‘Little Suzi’ and the Queen’s Cat

Once upon a time long, long ago—in the 1960’s—a little girl named Suzi lived in a cozy house on Magnolia Avenue with her mommy and daddy. Most days, Little Suzi was happy, but on one particular Saturday in March, while the little girl was reading a book to her dolls and stuffed animals, her mommy stopped by her room to tell her to ‘clean it up’: “Your room is very messy; you need to clean it up.”

It was not unusual at all for her mother to say this. In fact, she said it almost every Saturday, unless they both were busy with Campfire Girls or family bowling.

“You have such a nice room with your own bed, your own closet, and lots of toys and stuffed animals,” Suzi’s mommy often reminded her. “You should keep it nice so that when your friends come over, you can be proud of your room.”

And, normally, Little Suzi would reply to her mommy in the customary way, such as “OK, in a minute,” or “In a little while, when I finish this chapter of my book,” or “As soon as Albert finishes using the potty, so that he can clean up his mess too.”

Albert was Suzi’s invisible friend who most often helped her do her chores. With Albert’s help, she found it easier to get started and to finish things like putting her toys and books away, folding sheets and pillow cases for her mommy, and washing and drying dishes at the kitchen sink (while standing on stools so they both could reach).

But on this particular day, Little Suzi surprised her mother!

“I don’t want to clean up my room,” Little Suzi replied with her hands on her hips and in a stinky voice. “And, as you can see, I’m very busy right now reading this book about ‘Alice’ to Albert and these other children.”

Little Suzi immediately knew she had gone too far when her imaginary friend Albert said nothing, suddenly sat up stiffly beside her from where he had been looking at the pictures in the storybook as she read, and stared up at her with eyes wide and mouth open. And at that same moment, the little girl also knew it was too late to take it back now.

Stopping in her tracks, one step beyond her daughter’s door, Little Suzi’s mother wasn’t sure at first if she had heard what she thought she had heard.

“I beg your pardon, miss?” Suzi’s mommy pronounced as she stepped back in front of the open door to the room. Continue reading

My Best Day Fishin’…Ever

I looked forward to retirement more than many, I think, because I longed for a day of leisurely fishing not rushed by weekend chores and family commitments. And it’s not like I don’t live close enough to good fishing holes to make it easy for me to get out there. A number of man-made lakes and outstanding fishing creeks are located less than an hour from my home in East Tennessee.

Crappie run well here in the spring, so one Saturday morning a fishing buddy from across the street and I hooked up my 17-foot skiff just after daybreak and took off for Clear Creek cove on Tellico Lake. The ‘creek’ runs as a current about 30 feet below the surface off the main reservoir built by the Tennessee Valley Authority in 1979.

After our drive across the Fort Loudon Dam bridge that morning and our arrival at the Clear Creek boat ramp, the boat engine started right up on the second crank after sitting idle through the whole winter. In just a few minutes, we were off the trailer, through the highway overpass, and on our fishing hole for a promising day.

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‘Reservations Knot Required’: Locking through with the Tennessee River Boys

Squatter, M&M, Montana, Skipper

 “Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.”—Benjamin Franklin (attrib.)

If ever you’ve been on a quiet lake in summer, late in the day when the sun is low on the horizon and your body and mind are at peace with the world, you might be privileged to witness the spectacle of thousands of shimmering diamonds of reflected sunlight dancing across ripples of waves on the surface. It’s a soul-mending suspension in time like a liquid dream. But let me stop you right there, because my dream of a trip down the Tennessee River began with a discussion about bologna and beer, not a crock of wimpy poetic stuff.

I had only contemplated the idea—just the possibility, really—of taking a long-range river trip before I got too old or too lazy. I started thinking about it after I discovered through my lovely, dear wife (she may be reading this over my shoulder right now) introduced me to Jack, the spouse of a former teacher colleague of hers. The introduction was well-intended as our wives knew we had a love of boating in common, but they later regretted it, because at every opportunity from that point on, we discussed boats and taking a boating trip ad nauseam. Jack and I had our first serious phone conversation about a trip down river several months after our first meeting. It occurred at the very end of winter at the height of our cabin fever and went something like this:

“How many days would it take to go from here all the way down the Tennessee and back, do you think?” Continue reading

BINGO! The Education of ‘Schoolboy’

Winona Motel

In 1970, Cookeville, Tennessee, was just another gas stop off the interstate between Knoxville and Nashville, but it did have a reputable state-supported college that I could afford to attend if I got a night job and watched my savings account closely. At first, I was staying in an inexpensive ‘business class’ motel just outside of town while I looked for a place to live. I had arrived a week earlier from a small town in the Cumberland Mountains—where I grew up—and registered for classes using money saved from my job at the Valu-Mart working nights and weekends during high school.

The college had dorms, but I needed to find a place I could afford on my own. Checking the bulletin board in the university center for ‘spaces to rent’ from local residents, I spotted a couple of likely ads. But the first one turned out to be a made-over garage behind a widow’s house, and the ‘apartment’ was more like a tiny warehouse with a cement floor, a half frig, a laundry sink, and a single bed tucked in a back corner. It may not have had a tub or shower—I can’t recall now—but I know it didn’t have a real door. To get in or out, you had to open and close the garage bay door. I confess I was attracted to the idea that I could sleep with my car—you know, like a cowboy might sleep in the livery stable with his horse. But I never went back to the place for a “second viewing,” as the real estate agents say.

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“Bears” in the Camp­ground!

Once upon a time long, long ago—in the 1960’s—a boy named Ken became a Boy Scout because he loved to hike in the mountains among the trees. Before he was old enough for the Scouts, Ken had often imagined himself as a young Daniel Boone in the pioneer days, scouting for deer or bear in the woods and camping by the streams at night. These were great adventures that called on him to use all his bravery and skills to survive. So as soon as he was old enough, Ken joined his friends in sixth grade who were already Scouts. They sometimes hiked all day among the trees and streams, cooked their dinners in the evenings at campfires on the mountain, and pitched their pup tents near streams that ran down over the rocks and into the valley.

In spring and summer, the mountains were cool on hot days. Fog shrouded the creek banks and coves until the mid-morning sun burned off the mists and heated up the trail. Deer ran quietly through the lowlands at dawn and dusk. They were far off and beautiful as they crossed the damp grasses and jumped over old stone or split rail fences in the fields.

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