into the darkness of the surrounding trees and only one side of the feeder was dimly lit. 

As we all know we are often held accountable for our choices.  That said, some of my blogger buddies might be saying, "tut tut and this serves you right for what is to come -Your recent choices involving rat killing was ill advised." With that fact only as a side note and that no real cause and effect has been proven; I throw out that tid bit of information only in passing, as that information might be deemed important to at least one reader. Okay, maybe two.

With not an inkling of the horror awaiting me, I headed into the shadows of the dimly lit birdfeeder.  I was now nearing the feeder and what I could not see on the back side in the darkness was a nasty long tailed rat stuffing his fat jowls on the remnants of my bird seed. In addition, I guess because of my uncommonly pudgy stealth, the rat was equally unaware of my approach. In blissful ignorance I began to lift my hand toward the feeder.  There was no warning, no inner sense that danger was only inches away. I enclosed my hand around the bottom of the feeder. At the same instant my thumb pinched a plump incredibly alive rat. The contrast of soft fur and a horrible scratching sensation hit my thumb all in the same instant. Tearing my hand away I jumped back from the feeder. To my great shame, an incredibly loud little girl scream passed over my lips that even the neighbors heard.

Traumatized, I headed toward my house doing the Grayquill high kick dance and screaming all the way. As I looked over my shoulder I could see the demon himself on top of my birdfeeder giving me his beady eyed stare. IT WAS HORRIBLE!!!  The last I saw of him as I entered the house, he was headed across the rope away from the birdfeeder. 

Safe in my house, my first stop was the disinfectant. I gave my hands a good scrubbing while inspecting my thumb for any broken skin. To my relief I was uninjured except for maybe my heart and a few vocal cords. The washing time was needed to begin the recovery of my manhood. Upon the completion of the scouring my courage was back and I headed straight into the back room for my Gamo rat killer. With flash light in hand, pellet gun cocked and loaded of rat, I began the Grayquill rat stalk into the back yard. Knees bent, toe to heel steps, flash light sweeping the parameter of the darkness, I searched intently for the illusive prey.  I eased along slowly, toe to heel, toe to heel. My eyes glued to the end of the light beam from my 190 lumens bulb as it coated the underbrush. I really did not expect to see much but there is something within this man that needed to show the world and one particular rat that I cannot and will not be scared into a wimpy prisoner in my own house.

My journey of much stealth once again had brought me back to within inches of the first incident – the birdfeeder. To my mortification which I can only blame on my masterful intense search for the terrible little creature, I had failed to look up. Now to my complete and utter ignorance the rat had returned and was perched back on the feeder only inches from my face. Time was at a stand still. I stood there motionless scanning the dark green salal that filled the area.  I cannot say it was a true feeling but a change was happening in my inner being. I know not if it was my soul, my spirit, a sixth sense, or some other outer force tying to protect or warn me. But suddenly I turned my head to the right. At that moment the rat made his move. It was a blur of gray flying fur. As I jumped, I swear that the vermin's tail flicked the edge of my beard as he passed in the shadows. At the same moment that little girl’s scream once again echoed throughout the neighborhood. It was terrible, humiliating, and worst of all emasculating. I checked my pants for wetness and it would be to embarrassing to admit my findings.

I must end my story as I think I am beginning to make myself look bad. All in all, the rat escaped, and I was yet to prove my superiority to the hideous little vermin.

That night as my head hit the pillow I could only say to myself, "this was a terrible, no good, very bad night. Tomorrow will be a new day and redemption will be possible –maybe." 

Really??? They Listened?

This week I had the privilege to talk with a bunch of middle schoolers. The night before I was to face these small monsters I was filled with terror. Scheming for any possible way to get out of it, I thought about feigning sickness. That lie would not have been too far off course noting the way my stomach was feeling. My biggest concern was based simply on my fear for survival. I was worried that a classroom full of middle schoolers would eat me for lunch. My assignment was to speak to 20 – 30 little people at 25 minute intervals nine times throughout the day. The eight graders came first and to my great delight when I looked up, they were listening and full of questions.  

After my introduction, I wanted them to get to know me a bit, so I ask them some true or false questions. I had several outlandish false claims but the true ones seemed to cause their heads to tilt in wonder.  

Which is true or false? (all true)

·  As a boy I was shot in the head with an arrow?

·  I was born into a Mennonite farm community and lived on a potato farm until I was six years old.

·  As a youngster our family did not have enough beds so I slept in the bottom drawer of a chest of drawers until I was four years old.

·  When I was your age I would not kiss a girl because I was afraid the girl would laugh at how silly my kiss was?

·  I have had 20 car accidents, two motorcycle accidents and two of my car accidents happened on the same day fifteen minutes apart.

·  I barely graduated from High School and swore I would never go to college.

I knew I had little to offer the brainiacs in the room. My hope was to offer encouragement to the kids where school came hard. That is a story I know well, even with nearly 50 years separating me from those days the feelings are as close as yesterday. My story, Angel with Wrinkles I hoped would give them a window into the beginning of my story and it did wake up most of the kids.

The crux of my talk laid out a few simple principles I have learned along the way.

o   Everyone is smart at something. Maybe it isn’t school work but that is not evidence you are not smart at something.

o   80% of success is showing up ( I know not very original but still true)

o   Fear is part of the process but push through it and take advantage of scary opportunities.

Who knows if anything said made a difference but I said what I know and I am hopeful. All in all I had more fun than I thought possible and I feel honored that I was allowed to share a bit of myself with some young people.

An Awesome Saturday

It has been almost two months since my last post. I could make some kind of excuse up but I hate people that do that. I do have some good news. NOOOO….I have great news. Dullsville left the Grayquill property Saturday morning and it was better than great.

There I was sitting drinking my one cup of coffee. Yes, I am now down to one cup of coffee. I know it is very very very sad. I mourn it every morning. I was nearing the half way mark of my one cup and a movement caught my eye. It was a different kind of movement, not like the small birds that gather under my bird feeder to clean up the fallen seed. It was slinky, almost like the ground its self was moving. Raising my gaze it all came into focus. There to my hateful delight was a rat. A rat right there in broad day light. Well you know what that means don’t you? Yip, the hunt is on.   
Heading into my back room, I rummaged around and finally found my old pellet gun. Next, where did I put those pellets? I think they are in the garage. After a few minutes of moving pile A to where pile Z was, and then pile B to where pile A was, it took some doing but I finally came across them under pile T. Soon I was back to my kitchen table where I carefully laid out my battle wares.

In a ghost rat like fashion I smoothly crossed the room and slowly slide the slider open until an eight inch gap appeared. With elegance my sylphlike limbs floated me back to my chair. There I settled down to wait. It wasn’t long before my first shot opportunity raised its self.  Pling…I heard the sound of my pellet whip through the underbrush as the creepy critter skedaddled away to who knows where.  I reloaded but realized my cheap pellet gun with its archaic sights needed a tune up. Out came the felt pen and I soon had three targets made on bright purple paper. Placing them out in the yard about the same distance as my bird feeder; I began what Grayquill would describe as an excellent gun sighting experience.  My first shot did not even hit the target. After way to many shots I had the gun hitting the target but my grouping was less than desirable. Urgency to get back to the hunt helped me decide to stop the adjusting and get back to the whole point of this exercise – KILL A RAT!

Back at the kitchen table, the slider again open to about 8 inches, a perfect view of the ground under my bird feeder in my sight, my gun loaded, I waited. I was hopeful I might now actually hit something. Fifteen minutes went by, nothing.  Twenty minutes went by nothing.  Time for breakfast!

Soon two eggs with two slices of toast were made.  Dipping my toast into the yoke I ate silently, watching, waiting. After my third bite I looked up and there right in my line of sight were two rats that seemed to have just appeared. One was directly under the bird feeder and the other was back by the edge of the brush.  Where did they come from? Moving slowly and quietly as I could I laid my fork down and picked up my gun. The adrenalin was now beginning to pump. My breaths were beginning to come a bit faster helping my vision crisp up. Maybe I should have ordered those eye glasses the doctor thinks I need. Oh well, too late now. Looking down the barrel the rat seemed so much smaller and I kept losing him in the sights. After several checks I had him. Exhaling, I held my breath and slowly squeezed off. Pling….I heard the pellet whip through the underbrush and both rats disappeared – Dang!

Not to be a quitter I sat there most of the day taking a total of nine shots. At the end of the day I could only conclude I was a horrible shot or I had a horrible gun. I did not have a single dead rat to show for my efforts. Darkness was beginning to close in on me and shooting became an impossibility. Putting my gun back into its corner I felt frustrated and the old saying, ‘a machine is only as good as its operator’ haunted me.

Not wanting to accept I am a horrible operator. Straight away I was on my computer searching for a real pellet gun. I soon found out why I had this stupid gun with sights that moved every time you bumped it. The good guns seemed to start at around $250.00. Wow! That’s a lot of money just to shoot a couple of rats. After a brief education and not discouraged, I headed to Craig’s List to see if possibly a used gun was for sale. Sure as shooting I found a Gamo Whisper. Retail price $345.00. The pellet leaves the barrel of this baby at 1100 feet per second, and to top it off it had a scope. That would be perfect to help my stigmatism. My email was soon constructed and off it went to the seller. I waited. I have often wondered why one would put something on line to sell if they weren’t committed to getting back to a prospective buyer? The long and the short of my search three days later I successful acquired the almost new Gamo Whisper for a fraction of the retail price.  

Wednesday, as quitting time drew close. I found myself watching the clock. The feeling was reminiscent of a time that reached back to a 10 year old with his first BB gun. What havoc a young Grayquill could have done with a Gamo Whisper pellet gun instead of that wimpy lever action Daisy BB gun that you could see the BB leave the barrel. It was probably a good thing young Grayquill only had the Daisy because one day he decided he would shoot his brother in the butt. That night my dad took that gun away from me and I never saw it again. That still seems like an overreaction by my father. I will admit I did hit that left butt check dead center and that I am still a bit proud about.

Oh how I digress… The time finally came for work to be over for the day and I rushed to my car. Twenty minutes later with maybe two hours of daylight left the hunt was back on! I felt it, tonight would be awesome. If that furry critter came back into view….well I think you get the idea.

The slider was slid open about eight inches. My view under the bird feeder was unobstructed. My new Gamo was loaded and ready. My wife was working late and I had the house to myself. Distractions always get in the way for this type for work. My dinner sat in front of me and I settled in. I was getting worried as the sun set behind the Olympic Mountains and evening began its journey toward darkness. The beauty of a scope, it seems to make objects lighten up at dusk. It was maybe fate or just luck but with the ability to still see, an unlucky rat came out for an evening snack.  

Yip I was right – it was a great night.

A Dead Guy's Clothes

Last week my wife came home with a nice Levi Strauss insulated flannel shirt jacket, just my size. NICE! Of course it came from a second hand store, why wouldn’t it? This new addition to my wardrobe had in one of the pockets a left over remnant from the previous owner. NO! It was nothing gross. Why did your mind go there? It was just some spare light bulbs from a Christmas tree string.

These light bulbs took my mind to a place it has gone on many occasions after picking up some used item. Who was the previous owner? What were the circumstances that caused him to give up a perfectly good shirt-jacket? I usually assume the guy died. There really is no other logical conclusion. Well there is the, he got divorced and his ex- took everything he owned to the second hand store. By the way Garage Sales are great places to meet really angry women who will almost pay you to take ex-husbands stuff away. One lady (do I dare call her a lady?) told me she was going to receive great pleasure telling her ex that she sold his $800 Craftsman tool set for $25.00 – hey it worked for me. If I hadn’t bought it someone else would have. First come first serve…right? Okay...I just made all that up. I have never been that fortunate but it could happen.

There is one down side to buying used clothing. You have to try it on at some point to be sure it fits. I always feel a little dirty after those experiences. After all, the guy that had it before me is now dead! What did he die from? Am I going to catch that disease now? See how creepy that can be? No one wants to die just for trying on some unfortunates’ left overs.

After I discovered the Christmas tree light bulbs in the pocket I figured it was safe to try on the shirt/jacket. After all, the guy probably fell off his latter putting up Christmas tree lights and broke his neck. I don’t understand why they didn’t just bury him in the jacket that would have been so much easier than dressing him all up in a suit. But, heck if I can benefit from another’s poor judgment – I guess I will.

Several years back I came upon a literal bonanza at a second hand consignment store. I found a couple suits, a couple pair of shoes, and the shoes were double nice. Italian. Soft. Fit my foot like a glove. I had never had such a nice, expensive pair of shoes before. I spent a lot of time trying to figure out how that poor sucker died. I finally concluded he was a gay guy and died of aids. I am pretty sure it was true because straight guys would never dress that nice and gay guys being pretty much like a woman would never give a way his or her shoes unless he was dead. The only flaw in my conclusion was possibly the way he died. One part of me thinks he was hit by a truck and died instantly. If he had a disease that took his life slowly he probably would have found a friend to give his clothes to. The trouble with that logic, the few gay guys I know would never wear something second hand. You see that last sentence assumes gay guys only have gay friends. (Oh Grayquill broaden your horizons.) Who said that?

I am interested in what you think about how the guy died whose Levi jacket I now own. If you’re willing, I would enjoy reading your morbid thoughts.  Just so you know the jacket is being washed. You can all rest easy; your favorite Grayquill will not be catching any disease from that jacket.

Who Are You Calling a Geezer?

I went fly fishing recently with my brother for 10 days…that was pretty awesome. My brother being much older than me, I suppose should be considered a geezer. I have concluded that there is no way I am a geezer. I don’t even qualify for old people discounts at the state and national parks. That simple fact should be solid proof I have yet to be inducted into the fly fishing geezer club.

One author said if you fall asleep in the middle of a sentence maybe you are a geezer. That makes me wonder if the same logic applies to writing a blog post. I have fallen asleep on more than one occasion in the midst of trying to write a blog post. That has never really bothered me that much, the falling asleep thing. But, the dried drool on my key board really bugs me.  I did a Google search – ‘how to unstick a keyboard  - Google was totally useless on that front but I did find a peculiar group of people out there in Google land that gave me the hibbie-gibbies. It seems there are weirdoes out there that keep dried drool just for the smelling. Who would admit to such a thing? If I had that problem I would keep it a deep deep secret. Many of these drool smellers have a favorite drool spot on their pillow that is nearly sacred. If one was to wash their pillow case the compulsive drool smellers would nearly flip their doodle. What is wrong with those people?  Secret drooler smellers???? Creeeeepy!

The human condition for sure is complicated and there is no shortage of weird things people do. There was a bright side in reading about these drool smellers. I realized that of all my oddities, I can proudly say drool smelling is not one of them. I am bothered some that I have been enjoying the lingering smell of sage brush on the pillow I took fishing. BTW-don't even think about washing that pillow. 

Besides my brother, I spotted more than one geezer on my fishing trip. Geezer number one we deducted was a really really really really rich geezer. At dinner one night we spotted this old fellow.  Once he was ushered/helped to his table and a drink was placed in front of him he didn’t move much except for that frail hand that kept stroking the back of the tall 30 something beauty sitting next to him. She was by far the prettiest female in the establishment and the geezer had his brand clearly on her. I tried not to stare but my self control was useless. She finally caught me staring and the smile she sent my way seemed to say, maybe being rich should have been more important to you.

Geezer number two we found sitting on the river bank muttering to himself after his third unsuccessful attempt to tie a 7X tippet to his fly line. His muttering had something to do with not being able to see or feel the thin line. Oh….wait a minute….that geezer was me.  

Geezer number three was of course my brother he seemed to still be able to tie the 7X tippets. He claimed to out fish me everyday - except for that one day. After all he had no pictures so that pretty much settles it. Big talk without pictures is nothing but self deception.

So, from one who is almost a geezer – may your fly always hit the water softly even when you can't see it.  

Odd Things You See Fishing....

At one moment you can be completely happy, thinking life can get no better. I was on the shoreline of a renowned trout creek. The sun was out and it was shirtsleeve weather. The day before I had netted a 23 inch fat rainbow trout. It was a beautiful fish. On its side she carried a plethora of red and silver hues.  I was hoping to duplicate yesterday’s experience ten or twenty times. The fish were taking a blue dun fly that was emerging but I was yet to find the fly from my box to mimic the hatch.

A fisherman had just appeared across the creek a mere fifty feet downstream. I wonder if he also felt life could not get any better. He was soon to find out, it could. He was a tall young man, blonde, probably quite handsome, physically fit, decked out in matching tan waders and fly vest. His blonde hair curled out beneath his hat framing a distinct jaw line. He stood confident with a half smile that seemed to never leave his face. On his second cast I saw him set the hook. He soon landed a nice fish larger than the fish I had caught the day before.  Seeing another fisherman catch fish doesn’t discourage me or cause envy. In contrast it lets me know the fish are biting and I know when I send the right combination of fly, depth, and location, I too will soon be catching fish.

Being fishless for the day the contrast could not have been greater. Here I stood almost old, out of shape over weight, bald, shorter than I use to be, never as tall as this young man, and certainly never that kind of handsome. The contrast was soon going to be greater yet. I had just watched him catch his 11th fish. The way he could make music with the fly rod was truly an art form. The fly line glistened in the sun when the line made a perfect arc during his back cast. There was a rhythm between him and the fly. When he started his cast it was effortless. A simple lifting the rod tip and the fly obediently followed its master’s command into a smooth symmetrical arc. The fly entered the current seamless and natural.

My fly could not reach the rift where he was pulling out fish after fish, nor would I have sent my fly there if I could have reached it. There is an etiquette in fly fishing and that would certainly have crossed into the rude uncouth arena.

To get to where he stood took a good mile walk and a bit of effort. She seemed to just appear. Where she had come from I had not observed. But there she was beautiful as he was handsome standing close to the young fisherman. She too was blonde. She wore a white blouse, short blue jean skirt and cowboy boots.  I can say her tanned legs fit the skirt and boots nicely. Muffled talked came from both his and her lips, a giggle from both could be heard coming across the water. After much striving for his attention she stretched onto her tip toes with arms around his neck and pulled him down to whisper something into his ear. A sound of delightful pleasure came from his lips and I could not tell if it was from him setting the hook on fish number 12 or in response to her words. Her distracting presence seemed to only be affecting me because he was flawless in the playing and netting of the fish as she hung onto him through the whole process. Upon releasing the fish the man seemed to now have a new mission. He stowed away his gear and with a big smile pasted on his face they walked down the trail. I wondered who was that guy anyway? Who is it that can catch fish like that? Who is it that has a beauty appear and drag him off to who knows where? This was something I had never seen before. Was this like the mermaid who met the sailor lost at sea? I knew it wasn’t a dream because if it was a dream I wouldn’t have been watching. All I know the smile on that young man’s face came from fishing plus something and that something was not hard to imagine.

That night back at camp I reflected on the oddity of the two lovers and watching her seduce the young fisherman. I have always heard that fly fisherman are sexy, after seeing that I am a believer. And, even though I am almost old I am sticking with fly fishing who knows what could happen. Regardless, I smiled knowing somewhere there was a young fly fisherman who maybe had the two best days ever….all in one. Now that makes a great fish story.