Go Fish

Fishing is a sport that no one in my family or my husband’s family ever attempted. Well, that’s not entirely true. When my husband, Warren was in college, the story goes that he was asked to carry a case of beer for a fishing trip. But, when he jumped into the rowboat, it sank. A young woman screamed, “I can’t swim!” So Warren suggested that she stand up, since they were still at shore. Heroically, having his priority straight, he fished the beer out of the water, and was the only one to catch anything on the whole trip.

When our son, Josh was 4-years-old, we visited with our in-laws in Florida. They lived in a sub-division that was crisscrossed with water canals. Rumor had it that these canals were stocked with fish. Why else would people find alligators in their backyards? Of course, Josh’s grandpa Chuck could never say, “No!” to his favorite and only grandchild. So when Josh said, “Let’s go fish,” grandpa rigged a fishing pole out of rope and a broom handle. For bait, he used kosher salami. I didn’t know if alligators ate kosher salami, but found out that ducks love the stuff. Surrounded, by fowl, Josh, yelled, “You’re not fish!” tossed the fishing pole into the water and ran home as fast as his little legs could take him.

Dave Berry said, “Fishing is boring, unless you catch an actual fish, and then it’s disgusting.”

I’ve gone fishing a couple of times in my life, and found that sitting around doing nothing on a sunny day, on the bank of a river, is just as good as sitting around the house. Of course, Steven Wright reminds us: ”There’s a fine line between fishing and just standing on the shore like an idiot.”

I think there’s a certain romance in fishing, except no one ever told that to the fish, and drowning innocent worms seems not so nice. Fishing is a little like golf, except it’s only acceptable to hit a fish with a club if you are out in the middle of the ocean, and no one can see you.

If I remember the theory of evolution correctly, creatures came out of the sea and acclimated to dry land. Had man paid attention, we could have learned some lessons from this experience. Fish don’t have any problems until they open their mouths.

Eating fish can be a dangerous experience. The Japanese have a delicacy called “Fugu.” (poisonous Pufferfish). It is very expensive and can be more deadly than cyanide if not prepared correctly. I don’t know how it tastes because I’m not partial to cyanide, but Fugu appears on more than 80 menus in Japan. The chef has to be a licensed Fugu cook. I don’t know if you have to sign a release before eating the dish, but if it isn’t prepared correctly, your lips swell and you die before you can send it back to the kitchen.

On a happier note, I thought I’d give Josh a chance to redeem himself after the salami escapade. This is what he said: “The last time I went fishing was with a neighbor in New York City. We went out in Sheepshead Bay near Coney Island. I think I actually caught a sheep’s head. It was on a party barge, without the party. You could keep what you caught, including any diseases inhabiting the fish. Going fishing in New York City is kind of like owning a Porche convertible in Alaska---it’s possible, but it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense.”

Esther Blumenfeld (angling for a Carp-e diem.)

Order In The House

If your mailbox isn’t stuffed with catalogs this Holiday Season, your mailbox is the one floating around with the International Space Station. Those wiseacres, who predicted the demise of catalogs due to online sales, forgot the fact that you can’t make sales if you can’t reach your customers.

According to the Direct Marketing Association, catalog distribution has grown to over 20 billion pieces of mail, and I suspect that mailmen and chiropractors have a very symbiotic relationship during this season of peace, goodwill and bulk mail deliveries.

It is believed that Benjamin Franklin was the first cataloger in the United States. In l744, he produced the first catalog that sold scientific and academic books such as: Flying Kites in Lightening Storms—A New Way to Remove Fungus From Between Your Toes.

He also offered the guarantee, “Those persons who live remote, by sending their orders and money to B. Franklin may depend on the same justice as if present.” Of course, if the order was lost in the mail, he could always blame it on the pony.

In 1872, Aaron Montgomery Ward of Chicago produced the first mail order catalog---a single 8x12 sheet of paper with a price list, pictures of merchandise and how to order it. He was able to lower prices by removing the middleman at the general store.

The first Sears Catalog was published in 1888. By 1895, it had grown to a 532- page book  “illustrating the largest variety of goods ever imagined,” and if you didn’t want any goods, you could always use the book to pump up your abs.

The Homestead Act of 1862, and America’s westward expansion, was followed by the development of the railroad. Also the postal system allowed a better postage rate of one-cent—as well as the advent of Rural Free Delivery in 1896. All this made the distribution of catalogs economical.

My daughter-in-law, Barbara looked at the pile of catalogs that had been stuffed in the mailbox and said, “Why would we want a catalog called, 'Dogs Are Us?' We have a cat!'"

Retailers hope that from the comfort of your own home, you will fall in love with catalogs that you didn’t even know existed, and you will become so enthralled with the merchandise that you will overlook the thousands of trees that died so you can order a dog costume---even if you don’t have a dog.

Esther Blumenfeld (Got to go. I need to order shoelaces that glow in the dark from Senior Living Essential.)

Platitudes And Other Advice

Language is sometimes quite confusing. “Help yourself,” means I can go to the buffet table and pile my plate as high as I want with food that someone else has prepared. “Self Help,” means I have to figure out how to wheedle myself an invitation to the party.

As far as I know, there aren’t any books written about helping myself to food except maybe a few etiquette books which advise: “Spilling red beets on your host’s white carpet is not acceptable.”

However, “Self Help” books abound. They give all kinds of advice about how you can improve the person you happen to be. I stumbled across a website which gave “Everyday Life Lessons.” Here are a few suggestions they offered:

“Don’t think of cost. Think of value.” That is really good advice until the repo man comes a’ knocking on your door.

“Don’t say you don’t have enough time. You have exactly the same number of hours per day that were given to Albert Einstein.” Common! Albert Einstein! Maybe you can derive some satisfaction from that advice if you remember that those timekeepers removed his brain after he died. I prefer Albert’s advice, “Science=1 part work+1 part play+1 part keep your mouth shut.”

“Cultivate friendship like you cultivate a garden.” If I did that, my friends would die from overwatering.

“You don’t drown by falling in the water. You drown by staying there.” There is a difference between falling and jumping. One is a mishap, and the other comes from one beer too many.

“Negative feedback is love in disguise.” Or it just may be a mean person tap dancing on your self-image.

“It’s better to be alone than to be in bad company.” What if you are a really rotten person?

“Some people are poor because the only thing they have is money.” Yes, but I am guessing that makes being poor a lot easier.

I prefer suggestions from people who really know what they are talking about:

Mae West said, “Between two evils, I always pick the one I’ve never tried.”

George Carlin suggested, “If you can’t beat them, arrange to have them beaten.”

And, my favorite comes from Stephen Fry. “An original idea? That can’t be too hard. The library must be full of them.”

Esther Blumenfeld (“I went to a bookstore and asked the saleswoman, ‘Where’s the self-help section?’ She said, if she told me, it would defeat the purpose.”) Steven Wright

Meow! Meow!

Paula Poundstone said, “The problem with cats is that they get the exact same look on their face whether they see a moth or an ax-murderer.”

And, that’s about all I knew about cats until my son, Josh and daughter-in-law, Barbara went to work, and I was left in a house in the woods with their 14.2 pound Norwegian Forest Cat named Radar.

The word radar was coined in 1941 coming from radio detecting and ranging---an apt name for a creature who made a bee-line from the other room, jumped on the kitchen table, stuck his nose against mine and purred, ”I saw you take that English muffin. Share it or you die!” I knew I shouldn’t feed a cat anything that didn’t match the carpet, so I ignored him. At that, he jumped off the table and left for parts unknown. I didn’t know the meaning of rejection until a cat snubbed me.

Long ago, in some societies, people used to worship cats. I don’t know of any people, even long ago, who ever worshipped hamsters. So, I decided that perhaps I was missing a religious experience by not spending more time with Radar. After all, Sigmund Freud said, “Time spent with cats is never wasted.” But first I had to find the elusive creature.

Whoever said, “Dogs come when they are called; cats take a message and get back to you later” was right! I tried, “Here Kitty, Kitty,” but that cat wasn’t about to be called, “Kitty.” I did know two things about Radar. He likes to climb, so he can view a room from the ceiling, and he enjoys a good nap. I finally found him napping on the bed in the Master Bedroom.

Naps are always a good idea, so I went downstairs, turned on the TV (to the British channel) wrapped myself in a blanket and fell asleep on the sofa---only to be awakened by two green eyes staring down at me from the back of the sofa. Maybe I had commandeered his favorite blanket, or maybe Radar is an anglophile, but we ended up together watching Sherlock Holmes solve another crime. I knew I wasn’t allergic to cats and was relieved to discover that Radar, my new best buddy, wasn’t allergic to me either.

At the end of the day I decided that cats are very smart animals. They are certainly smarter than camels. I have never met anyone who’s ever tried to ride a cat.

Esther Blumenfeld (“If cats could talk they wouldn’t.”) Nan Porter

A Road Less Traveled

Philip Roth said, “The road to hell is paved with works-in-progress.”

After years of hard use, the street in our community went from bad to worse to non-existent. Where does asphalt go when it turn turns to dirt? It got so bad that even a chicken wouldn’t cross this road---no matter what was on the other side.

Consequently, since it is a private road, it was time to assess neighbors to pay for a new street. A few people didn’t want to pay for a new street, so, unsuccessfully, they tried to convince the rest of us that the cracks, holes and exposed dirt were an excellent example of street art that we should preserve in perpetuity for generations to come. And, after all, the potholes hadn’t swallowed any small children. Their reasoning came to naught, and eventually everyone paid their fair share.

The pulverizing, grading and paving of the streets commenced, and I discovered the joy of driving behind a very slow caterpillar tractor. Traffic went from slow to crawl until suddenly everything stopped with a thud. The roadwork was delayed because Comcast, the folks who lovingly bundle phones, computer, and television reception, had not buried their cables deep enough and some of the neighbor’s cable lines had been pulverized with the rest of the street.

The repair took a day and then the blue-staking folks arrived. As I understand it, blue-staking prevents big machines from digging up utility lines, hidden treasure and vampires. Now the road schedule was thrown off for two days, and neighbors didn’t know when they would be allowed to leave their houses. It was a scary time because we had been warned that driving on hot asphalt would not only melt our tires, but  would also permanently embed our cars in the road---making the street art vision come true.

I had some additional problems: the U.S. Congress had shut down my mountain, our street would be hotter than hell, I had thrown my knee out of whack and out-of-town guests would be arriving just when the asphalt was to be spread.

“Think outside the box,” I told myself. I could always hire a helicopter to drop my friends into my backyard, stick my knee into the warming asphalt for a heat treatment, and vote the bums out.

Happily, my knee popped back from whence it had been, and the road was finished the day before my company arrived, and I have decided to make my next vote really count!

Esther Blumenfeld (“The reason the Romans built their great paved highways was because they had such inconvenient footwear.”) Charles de Montesquieu.