Gone Fishing

I just made a "gone fishing" sign to hang up in my house. The problem is, I don't even own a fishing pole or a tackle box. I don't have a fishing license.  A "gone fishing" sign would not pertain to anyone else in my family since no one in our household fishes.  Devyn and I had plans to fish in the lake behind our house, but the HOA won't allow it. So, making a "gone fishing" sign for my wall seems futile, but I'm still making it.

I'm making the sign for myself, and I'm making some signs for the other women who go fishing with me. The truth is, I would fish morning, noon, and night if I could. The problem is, it's dark and dingy where I fish, and I prefer sunny places with lots of fresh air. I don't think there is any fresh air where I fish. Where I fish, there is a lady named Ace, who is often fishing before I even arrive.  Ace is close to being a professional fisherman (or maybe it's fisherwoman). I don't know how Ace got her name, but she is an ace at fishing.

I, too, am becoming an ace at fishing. I catch big fish, little fish, medium fish, and even an occasional mermaid. Sometimes a bird flies by while I'm fishing and I kill it too! When people hear that I'm going fishing, they expect me to come home with dinner. I don't come back with dinner after fishing, but I usually come home with the money to buy dinner.

I don't fish in a lake. I don't fish in the gulf. I don't fish in a pond or stream. There is only bottled water where I fish. When I fish, my girlfriends often join me. I think they'd fish morning, noon, and night if they could. Jenn goes fishing with me, not because she likes to fish, but because I drag her along.  

Once, when I was fishing, a buffalo ran by. I'm not kidding. Me, Ace, Iris, and some of the other ladies all tried to kill it. We all failed. Sixty-something Iris lassoed the beast, but he got away!  Last night, me and two of my friends fished until after 11 pm. I never stay up past eight! However, I made an exception last night because all eight of us were singing Janis Joplin songs as we each went after the sharks, blow-fish, mermaid, and falcon.

 "Oh Lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz…" Our voices enhanced the atmosphere of the dark, dingy place. I think everyone else that was there left very quickly when we got the stanza, "My friends all drive Porches…"

Everyone was drinking wine as we fished. I was the designated driver, so I didn't partake. Imagine, if you will, eight ladies drinking wine, fishing, and singing Kumbaya while doing the wave every time someone killed a fish!  

Luckily, for the fish, they never really die. They swim by every few minutes - even after they've been "killed." The mermaid laughs at us over and over again. I won't say what some of the women call the mermaid, but I'm not sure she'd laugh if she heard it. Besides the mermaid, there's the octopus, the crabs, the crocodile, the darkness monster, and the falcon that all have nick-names, which I can't repeat.  

One might wonder why so many women love to fish. An occasional man might wander over to us, but the men usually are outnumbered at our fishing hole, or should I say table?  

That's right; it's a fishing table. Our table is not for the faint of heart. We take our fishing seriously - even when we are drinking wine. Whenever we put our sights on a fish, mermaid, crab, octopus, darkness monster, or bird, it takes a lot to kill one of them! Five cents can quickly add up to five dollars or more. Of course, the amount you lose is directly related to the amount you bet. There can only be one big winner at a time at the fish table. Of course, everyone can shoot and kill the smaller fishes too, but to win the big bucks, you have to kill the larger images, such as the laughing mermaid. When she dies, she pays out big. It might take eight of us shooting her for five minutes, but eventually, she explodes for one lucky fisherwoman who can win more than thirty dollars on a five-cent bet.  

Sometimes my family tells me that I'm addicted to fishing, which is a form of gambling. That might be true, but I could stop if I wanted to.  For instance, I have gone three days in a row now without dragging poor Jenn to the fish table. 

True, my button-pushing hand is twitching a bit, but it is not because I miss killing the mermaid. What I do miss is the comradery of sitting around a table with a bunch of ladies singing and doing the wave to celebrate each victory. Wouldn't it be nice if the world was like our fish table? Wouldn't it be nice if everyone celebrated everyone else's victories even though their success means that you didn't win this time? The last time we fished, after signing Kumbaya, Vicki started crying. She was crying because she missed her mom, who had just passed away and would often join Vicki at the fishing table. My two friends, who accompanied me, are mother and daughter, and they both hugged and comforted Vicki. That's what gone fishing means to me. It means getting together with a bunch of friends and laughing, sharing, singing, and celebrating little victories.

Survivor

If you're reading this, you're a survivor. When someone tells us they're a "survivor," it's natural to wonder what that individual survived. Often, the individual will say, "I'm a survivor of…," and they fill in the blank. Then, we don't have to guess, but it doesn't mean that we better understand what "survivor" means for each person. In reality, we are all survivors. 

Life is a survival sport. It's just how we participate in the game and survive. We can be angry, joyful, grateful, triumphant, or sad survivors. Ultimately, the way we choose to survive is what people will remember.

Today, I read a post on the brain aneurysm survivors' website. The post said, "A brain aneurysm changed my life by ____________________." I read the post and asked my daughter, Jenn, how she would fill in that blank. Jenn said, "Giving me a new appreciation for every moment of every day and every breath I take that doesn't require a breathing tube!" That's a typical response for Jenn, who always looks at her post-aneurysm life with a positive attitude and humor. 

It didn't occur to me that I should also answer the question since I, too, had a brain aneurysm. I, too, am a survivor. I am a survivor of a brain aneurysm, a stroke, and heart stents. I am a survivor of a parent that has lost a child. I am a survivor of so many things that I forget what I've survived! 

I want to say that I am always a grateful survivor, but that wouldn't be true. I am not always appreciative, joyful, or triumphant. Often, I'm angry and sad. Sometimes, I mourn all that I have lost. Sometimes, I get mad because my brain does not function like it used to. 

I could write a lot about sadness. My tears could salt many pages of loss - enough to fill an ocean. God knows there are times when I let the ocean waves of emotions wash over me and threaten to crush me into the rocks. I could easily allow myself to be tossed and thrown by the waves. I could drown in the sorrow. 

Thankfully, despair is not the spirit God has allowed to take root in my soul. If depression gained a foothold, the root system would be massive. Instead, I'll body-surf the waves and say, "I've survived this far!"

Craft Night

I always said I wasn’t going to move away from my beloved farm. Who would want to leave two adorable miniature donkeys that had no interest in becoming a cart-pulling duo and thought that a halter meant, “kick up your heals and run”? Or, the six chickens that laid more than eggs on our front porch? Then, of course, there were the four roosters that insisted the sun came up at 4 AM every day. Our home had the farmhouse charm of plaster walls that hated nails, eroding pipes, and an outdated kitchen and bathroom that I just had to remodel all by myself. Sure, the five acres required Bill to mow every weekend, and the barn needed rewiring before the malfunctioning stall fans started a fire, but that’s all part of farm living.  

Speaking of fires, we were always burning something at the farm, sometimes intentionally, sometimes not. There was that time that Katie pulled the plumbing off the barn wall while trying to put out the tractor fire, but that’s another story. Along the fire theme, there was the time the house almost burned down due to faulty electric in the den. Luckily, Bill got Lulu out and put out the fire before it spread. Some of our friends had the audacity to suggest we should have let the house burn to the ground! Then, of course, there were the numerous bonfires that were responsible for Bill’s singed eyebrows. I also miss the sight of teenagers jumping through the blaze during one of my daughter’s epic parties. 

There are many things I miss about the farm: the quiet of the pasture, watching the horses galloping, milking the goats. Well, maybe I don’t miss the time the goat nailed me in my forehead during that one little milking incident.  Thankfully, I didn’t have to go to the hospital despite the fact I was knocked out and lying facedown in the barn for a short time.  I did have a goat hoof-print on my forehead for a week, but I survived.  Even though we had many near misses, like the time the saddle went sideways while Bill was riding the horse, I still miss the farm.

Moving was never on my radar. Living on the farm gave me the satisfaction of practicing veterinary medicine without the hassle of eight years of schooling. In high school, I took Latin so that I could become a veterinarian. It wasn’t in the cards for me to pursue that dream, but somehow, I convinced Bill that farming was the next best thing. So, I doctored my animal charges. I became the queen of birthing goats (even breach). I cured colic in horses and saved many a goat from dysentery. Sure, we did have a small pet cemetery in our pasture, but that wasn’t because my vet skills were lacking.  

Anyway, the time finally came when Bill announced, “We need to move!”  

“What!” I exclaimed, “I just finished soaking the kitchen hardware in vinegar, and the last pallet just went up in the bathroom! We can’t move now, the kitchen backsplash isn’t done, and I haven’t rewired the electric in the dining room!”  

“I’m tired of spending my weekends mowing!” Bill whined. “The farm is not a good place for Jenn in the wheelchair, and Devyn is tired of playing with the chickens.”  

So, after that heated exchange, I finally relented and agreed to look at houses in a neighborhood. My enthusiasm for moving was underwhelming. I continued to paint the kitchen cabinets and lookup goat cheese recipes as if I’d always be on the farm. I never entertained the thought that I was selfish. It seemed I was the only member of our family that loved farm living. Even Devyn’s rooster, RooRoo, couldn’t keep her from begging me to look for a house where there’d be real friends to play with.  

The house hunting brought us to a lovely neighborhood just a couple of miles from the farm. I tried to picture myself on a cookie-cutter block with houses that all had the same paint color, but moving into such a place would be a tough pill for me to swallow! I guess it was the pool and the pickleball courts that convinced me I could consider the move. When Jenn saw the pool and Devyn saw the kids playing, and I saw the looks on their faces, I knew my farm days were numbered.  

The two-story home that we set our sights on had five bedrooms and looked out over a “lake” (it’s more like a pond). Unfortunately, the house had a sold sign out front.  Jenn and I started visiting the neighborhood every day in search of the perfect home. Then, one day, as luck would have it, the “sold” sign in front of the two-story house was missing. I inquired at the office about the house, and I was told the deal fell through. The salesman told me we could buy the house if we sold our house over the weekend.  

“Okay.” I said with conviction, “We’ll get it sold.”  

We sold the farm that weekend. Just like that, we got an offer from the third couple that looked at our house. I know it was because the remodeled kitchen and the pallet bathroom looked so good!  

Now, we live in that two-story house overlooking the “lake.” Now, I have received at least 20 letters from the HOA (about once a month) addressing the wagon wheel I put in the front yard, the kayaks in the back yard, and other various infractions concerning our parking habits. All-in-all, the neighborhood has been a good thing for the family. Jenn loves the pool. Bill is closer to work, and it only takes him about an hour to mow the lawn. Devyn’s friends don’t have feathers, and I have organized a pickleball group. But, perhaps the most surprising change of all is that I am knitting on craft night! Yes, it’s true, I went from milking goats to knitting half a potholder (which has only taken me eight months). Maybe it will be done in time for me to give it to Bill for Christmas next year.

I could end this story by saying how sad I am that I left the farm, but that would not be true. The truth is, I have discovered that, despite the HOA, this neighborhood is made up of wonderful people. Craft night at the clubhouse is just code for “get together and laugh with friends.” Do we ever laugh! Granted, my potholder is the brunt of many of the jokes, but that’s okay. The friendships we’ve formed in our new neighborhood are priceless. They are worth far more than a few fresh eggs. I never thought I would say this, but I wouldn’t trade our craft night for all the donkeys and chickens in the world!