C'mon let's go >>Linda Mae's new place<<
It looks like so:
Wednesday, September 21, 2016
Monday, August 29, 2016
NO END IN SIGHT
9-12-16
I am creating a more author-friendly blog on another website Wordpress.com. You can expect a redirect to be placed here within 2 weeks.
To read the story, in 5 parts, start with the earliest post and go backward by date.
I wrote a short story, a lousy one, in fact, in college, and the professor told the class, "An author owes a certain responsibility to her readers. If people give up their time to read an author's work, the author is indebted to give her readers a clear understanding of the plot and the characters, especially at the end." My disgruntled readers argued over the ending until I broke it up giving my lame explanation of the denouement. My fellow students sat around our conference table eyeing me with disgust casting a shadow over my end of the table. I really screwed up.
Of course, I keep thinking about this blog, I screwed up again, didn't I? See, I started this blog here, paused in the middle of the story - for two years, mind you - before I returned to finish it.
I had some vision problems that got in the way. Diplopia, exotropia, my eye disorders sound more like fancy foreign cars. If only. Then, besides astigmatism, I have a couple more issues that do not have any name at all, and that only makes them harder to explain. They are best demonstrated by my tripping, walking into walls, and getting lost in a McDonald's.
Some other issues, too, coupled with my age, were becoming unmanageable. I gave up a number of things I thought were important including driving, making out a grocery list, and typing. But here I am, with even more problems than before, and I am busting the keyboard, this time for the better.
A few weeks ago, in a moment of serendipity, I found myself talking with someone I had not seen in over 25 years. After a few days, I felt compelled to write him a letter. He was someone had looked up to for several years until we lost touch. I was disappointed, so much was left unsaid in our brief conversation, but I was unable to write a note, much less a letter.
Maybe, I wondered, I could buy some new computer tech equipment and try some apps for the vision impaired. I could, and I did. I struggled with all this newfangled stuff for 2 weeks, writing a very long letter to my friend. After I sent the letter, I did not stop typing. I just kept rambling on with no end in sight. I am back to write as long as I am able.
Even after all my efforts, I still felt I had a debt I owed my readers, and that is why the whole story "Braised Carp ~ Add Salt to Taste" was posted to this blog within days. This typing process is so slow, timeliness may be an issue for me and my readers. I have to reconsider everything I have done here. Until next time, friends.
Links I Like
Joe Hinton's, 1964 hit single, "Funny How Time Slips Away." Joe had the most incredible voice, hitting notes so high I would need a ladder to get there.
Time in a Bottle
Jim Croce's 1973 hit single from the album of the same name. Jim died in the same year, 1973. The video is very touching.
A Long, Long Time
Billy Joel in 1972, do you recognize him? This is my favorite portrait of Billy, pre-Christie, for sure. He and his band are playing a cut from his first ever solo album, "Cold Sag Harbor." Seen here, the piano man wears a motorcycle jacket. He always rode motorcycles and now owns a motorcycle shop in NYC. Later he switched to a dark suit jacket. In one shot is a clear view of his cute little pudgy hands. He was playing the piano with spunk, certainly not those fingers. This was surely before he had his teeth fixed, too. I love these little slices from the early life of someone I think I know so well. Seeing him before he polished his performing persona, I like Billy more. He seems more like me and less like that other Billy, polished and clean.
Time in a Bottle
Jim Croce's 1973 hit single from the album of the same name. Jim died in the same year, 1973. The video is very touching.
A Long, Long Time
Billy Joel in 1972, do you recognize him? This is my favorite portrait of Billy, pre-Christie, for sure. He and his band are playing a cut from his first ever solo album, "Cold Sag Harbor." Seen here, the piano man wears a motorcycle jacket. He always rode motorcycles and now owns a motorcycle shop in NYC. Later he switched to a dark suit jacket. In one shot is a clear view of his cute little pudgy hands. He was playing the piano with spunk, certainly not those fingers. This was surely before he had his teeth fixed, too. I love these little slices from the early life of someone I think I know so well. Seeing him before he polished his performing persona, I like Billy more. He seems more like me and less like that other Billy, polished and clean.
Sunday, August 28, 2016
BRAISED CARP Part 5 ~ ADD SALT TO TASTE ~ the end
I felt a sobering calm. Overcome with the realization I could make or break our relationship in the next few minutes, I checked my watch. I had been lost in hysterics for over 15 minutes. It was enough.
The motions of laying down my fishing pole sapped my remaining strength. I was numb. By sheer force of will, I rose and trudged up the river bank to get the net from our car, such a simple act to save a marriage.
When I returned, toting the net on my shoulder, Mike had already landed his fish. I found the victor crouched in the sand, eyeing his catch, a ten-pound carp, a giant in comparison to the catfish we caught earlier that evening.
Using the front of his t-shirt to wipe his face, Mike then turned to me. He had finally solved the mystery, “Look! It’s a carp!”
I smiled and nodded as if I did not know.
"That's what I needed," he grinned, pointing to the net.
"Obviously not," I shrugged, studying Mike’s first carp.
We marveled at how beautiful it was. Oklahoma’s blasting summer heat had not yet arrived. By late summer the heat would stress every living creature, including humans, but more important to fishermen, the fish. This carp, taken early in the season, was still unscarred and healthy after its winter rest.
For Mike his catch, and I must say it was rather large for a fish caught in those waters, was proof of how far his confidence and skills had come since our dream date years before even though, in this case, he was clueless what he had hooked.
After watching Mike watching his carp, I could not bear to shake him into reality by sharing the awful truth. We were admiring a slimy wad of trash fish.
Mike's fish was more than thirty inches in length. Exhausted from the fight, the fish lay hardly moving making it easier to take in its appearance. A carp like this one, out of the water, lying on its side, was always disturbing to me.
Carp would be more beautiful were it not for the mouth. Open no more than the width of a quarter, its mouth edged by thick, pale pink lips, one pudgy whisker on each side of what must be called its nostrils, it appeared to be malformed in some way, but all carp look that way.
Tell me how, with a mouth so small, can a carp have a body so big? This carp had a long, beautiful, golden body, torpedo-shaped, with scales the size of a quarter.
Mike congratulated himself and relished his trophy, more glorious since I had nothing to do with it. He had landed his carp without me and without the net.
Later that day, I performed a selfless act of devotion by starting a pan of braised carp. Mike insisted we bring the thing home with us. He cleaned and dressed it in earnest expectation I would cook it, and he would eat it. He spent over an hour cleaning it. Even after a vinegar and later a bleach scrubbing, the garage stunk for a week. Carp have earned their reputation.
I knew I was not likely to make braised carp ever again, but the finished product was so unusually pretty and unbelievably delicious, I wrote down my recipe in spite of myself.
As it turns out I never got the chance to use the recipe again, because to this day we have not caught another carp of that size, and neither are we likely to. We steer clear of any water looks like it might have carp.
Eventually, Mike learned the truth about carp all on his own. Mike is a sharp guy with a pointed wit. I think it was no accident he selected this recipe to be my first blog post. I also think I need to stuff my recipe box with recipes and accompanying stories that show us having a little more class than to cook trash.
~the end~
The motions of laying down my fishing pole sapped my remaining strength. I was numb. By sheer force of will, I rose and trudged up the river bank to get the net from our car, such a simple act to save a marriage.
When I returned, toting the net on my shoulder, Mike had already landed his fish. I found the victor crouched in the sand, eyeing his catch, a ten-pound carp, a giant in comparison to the catfish we caught earlier that evening.
Using the front of his t-shirt to wipe his face, Mike then turned to me. He had finally solved the mystery, “Look! It’s a carp!”
I smiled and nodded as if I did not know.
"That's what I needed," he grinned, pointing to the net.
"Obviously not," I shrugged, studying Mike’s first carp.
We marveled at how beautiful it was. Oklahoma’s blasting summer heat had not yet arrived. By late summer the heat would stress every living creature, including humans, but more important to fishermen, the fish. This carp, taken early in the season, was still unscarred and healthy after its winter rest.
For Mike his catch, and I must say it was rather large for a fish caught in those waters, was proof of how far his confidence and skills had come since our dream date years before even though, in this case, he was clueless what he had hooked.
After watching Mike watching his carp, I could not bear to shake him into reality by sharing the awful truth. We were admiring a slimy wad of trash fish.
Mike's fish was more than thirty inches in length. Exhausted from the fight, the fish lay hardly moving making it easier to take in its appearance. A carp like this one, out of the water, lying on its side, was always disturbing to me.
Carp would be more beautiful were it not for the mouth. Open no more than the width of a quarter, its mouth edged by thick, pale pink lips, one pudgy whisker on each side of what must be called its nostrils, it appeared to be malformed in some way, but all carp look that way.
Tell me how, with a mouth so small, can a carp have a body so big? This carp had a long, beautiful, golden body, torpedo-shaped, with scales the size of a quarter.
Mike congratulated himself and relished his trophy, more glorious since I had nothing to do with it. He had landed his carp without me and without the net.
Later that day, I performed a selfless act of devotion by starting a pan of braised carp. Mike insisted we bring the thing home with us. He cleaned and dressed it in earnest expectation I would cook it, and he would eat it. He spent over an hour cleaning it. Even after a vinegar and later a bleach scrubbing, the garage stunk for a week. Carp have earned their reputation.
I knew I was not likely to make braised carp ever again, but the finished product was so unusually pretty and unbelievably delicious, I wrote down my recipe in spite of myself.
As it turns out I never got the chance to use the recipe again, because to this day we have not caught another carp of that size, and neither are we likely to. We steer clear of any water looks like it might have carp.
Eventually, Mike learned the truth about carp all on his own. Mike is a sharp guy with a pointed wit. I think it was no accident he selected this recipe to be my first blog post. I also think I need to stuff my recipe box with recipes and accompanying stories that show us having a little more class than to cook trash.
~the end~
Links I Like
The Oklahoma Department of Wildlife website is filled with important information for any fisherman. Even better, they have fascinating short videos of Oklahoma fishes and how they behave in their native habitats, in this case, some of the beautiful,crystal clear waters of Oklahoma streams. I bet you can't watch just one.
On this page you can see how fun the ODWS really is, well, I can anyway. So much information! Scroll down and on the right, click on the state fishing records. The gentleman in the photo holds a largemouth bass. I cannot imagine him muscling that fish to the bank. Largemouth are fun to catch. They jump out of the water typically and twist at the same time. On one particular day, Mike and I were fishing for largemouth, and we had the best luck. The bass were striking hard that day, beautiful, clear skies, a light southerly breeze. The trouble came when I got tickled that we could not get one into the boat. The fish would jump and twist the hook clean out of its mouth. Must have happened six or eight times. I did manage to swing one into the boat where it knocked out the hook and took a dancing leap right back into the water. That was when I started to laugh nonstop. Mike got so mad at me he threatened to lay into me with an oar. That only made me laugh harder. I really love that man so much. I managed to pull it together long enough to get one into the boat, but that was all. I realized as he unhooked my fish, I was not likely to see him unhook one of my fish for a long time. Next time we went fishing for largemouth, we used bigger hooks, but we never got a bite.
Finally, I had a picture of Mike and me from about the time we were at our fishing peak. I cannot get the picture to upload to this page.
So frustrating! I can tell you this, writing is easy, but blogging is a bugger. I may be able to post the picture later. Otherwise, I hope you enjoyed the story. Next time you get "Aunt Marcie's Pea Salad." Yummy! Bye for now.
If you have a minute I would appreciate your comment in the box below.
Finally, I had a picture of Mike and me from about the time we were at our fishing peak. I cannot get the picture to upload to this page.
So frustrating! I can tell you this, writing is easy, but blogging is a bugger. I may be able to post the picture later. Otherwise, I hope you enjoyed the story. Next time you get "Aunt Marcie's Pea Salad." Yummy! Bye for now.
If you have a minute I would appreciate your comment in the box below.
Friday, August 26, 2016
BRAISED CARP Part 4 ~ ADD SALT TO TASTE
AFTER several minutes more, stumbling back and forth along the bank, fretting and yelling, interceded by swearing, Mike began to reel in his catch. He was certain by then he had a fish, apparently a rather large fish. Twisting in a flurry of motion, his fish had turned the water at his feet and along the sandbar a milk chocolate brown.
I remembered then that landing a carp meant fishing would be ruined in that area for the rest of the evening. I did not care. The spectacle was worth the loss.
After several more minutes, Mike began to plead with me, stammering as he yelled, "G-g-get the n-net!!" I was weak from laughter, too weak to run all the way to the car and return with the net.
I sobbed with laughter the way one would mourn with hollow wails and flowing tears. I wiped my eyes and blew my nose on my shirt tail. I tried to hold my laughter, but found I could not. Neither could I answer him.
Mike's wrath now turned to me. "Lin-da!" he boomed red-faced, "What are you do-ing?"
What could I say? Mike’s question had broken my episode of mania. I had been consumed in guffaws that had somehow knocked me out of my chair.
To my surprise I found my butt sunk deep into the sand, but I did not remember my fall. My fingers were still grasping my fishing pole. The line was fully retrieved, though I could not remember reeling in the line.
Catching my breath, I managed to roll to one side. Leaning on my elbow, I blurted, "Mike! It's not a turtle or a catfish.” I paused for a breath, and through newly erupted bursts of laughter yelped, “It's a carp!"
I felt so much better having said it. I thought that if Mike knew he had a trash fish on the end of his line, it would at the very least, negate his need for a net. Mike did not see it the same way at all.
Composed again, he pled quietly, "Get the net!" Noticing I had lost control all over again, he glared at me, with sweat dripping from his face, hands firmly holding his fishing pole, his eyes locked with mine.
I was stunned to hear him give a hollow shout, "Linda!" and after pausing, I suppose for a short breath, he continued to bellow, cursing, "#&%*, Linda!” With ever deepening resolve he spouted to me, “GET UP!!!"
to be continued in Part 5 in my next blog post. . .
Meanwhile, scroll down to see the links I found.
I remembered then that landing a carp meant fishing would be ruined in that area for the rest of the evening. I did not care. The spectacle was worth the loss.
After several more minutes, Mike began to plead with me, stammering as he yelled, "G-g-get the n-net!!" I was weak from laughter, too weak to run all the way to the car and return with the net.
I sobbed with laughter the way one would mourn with hollow wails and flowing tears. I wiped my eyes and blew my nose on my shirt tail. I tried to hold my laughter, but found I could not. Neither could I answer him.
Mike's wrath now turned to me. "Lin-da!" he boomed red-faced, "What are you do-ing?"
What could I say? Mike’s question had broken my episode of mania. I had been consumed in guffaws that had somehow knocked me out of my chair.
To my surprise I found my butt sunk deep into the sand, but I did not remember my fall. My fingers were still grasping my fishing pole. The line was fully retrieved, though I could not remember reeling in the line.
Catching my breath, I managed to roll to one side. Leaning on my elbow, I blurted, "Mike! It's not a turtle or a catfish.” I paused for a breath, and through newly erupted bursts of laughter yelped, “It's a carp!"
I felt so much better having said it. I thought that if Mike knew he had a trash fish on the end of his line, it would at the very least, negate his need for a net. Mike did not see it the same way at all.
Composed again, he pled quietly, "Get the net!" Noticing I had lost control all over again, he glared at me, with sweat dripping from his face, hands firmly holding his fishing pole, his eyes locked with mine.
I was stunned to hear him give a hollow shout, "Linda!" and after pausing, I suppose for a short breath, he continued to bellow, cursing, "#&%*, Linda!” With ever deepening resolve he spouted to me, “GET UP!!!"
to be continued in Part 5 in my next blog post. . .
Meanwhile, scroll down to see the links I found.
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Links I Like
Seriously, I only learned how to tie two knots. One is used to tie lines together, and the other is used to tie a line to something hard, like a hook. If you expect to land a fish of any size, learn these two knots. Learn them well.
I can get especially cranky tying knots. This guy is so laid back, you definitely want him, not me, teaching you how to tie knots.
How to Tie a Clinch Knot
The clinch knot is used to tie two lines together.
How to Tie a Blood Knot
The blood knot is used to tie line to another line.
Animated Knots by Grog
You will probably NEVER need to learn any of the other knots, but check this out. I love this super duper website. Not only can you learn fishing knots, you can learn knots for a variety of categories, including surgery. How cool is that?
Seriously, I only learned how to tie two knots. One is used to tie lines together, and the other is used to tie a line to something hard, like a hook. If you expect to land a fish of any size, learn these two knots. Learn them well.
I can get especially cranky tying knots. This guy is so laid back, you definitely want him, not me, teaching you how to tie knots.
How to Tie a Clinch Knot
The clinch knot is used to tie two lines together.
How to Tie a Blood Knot
The blood knot is used to tie line to another line.
Animated Knots by Grog
You will probably NEVER need to learn any of the other knots, but check this out. I love this super duper website. Not only can you learn fishing knots, you can learn knots for a variety of categories, including surgery. How cool is that?
Read "Braised Carp Part 5 --- Add Salt to Taste" to read the next installment.
Leave comments about the above post in the box below.
Thursday, August 25, 2016
BRAISED CARP Part 3 ~ ADD SALT TO TASTE
Carp are known to put up a fight you will not forget. I have seen two fishing poles, broken by carp. I have also seen grown women and young children throw down their poles in terror and run for the car when they realized what they had hooked. Getting a carp from the waters to the car makes fishing own up to the claim it is a sport.
Within ten minutes at his new site Mike’s bobber began to circle slowly. "There he is," Mike whispered. His bobber began to bounce gently in a straight line pointing toward the end of the sand bar, 30 feet in the distance. "C'mon, take it," he plead.
The bobber immediately responded diving beneath the water’s surface in one loud, “Plunk!” As Mike set the hook, he leapt from his chair and anxiously whispered, "Oh, oh, it's a. . . whale?" He realized this fighter was not the same as the catfish he caught earlier. This lunker quickly bent the fishing pole into a taut, quivering U-shape.
"Is it. . . ? Is it a. . . ? Is it a catfish?" He questioned the air. Mike had no idea what he had hold of, though the unnamed monster seemed to have him as well. I grinned wide and started to giggle.
"What the hell!" he cursed, "It's a turtle! A damn turtle!" Turtles, it is true, are a nuisance. We usually had to cut the line to be rid of them, losing a hook in the process. Turtles were easy to retrieve, but Mike’s reel sang a high pitched, “Zzzzzing!” as the line sped through the drag.
Just as quickly, Mike growled through appropriate expletives, but the beast was unrelenting. He still had no clue what he had. I, on the other hand, knew darn well what he had. Laughing, I leaned back in my chair to watch Mike catch his first carp. Watching someone pull in a carp can be, in some ways, more fun than actually reeling one to the bank yourself. Watching someone who was totally unaware of their predicament was, well, like a private showing of a comedy classic.
Carp are notorious fighters, but confined by the sandbar, any hooked fish, especially one as big as this one appeared to be, could not escape back to the main current until the waters of the river rose again. I thought I might have had time to sell tickets to the event had I been able to control myself.
Before long, I was convulsed with laughter. Mike, torn between glory and confusion, called out to me, "What is that thing? It's not a turtle. It can't be a turtle!" He was right.
Listening to his confusion, side-splitting laughter had me nearly unconscious. I could hardly breathe. Mike's occasional glances toward me, accompanied by his snorting and grimacing at the task in hand only served to worsen my condition.
Let me be clear. I was not, at any point, able to utter the words, "It is a carp."
To be continued in my upcoming post.
Within ten minutes at his new site Mike’s bobber began to circle slowly. "There he is," Mike whispered. His bobber began to bounce gently in a straight line pointing toward the end of the sand bar, 30 feet in the distance. "C'mon, take it," he plead.
The bobber immediately responded diving beneath the water’s surface in one loud, “Plunk!” As Mike set the hook, he leapt from his chair and anxiously whispered, "Oh, oh, it's a. . . whale?" He realized this fighter was not the same as the catfish he caught earlier. This lunker quickly bent the fishing pole into a taut, quivering U-shape.
"Is it. . . ? Is it a. . . ? Is it a catfish?" He questioned the air. Mike had no idea what he had hold of, though the unnamed monster seemed to have him as well. I grinned wide and started to giggle.
"What the hell!" he cursed, "It's a turtle! A damn turtle!" Turtles, it is true, are a nuisance. We usually had to cut the line to be rid of them, losing a hook in the process. Turtles were easy to retrieve, but Mike’s reel sang a high pitched, “Zzzzzing!” as the line sped through the drag.
Just as quickly, Mike growled through appropriate expletives, but the beast was unrelenting. He still had no clue what he had. I, on the other hand, knew darn well what he had. Laughing, I leaned back in my chair to watch Mike catch his first carp. Watching someone pull in a carp can be, in some ways, more fun than actually reeling one to the bank yourself. Watching someone who was totally unaware of their predicament was, well, like a private showing of a comedy classic.
Carp are notorious fighters, but confined by the sandbar, any hooked fish, especially one as big as this one appeared to be, could not escape back to the main current until the waters of the river rose again. I thought I might have had time to sell tickets to the event had I been able to control myself.
Before long, I was convulsed with laughter. Mike, torn between glory and confusion, called out to me, "What is that thing? It's not a turtle. It can't be a turtle!" He was right.
Listening to his confusion, side-splitting laughter had me nearly unconscious. I could hardly breathe. Mike's occasional glances toward me, accompanied by his snorting and grimacing at the task in hand only served to worsen my condition.
Let me be clear. I was not, at any point, able to utter the words, "It is a carp."
To be continued in my upcoming post.
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Links I Like
Visual Survey of Fish in the Arkansas River near Tulsa If you don't think there's fish in the Arkansas around downtown Tulsa, get a load of this.
To see for yourself, go to one of our clear, rocky bottomed streams, like Spring Creek, in the month of June. Use any kind of bait, from worms to kernels of corn. During spawn they will hit nearly anything, but none is more fun than catching any sunfish with a fly and fly rod.
Saturday, September 6, 2014
BRAISED CARP Part 2~ ADD SALT TO TASTE. . .
In our courting days, Mike's fate was surely sealed when I learned that he liked to fish, as if as his hazel eyes and auburn hair were not enough to turn my head. Early in the month of June, he and I went on our first date, fishing below the dam at Keystone Lake near Tulsa.
I pulled several fish out of the water that day, including a nice 3-pound drum. I could tell Mike lacked confidence tossing a line, and his retrieval could use some finesse, but I could also tell how much he enjoyed fishing. Mike caught no fish that day, but he had me hooked.
A few summers after our first dream date, we were fishing off the banks of the Arkansas River near the town of Sand Springs. Fishing off a gentle bend of the river, going for catfish, we were using chicken livers and fishing the bottom. In late spring the water was low and clear and babbled gently as it rolled past us.
Mike and I were getting frustrated losing tackle in the rocks where the catfish were surely lying, just beyond the sandbar, though so far we had little luck proving the effort to be worth our time. The few scrawny catfish we caught were not really worth taking home, though we had placed two of the catfish on our stringer.
By our own tradition, we had to take home a few fish for good luck, but this day our luck had been so bad, we had kept fish we would have released any other day.
Mike pointed to something fairly large repeatedly breaking the water leaving a subtle wake of gentle rings all along the stained backwaters of the sandbar.
We both knew this was a sign of fish feeding, a sign that could taunt the most seasoned fishermen. I just shook my head no, though Mike did not understand why. The fisherman's oath not to scare fish away, is silence, so I did not explain my lack of interest.
We both knew this was a sign of fish feeding, a sign that could taunt the most seasoned fishermen. I just shook my head no, though Mike did not understand why. The fisherman's oath not to scare fish away, is silence, so I did not explain my lack of interest.
After a time, having lost all patience catching small-fry catfish, Mike changed his tactics for what he was certain would be for bigger and easier prey. I knew Mike well enough to know he was going for the fish showing a willful disregard of danger by dining right under his feet.
Huffing and mumbling to himself he dug through the tackle box where he drew out a round, red and white bobber. Snapping the bright, round float to his line, he tossed his baited rig into the gently swirling backwater behind me and to my left.
Huffing and mumbling to himself he dug through the tackle box where he drew out a round, red and white bobber. Snapping the bright, round float to his line, he tossed his baited rig into the gently swirling backwater behind me and to my left.
As he pulled up his chair to face his new line of attack, I decided to break my oath. I asked what he thought he was doing.
"I'm tired of losing tackle.," he whispered. " I think I'll have better luck over here."
I softly chuckled, "You ever caught a carp before?"
He answered, "Caught what? Carp. . . ? Why?"
"I didn't think so," I said.
"No, I never caught a carp," he confessed.
"Well," I snickered under my breath, "You're about to."
To be continued. . .in my next blog post.
To be continued. . .in my next blog post.
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Links I Like
How did Keystone get its name? and Mannford? These questions are answered, and more. My only complaint is the writer might have included a bibliography, but I cannot dispute any part of this blog.
I caught a drum! Let's start a rock band!
I caught my drum in a river, and although it was not suitable for playing in a band, it is capable of making a drum-like noise, hence its name.
Keystone Lake Information
You will find here the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers' description of Keystone lake, everything a water sports lover may want to know about Keystone.
What I like about the USACE lake information sites are the outstanding photographs of the dams. I interpret these photos as bragging to which I believe they are entitled. US Army Corps Engineers are the ones responsible for designs I consider among the marvels of our time.
Knowing that nothing lasts forever leads one to wonder of what disasters might follow a break in the dam. As I stand casting a line along the river within sight of one of our massive dams, I take a deep breath realizing my own life would be one of the first to go.
These photos from the USACE of our area dams shot from above, at a distance, can stir up more comforting thoughts than when seen from below, squatting near a river bank.
With more than 200 man made lakes in Oklahoma, I cannot say I fished below them all, but I have fished more than a few. I have spent a lifetime playing in the waters beneath dams.
- Swimming in cool water and tanning on hot gravel bars in the scorching sun.
- Hearing my dad say "That! is a channel cat!" answering my question and holding it out for me to see in the dim evening light.
- Watching the women in my family cooking a campfire breakfast at dawn while I watched our sleeping youngsters. The men were off fishing a crappie run.
- Turning toward the sound of a deep hollow hoot coming from Mike as he caught his first blue cat, 25-lbs.
- Glimpsing a bald eagle overhead and watching it dip down into the river to snatch a white bass in its talons.
- Shoving young fishermen half again the size of me, out of my way with no apologies. They were headed for the rod holder with my bobbing fishing pole. At the end of the line was a 13-lb. flathead. It was mine, not theirs.
Their jealousy was evident as I struggled to bring the fish onto the bank. Later, a couple of the young men approached Mike, and they asked how to rig their line and bait their hook for the kind of fishing we seemed to have mastered.
Mike just laughed and pointed at me. "I don't know anything about it. You need to talk to Grandma there," he said.
He spoke the truth, but they never asked this old grandma a thing, and they did not get so much as a bite over the next hour as we stayed to watch them.
A dam is more than just an engineering marvel. For me, dams release memories along with the water.
Sunday, August 10, 2014
BRAISED CARP Part 1 ~ ADD SALT TO TASTE
My dad loved to fish. Teaching my two brothers and me how to use a fishing pole, he gave us each the push we needed to fall in love with fishing as he had.
By the time I was twelve, I must have caught my weight in carp, though the accomplishment carried little weight in our part of the country. Around here carp are considered trash fish, a term used for carp, bullhead, and buffalo, to name a few.
By the time I was twelve, I must have caught my weight in carp, though the accomplishment carried little weight in our part of the country. Around here carp are considered trash fish, a term used for carp, bullhead, and buffalo, to name a few.
I have had occasion to eat carp, bullhead, and buffalo. By my own taste, bullhead and buffalo both deserve to be called trash, but carp prepared properly can be delicious.
Preparing and cooking carp requires extra time and effort, than say, cooking crappie, a light, flavorful fish that requires a minimum of cleaning and preparation. I can only surmise that a cook first spread the rumor that carp were trash to discourage fishermen from bringing them into the kitchen.
I can imagine a fisherman being stopped at the door by a cook wielding a broom in one hand and a butcher knife in the other. If that wild-eyed cook told a hungry fisherman to throw that filthy thing in the trash, to the trash it surely went.
Preparing and cooking carp requires extra time and effort, than say, cooking crappie, a light, flavorful fish that requires a minimum of cleaning and preparation. I can only surmise that a cook first spread the rumor that carp were trash to discourage fishermen from bringing them into the kitchen.
I can imagine a fisherman being stopped at the door by a cook wielding a broom in one hand and a butcher knife in the other. If that wild-eyed cook told a hungry fisherman to throw that filthy thing in the trash, to the trash it surely went.
Hence, by my own assumption, came the term “trash” fish. It is just a theory I have, but after more than 50 years of family fishing trips and subsequent fish fries, I think I know fishermen and their cooks pretty well.
On our family outings, hopeful fishermen piled into one vehicle. In a time long past, before infant car seats, before seat buckle laws, vehicles' passenger limits were largely ignored.
Our 1953 Dodge station wagon held 12 passengers, twice the number it might legally hold today. When I was a kid, people thought nothing of having the youngest in their lap and telling the rest of the youngsters to ride in the compartment above the rear wheels. We gladly squeezed into any spot at the prospect of pulling the biggest fish of the day up the bank.
My dad, 5' 4", wearing worn blue jean overalls and a soft-billed cap to cover his balding head, outfitted our wagon with six-inch metal hooks mounted along the side of the car roof, just above the front and rear doors. The hooks served as carriers for the cane poles we kids would use to fish. Anyone could tell by looking we were headed out for a family fishing trip. Today, loaded as we were, we would probably be headed for jail.
If we could afford the extra gas money, someone might offer to drive a second vehicle, but that was a rare occurrence. We valued thrift over comfort. As for safety, well, in our minds, as long as no one was riding on the hood or strapped to the roof, we felt thrifty and safe in our station wagon packed with family.
Our favorite fishing holes were about a 30-minute drive from home on Oologah Lake in northeastern Oklahoma. As soon as we arrived, the selection of a fishing spot was a process filled with anticipation and hope. Though informal, based upon seniority, the process was clearly understood among even the youngest.
As any fisherman knows, you must fish where the fish are, but more importantly where the desirable fish are. As one of the youngest, by the time my turn came to take a spot to fish, I had to take what was left. My expertise became backwater fishing by default.
Backwater, not entirely stagnant, lacks oxygen game fish need to survive. The most undesirable fish thrive in backwater, bullhead, shad, buffalo, and, using the description I have most often heard used by many people I consider experts, the "nasty" carp.
I have reached such a respectable age, I can take top choice wherever I go fishing, looking for fresher water where bass, crappie, and catfish lie. My husband, like me, steers clear of areas where carp may be feeding. But that was not always so.
To be continued. . .
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Links I LikeTake Me Fishing!
If you have not been so adventuresome as to take a child fishing, then you must at your first opportunity. The website above can get you started.
If you think you have to drive far from home to find a place to fish, do a little research. You may be surprised to find a fishing hole within walking distance.
Oologah Lake Information
This website has an outstanding photograph of the reason most of my childhood fishing haunts and swimming holes are completely gone. The Verdigris River became dammed by the completion of the Oologah Lake project in 1963. I was in 3rd grade.
I vividly remember so much that lies at the muddy bottom of the Lake. I remember being a skinny, long-legged girl swimming at Will Rogers State Park, now gone. The park had no swimming areas, but we did not care about such things. We enjoyed what we could while we could.
The valley of the area now known as Goose Island are the places I remember best. We fished a good spot until it was gone, swallowed by the rising waters, and then we sought out another. On abandoned farms, orchards still stood, and our family snatched apples and pears, picked blackberries and plums until those, too, were taken by the waters.
I remember the first tree I ever climbed was an old pecan tree that towered there above the landscape. My cousin Mary, five years my senior, had climbed it before. Surprised I had never climbed a tree, she showed me what to do.
I climbed right up, though not as high as Mary. I was far more scared than I wanted her to know. She asked me what I would do if I fell. I told her I would call myself an ex p'con, pronounced like ex-con. I found out that day I was afraid of heights, but I also learned I could make someone laugh.
I think of that tree and compare it to the log floating some years later in the area now known as Red Bud Bay. That log floated submerged beneath the surface and made a perfect diving area for the kids in my family.
I suspect some fisherman towed the log into the cove for fun, since several more showed up after that. Our diving log had a diameter of 4 feet and a length of 20 feet, its surfaces smoothed and worn from years rotting in the waters of Oologah Lake. How many kids I wonder, played on that tree before and after it died?
I learned in one of my college philosophy classes that a Greek philosopher Heraclitus who lived in the 5th century B.C.E. knew a thing or two about rivers and about returning. Heraclitus is credited for saying that no man steps in the same river twice. I think I know how he feels.
In my 60th year on this planet, I have finally come to understand what I have heard many times, "You can never go back again," not to your family or your childhood places like the Verdigris River. Everything changes, even ourselves. If I could go back, I would not want to go, not even to my old favorite places of the Verdigris. I am too busy making new memories.
This website has an outstanding photograph of the reason most of my childhood fishing haunts and swimming holes are completely gone. The Verdigris River became dammed by the completion of the Oologah Lake project in 1963. I was in 3rd grade.
I vividly remember so much that lies at the muddy bottom of the Lake. I remember being a skinny, long-legged girl swimming at Will Rogers State Park, now gone. The park had no swimming areas, but we did not care about such things. We enjoyed what we could while we could.
The valley of the area now known as Goose Island are the places I remember best. We fished a good spot until it was gone, swallowed by the rising waters, and then we sought out another. On abandoned farms, orchards still stood, and our family snatched apples and pears, picked blackberries and plums until those, too, were taken by the waters.
I remember the first tree I ever climbed was an old pecan tree that towered there above the landscape. My cousin Mary, five years my senior, had climbed it before. Surprised I had never climbed a tree, she showed me what to do.
I climbed right up, though not as high as Mary. I was far more scared than I wanted her to know. She asked me what I would do if I fell. I told her I would call myself an ex p'con, pronounced like ex-con. I found out that day I was afraid of heights, but I also learned I could make someone laugh.
I think of that tree and compare it to the log floating some years later in the area now known as Red Bud Bay. That log floated submerged beneath the surface and made a perfect diving area for the kids in my family.
I suspect some fisherman towed the log into the cove for fun, since several more showed up after that. Our diving log had a diameter of 4 feet and a length of 20 feet, its surfaces smoothed and worn from years rotting in the waters of Oologah Lake. How many kids I wonder, played on that tree before and after it died?
I learned in one of my college philosophy classes that a Greek philosopher Heraclitus who lived in the 5th century B.C.E. knew a thing or two about rivers and about returning. Heraclitus is credited for saying that no man steps in the same river twice. I think I know how he feels.
In my 60th year on this planet, I have finally come to understand what I have heard many times, "You can never go back again," not to your family or your childhood places like the Verdigris River. Everything changes, even ourselves. If I could go back, I would not want to go, not even to my old favorite places of the Verdigris. I am too busy making new memories.
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