Volunteer for heart, not pay

A note to readers of the Zen Shark: This morning I was given the most amazing gift - an entire essay written by my daughter Jordan on my behalf. I still do not have the words to express how proud I am of her. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. Thank you, Jordan, for your beautiful words.

Since my mother has not written a blog for the past 3 months, I’ve decided myself to do it for her. Let me tell you, I’m her daughter, a pretty good writer and I can already tell writing a blog can be on the tough side until you actually think of something to say. But this morning, Saturday, October 29, I have a great topic for you to think about…

Volunteer work is as easy as it sounds. But it depends on what you volunteer with. It can be as simple as raising a hand to answer a question in class, or helping someone build a house or a mansion (a little carried away.) But the labor we work for isn’t hard. Nor easy. It is the volunteer work that makes you want to come back everyday. Of course, you probably don’t get it yet, but for me, it’s volunteering at animal shelters.

Yes, for the past 3 months me, my little brother, and my mom have been going to my local animal shelter!  And it’s every Sunday.  (For those many Sundays) And may I say this just to make a point. Girls and boys at my school ask me “ Is it disgusting? I bet it is” or even “How can you deal with the fact there are so many sad faces?” Answer to first question “ No, it's not, the smell might bite you in the butt, but it's rather easy to work with 50 cats.” Answer to question 2 “ I deal with the cats in such an easy way, I know if they are sick or dying they’ll go to a better place. When I know their nervous, you take them out in play, the next day you come see them there dying for attention.

As of working there for three months, I have become like a vet assistant. I help hold the cats for shots, micro-chipping, even giving medicine. But it’s very cool to work with good people surrounded by you. For example. Margaret, she is the person I’ve worked with from the first day I came in to help. I soon found out from her she was the ONLY one who worked there on Sundays, so I told her this “ I promise on my life I will come here every Sunday until I go off to college.” And ever since then I go… Three months later people were hired and we get done a lot faster than anticipated. And to this day, Oct. 29, 2011, Margaret and I are now Facebook friends and talk all the time.

From the time I’ve worked there I’ve seen some good and bad things happen. And even heart breaking. I’ve seen kittens born, mama cats feeding newborns, I’ve seen dogs jump on the cage's metal doors to get a kiss or be pet! But most of the time, I see what a little water and food can do. I’ve seen newborns die; I’ve seen mommas kill her babies because she doesn’t know what to do. I’ve seen death, dog aggression; I’ve been bit myself. But nothing keeps me from always coming back.

 I have loved animals my whole life, and I'll keep it that way. Just remember:

“ An animals eyes have the power to speak a great language” – Martin Buber

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When you’re done reading this, go play with your pet/pets and tell them you love them, they really DO deserve it.

Another Outdoor House Guest

We had just finished putting the dishes away after dinner when Jim stopped dead in his tracks, and started to signal to me from across the kitchen.

“Laura, come here! This is the most amazing thing I have ever seen in my life!” Jim whispered excitedly, creeping closer to the back kitchen door. “Hurry, before it goes away!”

I quickly but quietly moved in front of where Jim was standing and looked out the window. Sitting in the middle of our deck, four feet from our back door, sat a teeny-tiny baby rabbit, sized somewhere between a furry tennis ball and a golf ball with ears.

“Oh my God,” my heart melted, as I flashed back to the time I was in sixth grade and I brought home a hutch-full of baby rabbits whose mom had been killed by a riding lawnmower. “Oh shit, Jim, Alle’s out there!”

What Jim couldn’t see from his angle was our family cat, Alle, sitting two feet in front of bun-bun. Oddly though, she was sitting calmly, almost maternally, watching the baby in a protective stance. But the last thing we wanted to do was take a chance: We had to somehow get Alle back inside and baby bunny someplace safe.

As I quietly opened the kitchen door, Jim moved towards Alle and I moved toward the bunny. Neither flinched nor made any attempt to move.  Jim and I exchanged a quick look as he slowly bent down and scooped up Alle, who then contentedly sat in his arms. As the bunny made no attempt to move, I gingerly picked him up and cupped him against my tummy. After some minor protests, the bunny seemed to notice he was in a warm, quiet place, and I could feel his body relax and get comfy in his new location.

As Jim put Alle back inside, we sat down on the gazebo’s stoop. “We can’t show the kids,” Jim argued laughingly. “Jordan will want to nurse it back to health and we’ll have another house guest on our hands.”

“We can’t not show the kids,” I told Jim, and handed him the little cuddle monster as I walked back into the house to call Jordan and Jamie to meet our little friend.

“Jordan! Jamie! Come out on the deck right away and bring a camera!” I yelled up the stairs. Thundering footsteps sounded from opposite ends of the second floor. “What is it?” they both asked almost simultaneously.

“Just come downstairs and hurry, Dad and I want to show you something,” I answered, and walked back outside to catch Jim talking to our new friend.

The moment Jordan heard the word “bunny” she shot directly back into the house in search of a box and towels to place it in, formulating her argument as to why we would need to keep and raise bunny as our own for his own good.

At some point Alle our cat made it back onto the deck, and primly sat behind Jim on the gazebo, quietly observing him holding her new friend. Again, her manner was calm and relaxed. She was definitely mellowing in her advanced age.

“Do the neighborhood animals have some sort of network system – stay at Casa Dralle, they’re really nice people?” I joked, noting that this little creature had to climb seven stairs to reach our back door and hop an additional fifteen feet.

As Jordan droned on and on in the background about dead rabbit mothers and orphaned babies and being lost forever and starving to death, Jim, Jamie and I looked around the base of our gazebo for a safe place to release our adorable little visitor.

As we all agreed to a covered area where the deck steps met the sides of the gazebo base, Jim carefully placed the baby in the higher grass at the edge of the deck. Instead of bolting away, as we expected, the little guy took his time, finding a bit of clover to nibble on before he made his way under the deck and quickly out of sight.

Give our regards to the possum, I thought, as we made our way back inside for the evening, debating what we would name him if he returned tomorrow night.

Teachers Are People, Too

While our family accepts that school is back in session in less than one month, nothing rubs your face in it more than all the back-to- school and “dorm headquarters” displays. But nothing can be a more specific reminder than running into your elementary school principal shopping at the same store you are.

Growing up in Niles, a relatively large suburb, I can count on one hand the number of teachers I ran into in public (and I’m counting through high school). And when I did run into them, it was a total SHOCK. What were they doing outside of the school? Did the principal know about this? Should I tell anyone about it? I swear I never saw ANY of my elementary school teachers ever even walking out of a bathroom.

Jordan and Jamie see their teachers, aides, principals and substitute teachers out in public at least once a week, grocery shopping at Walmart, selecting candles at Bath and Body Works, snacking on ice cream at Dairy Queen, checking out books at the local library, and at our local clubhouse playing tennis or swimming at the pool.

As little kids, I think my sister and I would have freaked out if we saw one of our teachers in a bathing suit or God forbid buying underwear and Pop Tarts at Walmart. Our teachers didn’t connect with us on a personal level the way Jordan and Jamie’s teachers do, with family pictures and trinkets tastefully decorating their mini-office desk space.

When Jamie’s fourth-grade teacher became pregnant, she shared the wonderful news immediately with her class, as she was suffering nasty morning sickness and didn’t want any of them to become worried when she quickly dashed out the door without any explanation.

Teachers who have become engaged during the school year have been proposed to in front of their classes, and many times students and their families are invited to attend the wedding ceremony and reception. It is not unusual to walk into a classroom and find yourself in the middle of a baby or bridal shower, complete with pink and blue balloons and dainty white umbrella decorations.

With one exception for each of us, my sister and I loved all our elementary school teachers. And while they all experienced the same life-changing events as Jordan and Jamie’s teachers did, the information was never shared with us. I wonder if our experiences with our ‘bad’ teachers would have been better if we knew more about them personally.

It wasn’t until we were much older that we found-out that both the teachers we despised were neither well liked nor well respected by their peers, and they had very sad home lives. Would that information have made us like them any more than we did? Probably not. But I have a feeling, knowing our personalities as kids, that we would have felt sorry for them, and made it slightly easier to deal with them daily.

So as I reviewed the school supply lists Jordan and Jamie grabbed as we waited in line at Walmart, I wondered if their teachers are counting down the remaining summer vacation days just as the parents and the kids are.   

And Down Goes Dralle ...

My name is Laura and I am a menace to myself.

The morning was starting off so nicely – everyone slept late and woke rested and in good moods. Jamie asked if he could make a pancake breakfast for everyone, and after we all stopped joking and yelling ‘yes’ at the top our lungs, he moved to pull the pancake mix out of the pantry.

While in the midst of emptying and refilling the dishwasher, Jamie asked me to grab the mixing bowl off the high shelf. I reached for the bowl on tippy toe, and handed it to Jamie across the kitchen island.

As I walked back toward the dishwasher, Jamie asked me to put the skillet on the stove to warm up, and to select the perfect pancake flipper. Remembering the flipper was still in the dishwasher, I stepped backwards and began to fall helplessly into space.

As I had forgotten that I was just unloading the dishwasher not a minute before, my right foot got caught as I stepped back. The two seconds it took me to fall to the floor took roughly two minutes in ultra-slow motion time as my body twisted and contorted this way and that, all the while trying not to land on the open dishwasher door.

My left elbow made contact with the kitchen island first, and as my forearm fell forward I tried to claw at it with all my might, only to have two of my nails bend backwards as they slammed into the flat surface. Half my left torso and back crashed into the cabinets, and I continued to cling to the island as my right butt cheek grazed the pointed corner of the open dishwasher door.

I slowly released my grip and slid down to the floor, missing the open door by centimeters. Jamie and Jim rushed over as I gingerly lowered my arm, carefully bending my wrist, moving my fingers, and rolling my arm in the shoulder socket. Tender, but no sharp pains anywhere.

“Are you okay, Johnny?” Jim joked, referring to a goofy house accident my uncle had a few weeks back.

“Falling just knocked the wind out of me,” I explained, and noticed that taking a deep breath hurt on the left hand side, and my torso muscles felt tight and sore.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Jim asked again, helping me up off the floor. I nodded and looked at exactly how close I came to causing myself serious injury, with a full set of steak knives resting in the door-basket utensil slot. The space between the open dishwasher door and the kitchen cabinets is less than four inches.

Jim helped me over to a chair in the family room, and I felt my muscles start to tense up as my left wrist started to get puffy. “God, I wish I had that on video,” I laughed. “I couldn’t get back into that same position if I wanted to.”

I’d love to tell you more, but the muscle relaxants are kicking in and I’m going to enjoy the ride.

Summer Beauty in Pictures

When it comes to summer flowers, pictures are worth a 

thousand words. And as the kids and I only have 24 more days of summer break, I thought I would take a small break and share with you some of the beautiful pictures Jordan and Jim have taken over the past few days.    

Enjoy!

The Internet is Wacky

So, on my blog yesterday I wrote about how a strange series of events on the Internet led me to track down a watercolor artist whose work I happened to find and fall in love with during a random Google search. When I later befriended the man on Facebook,  the story started to take a few too many strange turns, so I titled yesterday’s blog entry “Maybe I Just Like the Internet.”

To briefly recap: I had tracked down watercolor artist Behrooz Bahadori’s website, immediately shot an email to him through his website, and then tracked him down and befriended him on Facebook. I was excited when “Behr” (as Behrooz refers to himself) friended me on Facebook, and I looked forward to hearing back from him in the weeks ahead regarding how I could go about possibly purchasing his work.

The story goes wonky when Behr responded to my question with the following statement in what I believed to be Arabic:

اسلامی زاینده رود و تالاب گاوخونی را نابود کرد 

I jokingly asked my fellow readers if anyone knew Arabic, or even had a clue what Behr had sent back to me.

And someone did.  Well, sort of. My brilliant cousin Stacy sent me the coolest website link in the world – http://translate.google.com.

Simply type or cut and paste the phrase in question into a box on the left-hand side of the screen, hit the ‘translate’ button, and the translated word or phrase appears in the right-hand side screen box.

Needless to say, the second I finished reading her email I went directly to ‘translate Google.’ I crossed my fingers after I pasted the phrase in the left-hand box, and hoped that I was one step closer to obtaining my own Behrooz Bahadori watercolor reproduction.

The Google program best determined the phrase was in Turkish, and the message translated as follows: “Zayandeh, the creator of the wetlands, destroyed Gavkhvny.”

Translation to Dralle: I’m not getting my damn print. 

Maybe I Just 'Like' the Internet

On my blog yesterday I wrote about how a strange series of events and keystrokes on the Internet led me to track down and befriend an artist whose work I happened to find during a random Google search. It was such a positive experience I even titled my blog entry “Why I Love the Internet.”

Well, today I’m not so sure I’m in love anymore, but rather a little creeped out. After reviewing about twenty different websites looking for a formal piece of artwork to hang over my living room couch, I came up empty handed.

That’s right. Twenty kabillion images on world wide web poster sites and not one of them caught my eye: Too big, too small, too red, wrong blue tone, ugly frame, too expensive, too pedestrian. Before giving up hope completely, I thought I would try the trick that had led me to the perfect piece before, and typed “landscape watercolor imagery” into the Google search box.

And after a few scrolls down the screen, damn if my trick didn’t work again and I tripped over yet another artist who painted exactly what I was envisioning in my head. Armed with the name “Behr Watercolors,” I was (hopefully) keystrokes away from finding the perfect painting.

It turns out the artist’s full name is Behrooz Bahadori, and he was born and raised in Tehran, Iran. He spent the bulk of his professional life in Esfahan, one of the oldest and considered one of the most artistic cities in the Middle East.

 “Behr,” as he refers to himself, moved to Turkey in 2007, where critics found his art to be a compelling combination of cultural, classic and modern water color art. Inspired by the positive response to his work, he moved to Seattle, Washington, where he resides today and continues to actively paint a combination of still life and wild country landscapes.

I immediately shot an email to him through his website, tracked him down and befriended him on Facebook. Unlike my encounter with artist Michelle Cobbin, Behr was at least in the same country I was, albeit all the way on the other side of it. I explained who I was and that I was interested in purchasing his work, and what would be the best way to reach him to discuss the matter further.

Well, imagine my surprise when Behr ‘friended’ me on Facebook within a day, but without a written response. This was great. I was not only able to track him down, but the gallery pages on his website were filled with beautiful pieces; while I may not be able to get a reproduction of the exact print I wanted, there were many others to choose from.

To be honest I had forgotten about Behr and had moved on to yet another house project, thinking an artist of his caliber might take weeks to get back to me, when I received the following response on my Facebook page today:

اسلامی زاینده رود و تالاب گاوخونی را نابود کرد 

So, does anyone out there speak or read Arabic? I thought my writing a note to him in English and my hardly ethnic-sounding name of Laura Ries Dralle would be a big hint that I might be looking to communicate in my native tongue.

Now I’m totally paranoid that I’ve set off some sort of international creative arts offensive, and sometime later tonight my front door will be stormed by federal agents wearing berets and armed with paintbrushes, seeking the Ugly American peon who dared to bother the great and powerful Behr.

I’m going to delete all the ‘history’ pages on my laptop right now, turn off my computer and hide upstairs with a bowl of rice pudding. As for the blank space over the living room sofa, I’m sure there’s something at Ikea that will look just fine.

Why I Love the Internet

I was in the process of developing a website for a client when I hit a creative brick wall: I knew what I wanted the content to sound like, and I knew what I wanted the website to look like, but I didn’t feel like the words and imagery were meshing correctly, and instead of being complementary, I felt like the elements were competing for attention and in conflict. 

I decided that for me to continue on the right path, I needed to select a final color palette. As I am not a graphic artist but have worked with some of the best of them in my past, I pulled out a series of portfolios and notebooks to inspire my color choices. Absolutely nothing jumped out at me.

"After St. Ives" - Michelle Cobbin

As I knew my written content would be quiet and peaceful in nature, I typed “peaceful watercolor imagery” in the Google images search bar. I scrolled through pages of beautiful images and color combinations and suddenly, THERE IT WAS: A fascinating abstract piece with harmonious blues, golds and white that I knew would work perfectly with the language of my website. Within five hours, the website was in its final draft mode and ready for client review. I couldn’t have been happier.

Yet even after I placed the finishing touches on my website write-up, I couldn’t bring myself to delete the inspiring image from my computer’s desktop. There was just something about the piece that spoke to me, and I realized it looked like it was created specifically for my and Jim’s home office. I decided to try to track down the artist and maybe obtain a copy of the print.

After a half-hour of generalized website stalking, I determined the piece was entitled “After St. Ives” by an artist named Michelle Cobbin. Success! Sort of. I still had no idea where Ms. Cobbin was from, if she had a gallery somewhere on the planet, if she would even sell her artwork, if her work was even remotely affordable to someone in my tax bracket, or even if she were living or dead.

I popped “Michelle Cobbin” in the Google search box and hit return, and immediately found two people on Facebook with that name, one artist and one yoga instructor, both out of the United Kingdom. I selected “Michelle Cobbin Facebook artist” and to my surprise there was the actual Michelle Cobbin I was looking for, with a small collection of watercolor pieces on her gallery page.

I discovered she was born in Suffolk and was the same age as me. She wrote on her Facebook page that her art practice is based on her background in yoga, meditation and natural health, and has been based in Brighton (Great Britain) since the mid-eighties.

Before I knew what I was doing, I started writing her a personal email at two in the morning, asking to be “friended’ on Facebook. I told her how much her “After St. Ives” piece helped me out of a creative block, and I was interested in purchasing a copy of the print if that would be possible.

I had barely finished hitting ‘send’ when an email popped up in my inbox. It was Michelle! She said she was so delighted that her work had inspired me, and that my timing was impeccable because she was just in the process of finishing-up her online gallery. I would be able to purchase a reproduction print from her in the very near future.

Talk about the world getting smaller. Never in a million years could I have dreamt up a story like this: Lost writer finds creative inspiration as a result of a Google image search, and embarks on a mission to find the random artist whose contemporary imagery left an indelible impression on her mind’s eye. With mere keystrokes, the writer is lead to the virtual front doorstep of the artist via Facebook, where the writer and artist chat across the Atlantic Ocean and develop an endearing friendsip based on mutual respect and their shared love of the arts.

Don’t let anyone ever tell you that surfing the web is a waste of time – you never know where those keystrokes may lead you.

A Day at the Mall

I never know what to expect when I take my daughter and her bestie to the mall, because I’m never sure which daughter is traveling with me: Happy Jordan, nutty Jordan, sassy Jordan or a combination of all three.

So to make it completely fair, Jordan never knows when I will break out into song or worse yet, my pageant mom personality, ala “Toddlers and Tiaras”, and start cussing her out in public for not practicing her routines and that only winners who wear crowns will ever be happy.

Like today when I was waiting in line and not paying attention to the fact that I was singing aloud to the song pumping out of the speakers: “When I’m walkin’ I strut my stuff, man I’m so strung out. I’m high as a kite I just might stop to check you out…”

Jordan and Kendall were too busy studying the jelly bracelets to notice I was singing and using their heads as drums to bang out the beat. “Oh my God!” the young clerk exclaimed. “Coolest mom of the year award to you for knowing this Violent Femmes’ song. Guys, your mom seriously rocks out for real.”

Thank you for making me feel like it was time for me to check out the AARP website for better car insurance rates, darling young girl. “Actually, I’m surprised you know this song. This is total eighties and from my time, and should be an oldie to you,” I laughed. “But I will take the cool mom compliment.”

We sat and ate lunch in the food court in total silence, as I realized none of us had really had anything to eat all day and it was already way past noon. We all quietly pointed-out the wildest tattoos and craziest clothes combinations, and looked at all the other moms to decide which new haircut or color would look best on me.

After Jordan and Kendall helped me score the perfect print to grace the space over our foyer desk, I spent the majority of the afternoon perusing the clearance racks for the right sizes, colors and prices, looking for the perfect pieces the girls will probably save for going back to school.

Our ride home gave the girls plenty of time to hatch a sleepover plan, which then gave Jamie equal amount of time home alone with Jim to plot a sleepover plan with his friend, CJ.  Within a few hours, the house was filled with the thundering footsteps of four children racing to the table for pizza, all who sneakily developed a late-night game that involved water balloons and launching them from Jordan’s bedroom window.

Because let’s face it, how many more 95º evenings are we going to enjoy this summer …

Hot Enough for You?

It’s a very sad day in July when it’s too hot and too dangerous to take the kids swimming, the air conditioner is battling itself to maintain a steady 74º temperature, and the electric meter is spinning fast enough that small sparks fly from the domed unit.

At first I thought I would take the initiative and start scanning some of our older print pictures and storing them on the computer, only to discover how steamy the office became when I had all the equipment up and running. Ditto on running the washing machine, dryer and dishwasher.

The only moment of excess heat today came from the kitchen, where in celebration of Jim’s birthday, Jamie surprised everyone by making homemade pancakes for brunch.

As Jordan headed out the door to welcome home her best friend from family vacation, Jamie took out his favorite cookbook, “Ratatouille, What’s Cooking?”, to determine what ingredients we would need to create some new tasty treats for the upcoming weekend. Winning dishes and snacks included something from each of the Dralle family’s food groups: Broccoli quiche, mini molten chocolate volcanoes and cheese sticks (main dishes, desserts and appetizers).

As the heat has zapped everyone’s appetite, no one sounds interested in any of the ideas we are tossing around for dinner, so it appears everyone will just peck throughout the evening and end up feeling starved to death right around eleven or so.

I’m hoping there is a break in the heat wave soon, because I’ve already grown tired of watching every newscast attempting to fry an egg on the sidewalk, and newscasters lecturing children sweltering in the city to not open the fire hydrants, wagging their fingers at them and tisk-tisking while they sit in their climate-controlled 70º news studios. 

Family Fishing Trip

I’ve always been thankful to my dad for taking me and my sister fishing when we were little, worms or tiny squares of American cheese dangling from our hooks, red and white bobbers riding the little lake waves that we watched like hawks, waiting for them to shoot under the water to signal that we had indeed caught the big one.

And when you are under the age of six, catching sunfish and pan fish were like landing little whales, and we would all pose proudly with the ones that didn’t get away. We were taught ‘catch and release’ early on, letting our precious catches go back to their families so they could grow bigger for someone else to catch.

And, oh, the patience my dad pretended to have as he tried to teach his two pre-teen daughters how to cast, when all we really wanted to know was why fishermen had to rise so early on a weekend: Wouldn’t these same fish be around at noon?

And by the time we were teenagers, dad gave up trying to fish with us entirely, and instead simply brought Dawn and I to the spot on the lake where we could catch the best rays. While we tanned ourselves black, covered in baby oil mixed with iodine, dad was off to catch the big one in peaceful silence.

Jim loves to fish, and I have a feeling he was secretly impressed the first time I baited my own hook, was able to properly cast, and remove the hook from my catch without hurting myself or the fish. A fair weather fisherman, I joined Jim and his friends on trips when the weather was warm and the water did not contain leaches.

Jordan’s first Barbie fishing pole was as bright as Jamie’s first Spongebob Squarepants rod. We fished often and in places where we were guaranteed to catch something, to ensure they enjoyed each and every trip and had pictures of the big ones to share with Grandpa Bobby.

As Jordan and Jamie grew older, we fished bigger bodies of water, where they learned the tough lesson that what we were doing was called ‘fishing’, not ‘catching’.  Slowly they learned the sting of disappointment of not catching a single fish or not having a single bite did not ruin an entire day. The enjoyment of fishing came from being outside, spending time with family, and the constant allure of knowing big fish were out there, just waiting to be caught by us.

Anthony

When our nephews arrived for their mini-vacation at Casa Dralle, the first thing they wanted to know was when we were going fishing (the second thing was when we were going to have waffles with whip cream for breakfast). We assured them we would have plenty of time to fit in at least one fishing trip to ‘the good spot,’ and they were both off like a flash to find Jordan and Jamie to share the great news.

The following afternoon Jim loaded the minivan with five fishing rods and reels, four squealing children, three cans of bug spray, two tackle boxes and one newly printed Illinois fishing license. Prior to leaving, Jim explained that due to the hot weather the fish might not be biting, so he didn’t want to see any pouting or hear any complaining if they got skunked.

Jordan

Words could not have been more wasted. Within minutes of arriving, Jordan landed a bass with her first cast, and no less than fifteen more fish were caught between the four kids within a three-hour period. They even had the thrill of seeing a roughly hundred pound snapping turtle (which they nicknamed Snappy), who quickly wore out his welcome after he became a greedy bait snatcher.

They didn’t come home until after nine Friday night, bursting through the door with everyone talking at the same time, smelling like sweat, bug spray and dead fish, and Jordan thrusting her camera in front of my face to look at all the pictures she took. Once everyone was paraded through the shower, thrown into pajamas and fed a very late dinner, the fishing stories suddenly could miraculously wait until the next morning.

Over waffles and whip cream Saturday morning, a second fishing trip was planned for later that evening, which I promised I would join to serve as photographer and bait boy. It was then my turn to tell the ‘hot weather maybe they’re won’t be fish this time/yesterday was a fluke’ story, which was received by four sets of rolling eyes and smiling faces.

I’d forgotten how chaotic successful fishing with four children on a small pier with live bait could be, and Jim kept asking me if he had yet developed any noticeable facial tics.

Alec

As fast as we could bait the hooks and help them cast without poking out each other’s eyeballs, they were landing fish, having their bait stripped by turtles, tangling their lines around their reels, wanting their pictures taken and their fish released so they could be re-baited and cast again.

In what seemed like a fifteen-minute period, four hours had passed and the sun was already below the horizon. Mosquitoes the size of small planes began buzzing the pier, chewing on the children and chasing them back to the minivan in record time. The flying carnivores’ timing could not have been better.

Jamie

The kids could not have had two better fishing trips back-to-back. They were comfortable with their equipment, baited their own hooks most of the time, and caught more fish than they knew what to do with. They encouraged each other when the fishing slowed down, and cheered each other on when someone landed the big one.

Jim and I are so proud to have brought a wonderful tradition of family fishing forward to the next generation, an appreciation of Mother Nature and all she has to offer, and the patience necessary for everyone to enjoy it all.