Part 1: A Photo Journal of the Manistee Trip. Words Follow

Part 2: A Photo Journal of the Manistee Fishing Trip...The Words Follow

Genesis 1:28

"And God blessed them, and God said unto them, Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth, and subdue it: and have dominion over the fish..."

I learned, over the course of two days on a beautiful river that "dominion" has nothing to do with bossing fish around. It doesn't even mean our gentle persuasion will have any effect.

The fish on the river on July 10th and 11th, 2008 could not be deceived, cajoled, petitioned, muscled, tempted or prayed onto the delectable-looking flies on the end of my tippet, at the end of my leader, at the end of my line, attached to the Battenkill reel, attached to my Winston rod, whose grip rested comfortably in my hand as I waded the river morning, noon and night hunting one fish large enough to keep, even if I would return it tired, but undamaged, to the stream.

The same could be said of the nine men and boys in our camp who waded the cool waters of the beautiful and pristine upper Manistee River.

When half the Illinois/Indiana group left from Michigan City on Wednesday afternoon, headed to Paw Paw to join the Michigan contingent, we all had high hopes of success on the river and the promise of something deeper and more abiding. The Illinois/Indiana team slept on comfortable beds that night, in my sister's home after going to Meijer's and buying the groceries for the camp. Ross, Joe and I made a friendly wager as to the cost of the full cart. I came nearest with a guess of $127. The cost was actually $148.00. This was still pretty reasonable when considering the food in that cart would feed the camp of from 7 to 9 people, 6 times over the next two and a half days. It was well past midnight when we returned to Scott's home and crashed in his guest-beds.

The next morning we out-of-staters had to get fishing permits so we drove back to the Meijer's which had taken our food money and then had a great breakfast at the Colonial Kitchen at the corner of Drake and West Main in Kalamazoo. This restaurant is a landmark in that town which is likely most famous for it's 6-egg omelets, the best of which, in my mind, is their chili omelet. It and the other items ordered by our group, did not disappoint.

Soon we were driving north on US 131, each dragging a pop-up camper and each loaded down with the rest of the stuff we needed for a successful outing.

We drove to the place where M72 crosses US 131 at Kalkaska where we turned due east toward the M72 campground which overlooked the river we were so eager to wade. We arrived about noon set up camp and ate cold-cut sandwiches for lunch. After lunch we donned our waders, rigged the rods, walked down the steps to the river where we were greeted by swimmers and canoers near the camp. Clearly the fishing there would prove fruitless.

Half the group went upstream and Scott Z. and I went down, under the bridge into the fly-fishing only section of the river.

Soon Scott Z. had moved out of my sight as I was determined there were trout in a calm section behind a dead fall log on the north side of the river. After 20 casts, or so, I decided I was wrong and moved a little farther downstream. I continued casting until my shoulder began to hurt and decided to pack it in for the afternoon to return later that night to hunt monster Browns with big, ugly flies.

I had had two fish rise to look at the Hex I was casting but neither were hungry enough to eat it.

When all but Scott Z. returned to camp, we learned that only Jim had enjoyed a little success when he hooked a dink on a roostertail spinner.

Ross started to cook dinner as young Joe started the campfire with only one match. Big Joe, Al and Cameron had left Thursday morning and were still in route.

As the sun began setting I became a little concerned about Scott Z. so the two Paw Paw people, Jim and Bret got in their truck and went searching. When the returned, they had him. We learned that he had taken a nap on a log on the river and lost track of time. He, like me, had had a couple of rises, but no takers. Ross, in the meantime, had completed the finest spaghetti ever cooked outdoors. It was the best I have had anywhere. We all ate until we couldn't eat any more.

About the time dinner was wrapping up, it was late and we were all too tired to hit the river again. We gathered around the fire to engage in that ritual ab aeterno, where men remember aloud, their past, share stories that entertain, inspire or terrify and where boys learn how to be men. That circle, as sacred to me as any prayer circle, forges friendships and families. It creates memories that keep old men warm when the snow is deep and the winds are howling.

We talked of prophets and pioneers, of grandfathers, uncles, deer camps, hiking adventures, marathon canoe trips, Indians, the Northern Lights, large bonfires, monsters, mothers, and great dogs. At one point Ross leaned back in his collapsible chair and said: "It doesn't get any better than this." He was right.

The next morning I arose early and started making breakfast: eggs any style, maple sausage and venison sausage provided by Big Joe and Al; all washed down will ice-cold milk and orange juice. I rousted the roustable (Bret slept in), fed them, watched them clean up and prepared to drive to a remote stretch of the river where we were not likely to fight campers playing in the stream. There were 8 of us attacking the section. Again, the majority waded upstream while Scott Z. and I waded with the current. It was early and beautiful but the fish were asleep.

I had been casting Hexes until I saw hundreds of Mayfly corpses washing downstream. Clearly, the trout were not longer interested in Hexes. Scott Z. had left his fly rod jammed in the top of his waders and was fishing with a green and pink roostertail spinner when he caught a Brookie all of 7" long. I found a bug in my fly box with a little pink on it and caught a little Brown on the first cast. For the next three hours Scott and I worked the river; casting in places that would have held trout in any other body of water in the world, where trout lived, anyway. We both came up empty and decided to call it a day and promised to return later that evening, after 7:00 PM. When we got back to the truck, of the others, only Cameron had caught anything; yet another tiny Brookie.

Lunch consisted of Johnsonville Stadium Brats on buns with all the fixin's. Nothing could have been better. We all ate more than we should have and settled into our camp chairs for an afternoon snooze. Young Joe went back to the river. He was determined to catch a carp he had seen and the rest of us talked in muted tones until we drifted into our naps.

Young Joe did not catch a carp even after throwing corn, bread-balls and a piece of Brat that was left over from lunch. Not even the carp were eating...

It was Bret's turn to make the BBQ chicken for dinner, along with the fresh corn-on-the-cob. It became quickly apparent that we had forgotten but buy BBQ sauce. There was a partial bottle in one of the pop-up campers but it wasn't enough. Jim added some ketchup and mustard to it but the taste was off so I suggested adding a little maple syrup and orange juice. The sauce became as near perfect as any BBQ sauce can get.

At 8:30 PM we went back to the river. Bret became our photographer as the rest of us tried one more time.

Joe, Ross and I fished for about an hour. I caught two dinks and that was it. Scott Z. had one on after dark and Jim had a big one go after his casting bubble but they fished longer... way past 10:00 PM.

Around the fire, Scott Z. told of two of his cases when he was a detective with major crimes. They were perfectly gross. I told of hunting the swamp at Nana's on Christmas as well as the story of Jack and the Bear. Ross shared an amazing experience where God's intervention literally saved his life. I invited Cameron and young Joe to share a memory or two and they both did.

Neither were practiced in the art of story-telling. Their tales were full of youthful vigor and crazy vernacular but both told stories which were the seeds of greater tales when they mature and have their own campfires.

Ross explained how it was legal to paint a true story with colors more vivid than they really were for the sake of entertainment, inspiration or terror. I quoted the William Fox quote at the bottom of this blog: "...of all the liars among mankind, the fisherman is the most trustworthy. "

I have complete confidence that both boys will become the best of campfire story-tellers.

The last campfire of a trip is always full of unspoken melancholy. All of us were eager for the comforts of our homes, with their soft beds and hot showers, but we also knew something special was drawing to an end; something that we would never be able to exactly duplicate.

Next year, when we head to Upper Peninsula and the Tahquamenon River, we will all be a year older. Of the old men, we will all struggle a little to remember new stories. The boys will be nearer that magic age of adulthood and, perhaps, more interested in girls than they are in trout. But they will go with us, nonetheless, because they will remember this year and how it made them better people and stronger men. They will remember how easy it was for the old men in our camp on the Manistee to remain faithful and righteous when no one was watching; how we had a great time without beer or bawdy stories. They will remember how the men, unabashedly, expressed their love of the Lord through their kindness to each other and the love we all felt for each other.

I started this blog today with a snippet of scripture so I will close with one as well. This one comes from the Book of Joshua and it gives me strength and courage when I need it. It may appear to have nothing to do with the fishing trip or the campfires or the camaraderie but it has everything to do with them all, when you stop and reflect:

"...Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the LORD thy God [is] with thee whithersoever thou goest." (Joshua 1:9)

It was around the campfires of my youth than I learned how to be a man. It was surviving in a tent during a storm that first taught me the value of prayer. It was listening to my father, my grandfather and various leaders talk of important and frivolous things without shame or fear that taught me to rely on the angels around me, whether they be angels from heaven or those dressed in dirty trousers and who haven't showered in several days.

The preceding photos are a visual example of fishing the Manistee when the fish are not interested.

Fishing the Conejos with Uncle Walt

The last time I went fishing with my Uncle Walt was the best time I went fishing with my Uncle Walt.

The tradition of fishing with Uncle Walt began when I was about three years old when Fred, my biological father was still around and living in Pueblo with my mother, although their matrimonial bliss was nearing its end; likely because my father preferred fishing over going to the local honky-tonks and dancing to Country-Western music with her.
Uncle Walt, Walter Hood, was married to my mother's half-sister, Nadine; although until she died, I called her Aunt Denny.

She was a serious chain-smoke who had a new Camel going before she rubbed out the old one. I cannot recall a time when I saw her without a smoldering cigarette handy. The emphysema finally got her when she was approaching 81 years old.

Uncle Walk smoked too, but he was not obsessive about it. In fact, every adult I knew smoked; my mother, my father, all my aunts, uncles and grandparents, even a few of my cousins who were not quite adults.

They all drank too, except, of course, my Uncle Walt.

His tee-totaling was not attributable to either addiction or religion. It never bothered him that everyone around him guzzled beer, wine and the hard stuff at every reasonable opportunity. Aunt Denny, in fact, generally washed down the ashes with Coors after 10 in the morning. Before that it was coffee, which Uncle Walt drank with style. No, Uncle Walt's decision to forgo alcohol after an incident early in his marriage to my aunt where he very, nearly shot her and their children.The couple had gone out with my Auntie Eileen and one of her husbands to a local blind pig called "Boskers" to dance to cowboy music and drink whatever booze they could carry in as Bosker's did not serve alcohol but merely provided a venue for drinking it and drink it they did. Uncle Walt, however, was never much of a drinker and, it turns out, because mean when he was drunk.

When the couple returned home, Uncle Walt put a gun to her head and told her he was going to kill her, the kids and, I assume, himself. Somehow Aunt Denny got away and went to her mothers where she called the sheriff. When the law arrived at the Hood home they found him passed out on the floor and a single bullet hole in the ceiling.

Uncle Walk spent a couple of nights in jail trying to remember everything but he never did, but he swore he would never touch any kind of alcohol again and he never did. It should be mentioned here that I never heard my Aunt Denny raise her voice at him either...

Aunt Denny and Uncle Walt lived in a small, stucco house on Belmont Street in Pueblo. I spent many of my preschool days there because she was my babysitter half the time and her sister, my Auntie Eileen, watched me the other days as my mother worked at Woolworths and my dad at the National Biscuit Company... Nabisco.

Our house was similar, if my memory serves, with the address of 136 St. Louis. Our house, however, didn't have Concord grape vines growing from vines on the back fence like Aunt Denny's, nor did it have a little neighborhood store across the alley, behind the house, where a boy could take a nickel and buy a Nehi Grape from an ice chest that was so cold drinking it cracked your teeth and gave you a headache.

I should take another moment of interruption to explain that Pueblo is not your typical, Colorado postcard city. Although the Arkansas River runs right, smack through it, the town sits in a desert with the Colorado Rockies only visible in the distance horizon and then only if you stand on a big rock. It's also a dirty town and this because the largest employer - at least before the Government Printing Office confiscated some of Pueblo's land - was the steel mill. Pueblo was, in those days, also pretty ethnic.

There weren't many blacks that I can remember, but there were tons of Italians for some reason, and a huge population of Hispanics - called by the locals "Messicans" when they were being nice and worse when they weren't. Local lore proclaims there were lots of "good Indians" in the local graveyards.

Uncle Walt worked in the mill. I remember him dressed in his work clothes - dark blue shirt and matching trousers - and with stained hands that were rough and calloused.

By the time I came along, my grandfather was locked up in the Colorado State Hospital because of his alcoholism and Uncles Walt's kids were grown and gone. His oldest grandchild was still too young to do the things grandfathers like to do with grandsons, so I was his surrogate and he was mine. So, at least once every summer, he, my dad, my Uncle Tommy and I would squeeze into Uncle Walt's Willy's with tents and tackle and head into the mountains in pursuit of wild trout.

This tradition continued, almost annually, through my parent's divorce, my Uncle Walt's first heart attack, my mother's remarriage and several other significant family events. It changed a little here and there. Families became invited and my new dad, when he could. Since he was a soldier and we never lived in Pueblo again, it was not often he attended and all the trips were limited to his annual 30-day leave when he would take my mother back to her home town.

None of my aunts liked my new dad. Frankly, it took me a long, long time to warm up to him - about 40 years to be accurate; but my Uncle Walt seemed to like him well enough.

With the addition, however, of estrogen and little girls to the fishing trips, they evolved from rugged, week-long adventured into the wilderness to daytrips to a local reservoir where we would catch more crayfish than trout and eat hotdogs blackened from too much fire.

During this time my parents became active Mormons and, thus, I did too. No more tobacco, coffee, tea or booze. No more "colorful" language or nasty jokes. No more sundresses for my mother. It was a serious shock to her sisters and they blamed my new dad even though it was more my mother's idea.

By the beginning of the summer of 1966, I was pretty sure the annual fishing trips with Uncle Walt had decomposed beyond any resemblance of what they looked like when they were born.

I was 15 when my mother, my three sisters and Sharon - a kind of foster sister of sorts - left Kalamazoo and headed toward California where we would pick up my dad upon his return from Vietnam. We had more than a month to kill before we had to be in San Francisco, however, so my mother, with a fractured neck no one would learn of until we made it to Burbank, drove to Pueblo with Sharon as a back-up driver when my mother grew weary.

I have photographs of myself during that time and I testify that I was gawky and geeky. I thought I was much cooler looking than I actually was and my pants were always too tight. This did not seem to bother my aunts who smothered me with sloppy kisses or my Uncle Walt, who waited until the slobbering was over.

His dark hair was graying and he had the pallor of a man who had survived two heart attacks. He had been long retired from the mill but he wore the same clothes and his hands were still rough and dirty. He still smoked, unafraid of what the things were doing to his heart.

I was not going to bring up any idea of a fishing trip but he did. He added some rules... well, one rule. No girls.

By this time his grandson Denny was completely old enough to go but had begged off as he hated fishing; a fact that was clearly painful to my uncle. My Auntie Eileen had divorced whomever her latest husband had been and my dad was still in Southeast Asia. It was just me and my Uncle Walt.

We loaded up his Jeep with tents and tackle and headed toward and the fabled Conejos River. This was not to be a daytrip but the real deal. Things had come almost full-circle.

During the ride we talked of life and shared memories as we left the flat, dirty desert around Pueblo and entered the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. It was a drive of several hours and it was beautiful. During the last year in Michigan and the two before that in Texas, I had missed the mountains and the chilled streams that cut through them. I didn't worry about when he would get there - wherever "there" was. I was confident my Uncle Walt knew the territory and knew the best places to catch the best trout. I was not disappointed.

We stopped near a bend in the river and pulled off the highway. We had arrived.

I determined I was going to do all the heavy lifting and let my aged uncle just take it easy. The first thing I extracted from the Jeep was a folding lawn chair and I invited him to sit down. He mumbled something about me needing his help so I informed him that I was a "Life Scout" and that I knew how to make a camp. Within an hour, I proved my worth to him.

The tent was pitched, a dining fly was stretched between two small trees and a fire was going. He was leaning back in the chair gently snoring. I determined we would have fresh trout for dinner and that I was going to catch and cook them.

I rigged the fly rod he had loaned me and tied on a stonefly nymph because it was early in June and I suspected the nymphs would bring home the bacon. I caught a three-pound Brown on the first cast. With the exception of a few Brookies, Browns were the only species I caught all week but I caught a lot of them.

That first evening I counted them. Between the first cast and the last, two hours later, I landed 18 fish and went through 6 flies. Not one of the first evening's fish was stocked fish. That was almost the case the rest of the week. The river was loaded with wild Browns and Brookies and, where we were, we never saw another fisherman until the last day we were there; a Saturday. I remember him joking with me when he asked if I had left any fish in the river for him. I was too stupid to do anything but just grin a big, dumb grin. Uncle Walt assured him there were plenty enough for everyone.

During that week I cooked every meal except one. On about the third morning, Uncle Walt rose early and made breakfast. The aroma of coffee wrested me from my dreams. Uncle Walt smiled when he told me I had a lot to learn about making coffee. I never did.

We had 16 trout on ice in the cooler, the legal limit in those days, as we loaded everything back into the Jeep for the trip home. Once there he would take half-gallon milk cartons, clean and fill them with water and the trout for freezing. He would have trout in the winter and I...? Well I would have a memory for the winter and unnumbered seasons in the future.

I never saw my Uncle Walt again. Life just got in the way.

Two days before my father died in 1988, my Uncle Walt had his last heart attack. He was 84. My dad was 63.

As I remembered this today, I came to realize that every fishing trip I ever took from that summer in 1966 was an attempt to recreate that week on the Conejos. I have had many trips but they have all fallen a little short.

It is during these moments of reflection that I realize that my love of fishing has little to do with flies, water or fish and everything to do with connecting to my family and my friends. Every cast helps me regurgitate a memory of something bigger than the moment; little events that have defined my life.

I never had a trip like that one in 1966, with my father. Not my bio-dad, but the man who, when he never really had to, adopted me, and was there as I grew up.

Perhaps time has softened him in my memory. I know it's harder to feel his harshness or the times he was downright cruel and brutal. Mostly I remember him as being pathetically weak as his illness beat him down until he lost his last battle in that hospital bed in Kalamazoo.

I had received the call that he was fading and that I should come home. I had received so many similar calls before that proved to be false alarms so I waited until later in the day before I made the three hour drive. I arrived at the hospital late. When I found his room, I found my mother there; sound asleep in a chair next to my dad. He was sleeping too, but the fitful sleep borne of unlimited morphine. I didn't want to disturb either of them so I quietly kissed my father's forehead and left. He died after I left.

I never got to tell him anything important.

I never got to tell him I no longer was afraid of him.
I never got to tell him I would like to really get to know him.
I never got to tell him that I had figured out how to love him.
I never got to tell him how sorry I was to have embarrassed him by bad choices.
I never got to tell him how grateful I was for the one time he rescued me with no questions asked.

There are many great doctrines in the Mormon Church but my favorite and, I think, one of the most hopeful is that we believe there is a spirit world where we go when we die and that that world is merely another dimension of this one. While I don't know for sure, how much access they have to our dimension, I suspect it's much more than we have to theirs. Thus I have a hope that my father can read this, somehow, and know that nothing else matters to me except having his love and his having mine.

I have a small hope that he and my Uncle Walt are friends and that Uncle Walt might share with him, the memory of our river adventure on the Conejos, in 1966.

Click "View All Images"

Lick the Toad!

I survived...

Perhaps that says it all for some, but not for me, of course.

A few months ago I volunteered to spend the week at scout camp with the troop sponsored by our ward; Troop 988. I had nothing to do with the scouting program in this ward but there was no one available to spend the week there with the boys who is a part of the program, so I raised my hand.

The day I raised my hand I had not attended a scout summer camp for 7 years. I turned 57 in May of this year so I must have been 50 when I traveled with my Broken Arrow, OK troop to south-central Oklahoma to spend a week with the boys. The seven years had clearly dulled my memories of that camp and I ignored the additional seven years I was carrying around. As I raised my hand that Sunday, there was only the romance of it all that I remembered, and none of the torture.

In Oklahoma, I actually had the help of several other adults, but not here; not last week.I suppose one could count as help the one adult who helped deliver the boys with me last Monday. He stayed until the afternoon but all he did was set up his own son's tents. He did not stay the night. There was another troop of another ward in our stake sharing the campsite. They had 7 boys the first night, and three adult leaders. On Tuesday morning two of the adults and one of the boys left. I had nine boys and the other scoutmaster was a novice at both Boy Scouting and summer camping with them. That left me to prepare and present the nightly troop campfire events designed to slow the boys down after a day of activity and to, inspire, entertain or frighten... sometimes all three.

In my troop there were two 12 year-olds who had never been to summer camp before. One was very interested in Scouting and the other would have preferred being anywhere else on the planet. Both were a little scared but they seemed to be able to comfort one another and naturally buddied up for the week. For the rest, save one, it was, at least their second year but for one, the oldest by far, at 17, it was his last summer camp as a scout. I believe the only reason he went was to wrap up a couple of merit badges he needed to qualify for his Eagle. I appointed him the Senior Patrol Leader, or, in other words, the top boss among the boys. He graciously accepted and did a fantastic job all week.

I saw our troop as a little disjointed on Monday. Perhaps it was my imagination as I had not really done much with these boys beyond seeing them during Church and occasionally on Wednesday evenings when they attended their Young Men's activities. Whatever the reality, I determined we needed a unifiying event; something powerful and memorable; bordering on dangerous or, at least, disgusting. The event was handed to me late in the afternoon on Monday, in the form of a captured toad.

I took the toad and without hesitation, I licked its back from tail to head and yelled "LICK THE TOAD!".

The boy who had found the beast was a little shocked but when I said: "Now it's your turn." his eyes bulged as he screamed his refusal followed by asking me why.

I said that licking the toad was representative of doing something difficult when no one expected it. I told him that there weren't a hundred people in the world who would lick a toad and that he would be among the elite courageous who did. I handed him the toad and he slowly, timidly, placed his tongue on its back. He, like me, spit immediately.

Toads are bitter. When I licked it, I discovered why snakes don't eat them if they have a choice of any other morsel. Nothing else even tries. Not wolves, not foxes, not hawks; not even Gila Monsters will keep a toad in its mouth.

I should add that this toad was tiny and that no one enjoyed any hallucinagentic experiences by ingesting the venom because these were not Colorado River toads, the only toads that have 5-MeO-DMT in their venom, which drug can send a man into la-la-land.



So, one of the 9 braved the warts and joined the team. One by one, all the boys in my troop took their turn; even the new boys. Out battle cry for the balance of the week was "LICK THE TOAD!" Everyone outside our camp became confused when we yelled it out.

I promised the boys I would provide T-shirts that would have a picture of a toad and the caption: "I Licked the Toad in 2008!". This promise motivated the other troop where all but one joined the club. Of the 6 leaders they had in camp, however, only one decided to join the boys.

My boys then, added another challenge. That was to place an entire toad in one's mouth. I did it and found it far more pleasant than licking one. This act added a star to the name of the boy which would be on the t-shirt.

This single, unifying event, brought our boys together. They walked around camp with more confidence and they accomplished more that they would have without the toad. At least I would like to think so.

Once unified, the campfires became awesome.

To inspire them, I asked the boys to share three serious wishes they had for their future lives. This after teaching them the purpose of Scouting where the Church is concerned. We have scouts to strengthen to quorums. Some LDS scout leaders think it's the other way around, but they are wrong. I said that the quorum could only grow close if the members knew each other.

The wishes that were shared were incredible, righteous, valiant, humble, timid, poignant and, sometimes, sad. Testimonies were shared and burdens lifted.

On another night missionary experiences were shared by the men around the fire. We had all served, incredibly, south of the border; one man served Guatemala, albeit two decades after I had returned.

To entertain them, I told funny stories, some true, some not so true, and to frighten them, I pulled out the ones that never fail; the Severed Hand, the Rainy River Raptor, Old Bugeyes and the Ohio Strawman.

I was a little kinder this year as I let up a little when it appeared someone was about to cry.

The boys accomplished much in their pursuits of merit badges and rank; all that is, except the one new boy who would have preferred being at his desktop. Our SPL was asked to be the MC at the All-Camp Fire Bowl and Order of the Arrow Call-out. His dad showed up for the final fire and beamed when he heard what his son was doing.

We rose early Saturday morning and broke camp. I was home by 9:00 am, unpacked, showered and laid down for a little nap. I felt every minute of my 57 years.

On Sunday all the boys were in Church and each whispered "Lick the Toad!" when I shook their hands. One mother seemed a bit appalled but the others were cool. The bishop's wife, whose son was a second-year man, told him and me, not to tell her anything about camp.

She was happier in her ignorance.

I was tired. I am still tired; but I am fulfilled in a way.

I had always liked these boys but at Camp Tamarack, I grew to love them. I wish only the best for them and will do anything I can to help them achieve righteous goals.

Historical statistics say that a third of them will leave the Church never to return. Half will divorce and one will die before his time. All will face trials I can't even imagine. Hopefully, when they are deep in the muck of it; just when they are about to give up, they will remember the last week in June, 2008, when they, with courage and gumption, licked the toad and know that toad lickers are unbeatable!

Joy in Being Wrong

It only happens once in a great while where I find myself pleased to have been wrong about something. I wish it would happen more often.

A little over a week ago I wrote about my concerns about the then upcoming visit from my oldest son and his family. Those concerns, it turns out, were unfounded as the visit was delightful, without a trace of anxiety to be seen or sensed.

I got to meet my granddaughter who is a charmer.

She is smart, happy and healthy. She also loves the camera.

Before the family got out of site as they headed northeast to Ludington, I was missing them with a heart swollen with gratitude for the joy we had and a little sorrow that it ended so soon.

Later, I began thinking about why I had made some assumptions that ended up being bad ones and I was reminded that whenever I think selfishly, I make bad assumptions and worse decisions.

For the past few years the only time we have seen our son and his family was at Christmastime. It was during those times I felt the tension and anxiety. It dawned on me on Saturday that the anxiety had nothing to do with being with the family and everything to do with the fact that Christmas, for my son, is the most stressful time of the year because he works in retail where fortunes are made and lost during the season for giving... and getting.

It was common for him to fly into town on Christmas Eve and fly out either on Christmas day or on the morning of the 26th. No one on the planet could find a spirit of peace with that schedule.

So, though I don't drink alcoholic beverages, I raise a toast to my error, my wrongness, my selfish stupidity. I would that it would happen more often.