I out n out giggled at the mention of Grandma’s sour cream cookies, cuz i jist made a batch. Aubree is carryin’ on that tasty tradition, too. How i love these chapters of our lives, David…. Raw n bold,….achy… n yet, crisp clear insights into how we came to be who we are with rare glimpses of favor that lend explanation as to how we still loved Mama. The shared “good weekend” you wrote of actually stirred up a verdant streak of envy……
So much richness in this story of growing up and stretching. I’m glad for your moments with your mom and with the southern skeptics. Thanks for the glimpses of fishing and hiking…magical🧚
What kind things to pick out of all those paragraphs...
growing, stretching, time with mom, southern skeptics, glimpses of fishing and hiking.
It is most wonderful when someone is glad for you, glad when good things happen to you. I try never to take such a gift for granted, it is so rare and so healing. Thank you, Danyce.
Dearest Holly, I know I am owed nothing by those of you who show up, who entrust valuable minutes of your days and the energetic, benefits-of-the-doubt that you offer, hoping I will not waste your time or lead you down some self-absorbed alleyway of mansplaining and ego.
You offered five tight sentences and made my day ever so much lighter. I'm grateful for such generosity, and just beaming.
I read: "Have I told you that I love this tale. I do!"
So many muscles relaxed. Face, jaw, chest... I felt like I could breathe again.
Dear David, once again there is a crossover of memories jolted by your tender story; my father was a fisherman, not freshwater fishing in the great PNW of course but sea fishing off the SE coast of England. I cannot imagine his disappointment when one after another he sired three girls who likely would have no interest in his passion but God love him he tried. Of all of us, including my mother who hated water of any kind, I was the only one who would willingly don yellow rubber sou'wester and hat and boots to accompany him on his fishing dinghy on high seas and flat seas or stand on the end of the great arm in Newhaven that juts out to sea for almost a kilometre for hours on end being battered by winds and sea spray. I loved the packed lunch mum would send us off with, I loved the thrill of the first catch of the day and chattering (probably annoying immensely because aged four one simply doesn't understand the word silence) with the other fisherman, checking their catches and reporting back to dad... sometimes we would return with a great haul of fish, sea bass, soul and if he'd cast out far enough (wind dependant) plaice, other times nothing at all.
The feel of those days spent in salty air linger still. I loved it all...
And, yessiree! There is nothing like the taste of a fresh plaice, its brick red spots and feathery fins n'all cooked in butter with plenty of black pepper for supper after a day like that!
I love every chapter you write of Raisin' up Catfish even more deeply than the one before.
Dearest Susie, I first read your sweet note several hours, with morning coffee and a yet quiet house. But I chose not to play for efficiency, not replying before the day took hold of me, wanting the chance to circle back around again later, after the world had begun to intrude in earnest... a gift to myself, to step back into such deliberate kindness...
I absolutely adored picturing you with your father, sporting a yellow sou'wester and rubber boots, chattering away in the front of the dinghy, looking the catch in the eye and eyeing the treats your mum had packed for your fishing lunch. I am of course smiling...
I've been guilty on more than one occasion of saying that I don't much trust folk who don't love food, so of course I loved imagining your fresh, butter cooked, red-spotted 'plaice.' And though it is a name new to me, it looks similar to sole and sand dabs, and flounder, so may I have some idea of the delicious smell and taste... because I have caught and cooked many of them, and hungrily ordered them from menus and many restaurants, as well. Yum!
And then that last sentence... like a hug I'm not quite certain I deserve but absolutely love the feel of: "I love every chapter you write of Raisin' up Catfish even more deeply than the one before."
I've been floating on the gift of all this, all day.
What a grand chapter. And such depth for a boy who was only twelve, wanting to belong, and show evidence that he’s cool too, he’s done things and been places. Love it.
That first catch will linger in my mind for awhile 🤗 . I’m not a person who fishes, but if ever I’m around those who are, I’ll remember to duck!
I wrote a long response to this chapter, unusual for me these days...twice I lost them to the cyber world 'out there'...or, they will come back to me...anyway, you know I love Raisin up Catfish!
I wrote my response..a couple of long paragraphs, more than I usually write these days...however, the words I wrote were lost, 'are out' there in the cyber world...or, they will come back to me. Anyway, I love each chapter of
I'm so grateful for you, Kathleen. So very grateful. You helped me so much along the way with many of these stories, reading them as they were first bubbling to the surface. Happy Holidays, my friend.
Love that the PNW "owned your heart" in such ways: oh Eagle Cap...Lostine! Love how your story widens, and how that Eagle Cap 5 X 7 opened up a memory bond with your mom...loved this glimpse of her, softened.
"So strange, the power of a single picture..." I love how it kept on... becoming part of those layers of who you were (are), adding mystery to your presence, all that adventuring you had that your Catfish guys had never experienced---kinda wonderful to read how you began to be admired, to fit in...
I had to go back and read again the first fish catch---so free, so exciting at that age! I was only allowed to fish with a stone at that age, and never in such a wondrously wild place with only buddies... so I read it all again with such a sense of wonder; you boys, so free...
Ahhh, Toni, the things you lock onto and notice... your careful reading is such a gift to this storyteller friend of yours. Thank you, thank you once again. I'm glad you picked up on this softer part of my mom. That glimpse kinda sets up the next story which shows even more of that side of her. She was complicated. Still working out parts of how to tell it, but it's getting there. Kinda needs to since it's got two different Christmases in it. And finally the fishing tale... it was only because I had Billy and Bucky looking out for me, farm kids who my parents knew and trusted with a mom who could see the entire meadow from her kitchen window. They knew every square foot of the place and fished the creek regularly, so I was allowed to go off on a big adventure with them. It did feel pretty darn free.
What a gift your encouraging notes. Thank you, yet again.
As a proud PNWesterner, I applaud your determination to show those boys the world! It’s about time they sat up straight and listened. I do wonder how many of them still to this day talk about you. My guess is you left a bigger impression on them than you know. Are you still in contact with any of the boys?
You do have it right, Kimberly. Nothing else was even close to that look, back in the day.
It's also kind of you to envision that bigger impression, though I honestly couldn't say. As for contact, since, I did fly into Memphis and drive back down to the Delta about fifteen years ago. Was able to find Zach in the phone book and reminisce with him for about ten minutes, and then with his coaching drove over to Mose's house and had a few beers with him and a handful of his friends in the front yard. Mose filled me in on Bone's passing several years before, and my phone request to pop in and say hello to Bull Jackson was unsurprisingly declined with a simple 'no.' I considered that entire day a gift, regardless.
What a special retracing of your past David. Even the curt “no” from Bull has a strange kind of charm to it. I’d love to read a chapter someday that describes this day in more detail, and especially how/if it shifted or revealed anything in you.
Your story is wonderfully told, as always. "Not one of us," is something that many of us have experienced, but anchoring it in the South and during your adolescence gave it a greater potency to me, partly because I spent my adolescent years in Alabama, but also because the Western wilderness drew me as strongly as it seems to have drawn you. My heart was always in the West, but my job was in Tallahassee where the Old Tallahassee set would invariably ask, Who's your Daddy?" Nowadays, Old Tallahassee has been swamped with newcomers even though some of us have been here fifty years and none of us cares about your Daddy. There is much to offer here, especially in nature and biology, and much that is charming, but the crisp, dry mountain air, the bony mountains and the fragrant forests are missing.
Walter, you probably already know this but you're cool. Since I'm newer to your personage than you are, it is a real treat to be getting these glimpses of you. I love your observation to the new way of things down there "and none of us cares about your Daddy."
Thank you for making time to add to the potluck here and for offering such encouragement.
Experiencing what it feels like to be marginalized - a less than - can lead a person toward real compassion for others who experience the same. You write from that perspective so I know you understand. Peace Brother.
I out n out giggled at the mention of Grandma’s sour cream cookies, cuz i jist made a batch. Aubree is carryin’ on that tasty tradition, too. How i love these chapters of our lives, David…. Raw n bold,….achy… n yet, crisp clear insights into how we came to be who we are with rare glimpses of favor that lend explanation as to how we still loved Mama. The shared “good weekend” you wrote of actually stirred up a verdant streak of envy……
Excellence as always…. Love u
So much richness in this story of growing up and stretching. I’m glad for your moments with your mom and with the southern skeptics. Thanks for the glimpses of fishing and hiking…magical🧚
What kind things to pick out of all those paragraphs...
growing, stretching, time with mom, southern skeptics, glimpses of fishing and hiking.
It is most wonderful when someone is glad for you, glad when good things happen to you. I try never to take such a gift for granted, it is so rare and so healing. Thank you, Danyce.
Have I told you that I love this tale. I do!
And that lake. And diving into icy waters. And the way you look at the past.
Dearest Holly, I know I am owed nothing by those of you who show up, who entrust valuable minutes of your days and the energetic, benefits-of-the-doubt that you offer, hoping I will not waste your time or lead you down some self-absorbed alleyway of mansplaining and ego.
You offered five tight sentences and made my day ever so much lighter. I'm grateful for such generosity, and just beaming.
I read: "Have I told you that I love this tale. I do!"
So many muscles relaxed. Face, jaw, chest... I felt like I could breathe again.
Magic.
Thank you.
😊
Dear David, once again there is a crossover of memories jolted by your tender story; my father was a fisherman, not freshwater fishing in the great PNW of course but sea fishing off the SE coast of England. I cannot imagine his disappointment when one after another he sired three girls who likely would have no interest in his passion but God love him he tried. Of all of us, including my mother who hated water of any kind, I was the only one who would willingly don yellow rubber sou'wester and hat and boots to accompany him on his fishing dinghy on high seas and flat seas or stand on the end of the great arm in Newhaven that juts out to sea for almost a kilometre for hours on end being battered by winds and sea spray. I loved the packed lunch mum would send us off with, I loved the thrill of the first catch of the day and chattering (probably annoying immensely because aged four one simply doesn't understand the word silence) with the other fisherman, checking their catches and reporting back to dad... sometimes we would return with a great haul of fish, sea bass, soul and if he'd cast out far enough (wind dependant) plaice, other times nothing at all.
The feel of those days spent in salty air linger still. I loved it all...
And, yessiree! There is nothing like the taste of a fresh plaice, its brick red spots and feathery fins n'all cooked in butter with plenty of black pepper for supper after a day like that!
I love every chapter you write of Raisin' up Catfish even more deeply than the one before.
Dearest Susie, I first read your sweet note several hours, with morning coffee and a yet quiet house. But I chose not to play for efficiency, not replying before the day took hold of me, wanting the chance to circle back around again later, after the world had begun to intrude in earnest... a gift to myself, to step back into such deliberate kindness...
I absolutely adored picturing you with your father, sporting a yellow sou'wester and rubber boots, chattering away in the front of the dinghy, looking the catch in the eye and eyeing the treats your mum had packed for your fishing lunch. I am of course smiling...
I've been guilty on more than one occasion of saying that I don't much trust folk who don't love food, so of course I loved imagining your fresh, butter cooked, red-spotted 'plaice.' And though it is a name new to me, it looks similar to sole and sand dabs, and flounder, so may I have some idea of the delicious smell and taste... because I have caught and cooked many of them, and hungrily ordered them from menus and many restaurants, as well. Yum!
And then that last sentence... like a hug I'm not quite certain I deserve but absolutely love the feel of: "I love every chapter you write of Raisin' up Catfish even more deeply than the one before."
I've been floating on the gift of all this, all day.
You are a gift.
I am most grateful.
Thank you.
What a grand chapter. And such depth for a boy who was only twelve, wanting to belong, and show evidence that he’s cool too, he’s done things and been places. Love it.
That first catch will linger in my mind for awhile 🤗 . I’m not a person who fishes, but if ever I’m around those who are, I’ll remember to duck!
Teyani, thank you. I'm so touched by your generous note and so delighted that you've joined me on this little ride.
I wrote a long response to this chapter, unusual for me these days...twice I lost them to the cyber world 'out there'...or, they will come back to me...anyway, you know I love Raisin up Catfish!
I know, friend. I know. Thank you...
😃
I wrote my response..a couple of long paragraphs, more than I usually write these days...however, the words I wrote were lost, 'are out' there in the cyber world...or, they will come back to me. Anyway, I love each chapter of
" Raisin up Catfish"!
I'm so grateful for you, Kathleen. So very grateful. You helped me so much along the way with many of these stories, reading them as they were first bubbling to the surface. Happy Holidays, my friend.
Happy Holidays to you as well! Thank you for the kind words....that was a long time ago. 😃
Seems like just yesterday...
Love that the PNW "owned your heart" in such ways: oh Eagle Cap...Lostine! Love how your story widens, and how that Eagle Cap 5 X 7 opened up a memory bond with your mom...loved this glimpse of her, softened.
"So strange, the power of a single picture..." I love how it kept on... becoming part of those layers of who you were (are), adding mystery to your presence, all that adventuring you had that your Catfish guys had never experienced---kinda wonderful to read how you began to be admired, to fit in...
I had to go back and read again the first fish catch---so free, so exciting at that age! I was only allowed to fish with a stone at that age, and never in such a wondrously wild place with only buddies... so I read it all again with such a sense of wonder; you boys, so free...
Ahhh, Toni, the things you lock onto and notice... your careful reading is such a gift to this storyteller friend of yours. Thank you, thank you once again. I'm glad you picked up on this softer part of my mom. That glimpse kinda sets up the next story which shows even more of that side of her. She was complicated. Still working out parts of how to tell it, but it's getting there. Kinda needs to since it's got two different Christmases in it. And finally the fishing tale... it was only because I had Billy and Bucky looking out for me, farm kids who my parents knew and trusted with a mom who could see the entire meadow from her kitchen window. They knew every square foot of the place and fished the creek regularly, so I was allowed to go off on a big adventure with them. It did feel pretty darn free.
What a gift your encouraging notes. Thank you, yet again.
Glorious Kodachrome! (Do I have that right?)
As a proud PNWesterner, I applaud your determination to show those boys the world! It’s about time they sat up straight and listened. I do wonder how many of them still to this day talk about you. My guess is you left a bigger impression on them than you know. Are you still in contact with any of the boys?
You do have it right, Kimberly. Nothing else was even close to that look, back in the day.
It's also kind of you to envision that bigger impression, though I honestly couldn't say. As for contact, since, I did fly into Memphis and drive back down to the Delta about fifteen years ago. Was able to find Zach in the phone book and reminisce with him for about ten minutes, and then with his coaching drove over to Mose's house and had a few beers with him and a handful of his friends in the front yard. Mose filled me in on Bone's passing several years before, and my phone request to pop in and say hello to Bull Jackson was unsurprisingly declined with a simple 'no.' I considered that entire day a gift, regardless.
Thank you for asking.
What a special retracing of your past David. Even the curt “no” from Bull has a strange kind of charm to it. I’d love to read a chapter someday that describes this day in more detail, and especially how/if it shifted or revealed anything in you.
Respect is a currency like no other!
Your story is wonderfully told, as always. "Not one of us," is something that many of us have experienced, but anchoring it in the South and during your adolescence gave it a greater potency to me, partly because I spent my adolescent years in Alabama, but also because the Western wilderness drew me as strongly as it seems to have drawn you. My heart was always in the West, but my job was in Tallahassee where the Old Tallahassee set would invariably ask, Who's your Daddy?" Nowadays, Old Tallahassee has been swamped with newcomers even though some of us have been here fifty years and none of us cares about your Daddy. There is much to offer here, especially in nature and biology, and much that is charming, but the crisp, dry mountain air, the bony mountains and the fragrant forests are missing.
Walter, you probably already know this but you're cool. Since I'm newer to your personage than you are, it is a real treat to be getting these glimpses of you. I love your observation to the new way of things down there "and none of us cares about your Daddy."
Thank you for making time to add to the potluck here and for offering such encouragement.
Experiencing what it feels like to be marginalized - a less than - can lead a person toward real compassion for others who experience the same. You write from that perspective so I know you understand. Peace Brother.
Thanks Bob. Truly, nothing we experience is ever wasted, is it? I'm so grateful for everything you taught me, and grateful that you're here.
Yes, a real blessing to rekindle our friendship.