Just a little fishy...

Fish don’t like me. In turn I’ve grown to not like them much either. I’m not talking about the fish that you eat. I’m talking about the fish that you catch. Maybe it’s one in the same for some people, but for me they are too very different things. The fish you eat comes on a plate already cooked or in a frozen bag which contains long breaded fish rectangles, also called fish sticks. The other type of fish is the kind that you catch with a hook and a pole. This is the type of fish I have never been friends with. Ever since I was little I have been a bad fisherman. I remember getting a tool box and a fishing pole, my Grandpap helping me put the hook on the string. He explained everything so well, fishing seemed easy. At the house I lived at during these first years of being a fisherman had two small/medium sized ponds next to it. So, on summer days I would go out with my uncle, who is only 6 months my elder and more like a brother, and fish for the afternoon. When we fished it seemed that DJ, my uncle, would always catch bigger and better fish then me, and he did it more often. I tried getting better bait by finding worms and using them over the stale bread that we both usually used. It was useless though, I couldn’t catch the bigger fish if my life depended on it. I never got better at fishing either. When I was about 12 years old, maybe 13, my parents and I went on a vacation to Cook’s forest, in a river side cabin. The cabin was a hunters paradise and nothing less, giant moose head on the wall and everything. We spent seven days in the cabin, my parents mostly relaxed. I on the other hand decided that I was going to be a pro fisherman. I had hip waders and some fresh mill worms. I fished all seven days of that vacation, most days for more then four hours and one day for eight hours. In that week I caught zero fish. None, nip, nada. My mom later on told me that she felt sorry for me not catching any fish that week, but didn’t know what she could do. Since then I haven’t gone fishing once. It’s save to say that I have never been and will never be a good fisherman.

The Free Pittsburgh Plunge

It’s a hot day in the middle of summer before my third grade year. Bored out of our minds, DJ and I need something to do. We are tired of fishing, tired of climbing tree’s and riding our bikes on the half mile driveway; our world just isn’t big enough. DJ called one of our friends that lived close by, Scotty, and he came over. The three of us decide that we are going to go on a bike ride to an ice cream store called K’s corner. I had never gone so far on my bike before. So, naturally I thought that it would be too long of a ride for us to get permission from my Memaw. Surprisingly she said yes. With that answer we ran outside, skipped the helmets, and went on our journey. As I said earlier, it was hot that day, real hot. I was sweating like a pig and it was hard work, due to the hills found in the western Pennsylvanian terrain. Down the hills sure was refreshing but as soon as you went down one, it was hard work to get up the next. We arrived at K’s and got our cones with sprinkles. Seated on the wooden train, which is used to entertain much younger kids then us, while licking the melting ice cream from the rim of the cones, DJ, in his fourth grade wisdom, spotted a storm cloud that was headed for us. The trip home was at least a forty-five minute journey, we had to get going and get going quick. So, we scarfed down the rest of our cones grabbed our bikes and we were off. We must have been half way home when the clouds were closing in on us, the wind had picked up and we were minutes away from getting soaked. Unfortunately, we had just come to the biggest hill that lay between K’s corner and home. We ran our bikes up and just as we reached the crest of the hill the heavens opened and we were drenched. Riding down that hill was like a water ride, and to my surprise I didn’t hate it one bit. The wind on my face and the water piercing me like tiny needles. It was like the Pittsburgh Plunge at Kennywood. When we got home we walked in to the house soaked to my worried Memaw, who was glad we were safe but still upset that we floors were being dripped on.

The Real Smilie Breakfast

Ever since it was just me and my mom we only ever went to one place for breakfast, Linda's South Side Restaurant. Linda’s is a small restaurant in Butler and has been close to the viaduct crossing since as long as I have been alive and probably longer. I can remember my mom taking me there on special days in the morning, just me and her. Linda’s is in an old building and has been in desperate need for another remodeling for a while now. But, I hope that it never gets that remodeling. I remember walking in to see wooden booths and a bar style serving area in front the kitchen window. The room smells of cigarette smoke, the smoking section was in the front of the restaurant because it was the original building and was built before there was a smoking and non-smoking section. My mother, being the good mother she was, always took me swiftly through this room. We would walk about ten feet and make a sharp right through door way that connected the original Linda’s to the store that use to be beside it, that was now apart of Linda’s. I remember always stepping over a large coffee stain that was just past this doorway and going to the booth we usually sat at unless it was already taken, the second from the wall on the far side of the room. I ordered the same thing every time we went, a chocolate milk and the Linda’s special. This order came with two eggs (I got them scrambled with a slice of cheese on top), bacon or sausage (in early years I got sausage then graduated to bacon later), Hash browns or home fries (I could never remember the difference so I guessed each time), and toast (I always got white, although next time we go I will get wheat), and it always came with a small glass of orange juice. I loved the meals there. Sure, the place wasn’t the cleanest place, but the food is always the best at places at like that. Well, maybe not always but in this case it was. After the meal, mom and I would sit and talk about school or summer or something, they were some of the best times I have had with my mom. She would let me pay the bill after we were done eating. I remember walking up to the register and handing the waitress the bill and the money, hoping the whole time that I was given enough so that I wouldn’t be embarrassed and have to return to the table to get another dollar from my mom. I don’t ever remember having to do that, but I was always scared of it for some reason. We always left and walked across the street to the parking lot with full stomachs and smiles.

The Blast from the Past

I've been told many times that you could write for the rest of your life about what happened to you as a child. I believe it, and for this Blog I am going to write a bit about my past as a small child to the point I am at now. You may find some of it interesting, you may not. But, at any rate, I will continue to explore my childhood memories for as long as I can, which should be for the rest of my life, or we can all call Dr. de Rosset a liar... If you don't know who that is, I'm sorry, I wish you did. She is an absolutely amazing woman and extremely smart. I don't think she would lie to me or those who were in her class along side of me. I digress, the past is very interesting to me, and I want you to explore it with me.