The Ultimate Fishing Challenge - Water, Air, Land

 The leisurely morning was the head fake for what was to come. My daydreaming thought of, "Wow that must have been a big one!", after hearing the splash, was the sucker punch.
  I was up early fishing off the dock of our house rental that backed onto the Palmetto Dune lagoon in South Carolina's Hilton Head. The pine stained waters lazily drifted by as I sipped my coffee and watched the sun's progress from the horizon. Nothing seemed to be going on fish wise. Usually, at least the mullets would provide a little entertainment by leaping out of the water fairly regularly, but not so this am. Even the ospreys who perched high in the trees on our property didn't seem to really be into it today. A few passing glides and then back to their haunts.
  I exchanged fishing rod for flip flops and headed down to the ocean with my wife, Jan, for a low tide beach walk. The packed sand of low tide is great for walking or biking the long wide shorelines of Hilton Head. There is always something to spot in the water and something to look for in the sand, and the early morning means comfortable going as the sun isn't too hot yet. We weren't alone in this idea. Today the Pink Ribbon people were having their walk/run event and there were pretty good numbers of participants from all over the U.S. smiling and chugging along the course.
 Two hours later and we were back at the house but so was the vacation company's cleaning crew so we all had to get out of their way. The three sisters headed for the pool and their husbands headed for the dock. Given the quiet morning and the now high sun we weren't in any sort of overly unrealistically optimistic mood but then again we weren't about to pass up on another chance to go fishing.
  While Sam and Bryon put on cut bait (cut up chunks of dead fish),  I decided to use a technique that was popular amongst the guides in the area. Put a freshly captured lively local fish on your hook as bait and let the food chain follow.  Simple enough, but I didn't have a net to cast for the bait fish so I first had to go fishing so that I could go fishing. Having had to play this game on other trips, I had brought along my ultralight fishing rod and reel that had originally been purchased to enjoy fishing for grayling in the far Canadian north. Light line, a very small hook and a guppy shaped and sized piece of raw turkey bacon soon produced a palm sized pin fish. The fish was then placed a few feet below a bobber and cast out to go on tour and attract Mr Big.
  The trouble with this kind of fishing is that on a warm sunny day, the sun glinting off the water, the bobber, and your beer can, you can fall into a rather meditative state. Conversation had slowed and relaxation had set in. For a while I intensely tracked the touring bait fish. First it went straight out, then upriver to the support walls on the other side, then back in front of me for awhile before deciding to travel downriver to the next dock on our side. By this point/pint I had taken my eye off the ball /bobber and kept looking straight ahead as I thought, "Wow that must have been a big one!" after I'd heard a huge downstream splash.  A few second later my  rod slashed down violently, the line screamed  and I bolted to my feet, fully engaged, shouting, "Fish on!" as I turned  downriver.
 An osprey eagle emerged from the water with my bait fish in its talons. It took off upriver at about 20 feet in the air.  "Hey that's my fish!" I yelled as I pulled back on the line. It wouldn't let go and I was left feeling like I was flying a kite in a wind storm. To add to my dilemma I now gave myself a dark thought. "What if it can't let go because it's hooked?" Oh no, that would be REALLY bad.

  I couldn't just cut the line because that would leave a hook in the bird and the bird would probably die of infection. So that would mean reeling in and removing the hook from one very pissed off fish eagle. That's right - an osprey is a fish eagle, as in a large brown and grey fish eating raptor that sits 24 inches tall and has a wing span of over 70 inches. This thing is built to hunt and kill. It has formidable feet.  Its toes, which are of equal length, grasp their prey two toes in front and two behind, with round talons that have backward facing scales so that slippery fish have no chance of escaping. That black hooked beak is sharp enough to tear through the toughest of fish skin. I had visions of me learning a new definition of finger food if my unprotected hands got too close to this fellow.
  The osprey landed on my side of the lagoon on the top of the retaining wall about 60 feet upriver. It had managed to wrap the line around a light fixture that was affixed to the retaining wall. So for now, the line, the fish, and the raptor weren't going anywhere. We were separated as well, by a row of some sort of bushes that travelled the property line and extended out over the retaining wall.  I knew that the neighbouring house had been left vacant for a good deal of time so I clambered through the untrimmed bushes and prepared to meet my fate.
 At about 30 feet away I started going over my plan. I had my shirt and the small towel that we were using to clean up after baiting fish, so I had something to wrap the raptor in. I had pliers for the hook, Sam had my fishing rod, and Bryon, who is a vet, was there in case either the bird or myself needed medical attention. I slowed my pace but got another 10 feet closer before I had to stop to wipe the sweat that had suddenly started to appear and run into my eyes. This really wasn't such  a great plan, this was going to suck.
 Smaller steps brought me to within 15 feet of a pair of piercing yellow eyes, when suddenly the osprey just spread its wings and flew off. No struggling, no disentangling, just a graceful and powerful lift off. The beggar hadn't been hooked, he was just being stubborn.
  From then on I abandoned the live bait under a bobber method and every time I caught a small fish I tossed it down in the direction of where the osprey was perched. I figured I owed it one.

Ken

Of Hilton Head River Monsters

 He knew before he did it that it was wrong. He'd only be thirty feet away and only for a minute, and hey, what were the chances?  We all heard it go. The frantic sssssssss of the line followed by a violent popping of metal as the guides were torn off and forced up against the wooden railing on which the pole had been wedged. Three heads turned in unison just in time to see Sam's entire rod and reel set jettison into the air for a ten foot flight and then dive into the stained waters. Gone.
  Over the years I've seen more than a few expensive rigs end up on the wrong side of the boat or the dock but never had I seen one taken so forcefully. Whatever hit this had size and power and was moving at a speed.
 The sting of losing his gear was made all the deeper because Sam and I had just paid to have our rod and reel cases count as a second piece of luggage when we flew down. Bryon, the third fisherman and brother-in-law in the group, had taken the option of buying something when he arrived. Further, Sam is an experienced, careful fisherman and while taking any physical leave, no matter how brief, he had always left his gear in a way that,  if the bait was taken, there shouldn't have been a problem. Rod wedged in tight with a metal guide snug under the rail. Line left slack and the reel tension reduced to let the line more or less run out under pressure. Under normal circumstance he should have gotten away with it, but whatever was plying the water that day didn't qualify as normal.
  The popular TV series, "River Monsters", starring biologist and extreme fisherman Jeremy Wade, often points out that there are creatures both legendary and enormous to be found hiding under the noses of the locals even in the waterways of modern, crowded cities. He tracks them down like a zoological detective and then catches them using both technique and a dogged persistence that as a fellow fisherman I find humbling to watch.
  "So you're a golfer ?" is the usual question from the customs officer when I am crossing the border from Canada into the U.S.A. Hilton Head Island, South Carolina is located north of Savannah, Georgia and south of Charleston, S.C. This bit of coastal low country is a mecca for golfers due to its fine weather and over 20 golf courses. Moreover it  hosts the Heritage Golf Classic, a stop on the PGA tour. However, I never pack a set of clubs as neither Bryon, Sam or myself are golfers. So when I tell the officer, "No I'm going there to fish", it always leads to more questions.
  The island is shaped roughly like a foot with the toes pointing SW and the heel NE. You enter over the bridge at about the ankle. Since this foot is in the water it has about 12 miles (19 km.) of beachfront on the Atlantic Ocean.
  Hilton Head, South Carolina has more than its share of finny fare, for the area has fresh water, brackish water and salt water. Each type of water has its own specific panoply but sometimes crossover creatures can be found.  You can fish the lagoons, the canals, or the ocean.

Though a somewhat hidden gem for fishermen you just can't run all over the place with fishing rod in hand. About 70% of the island is made up of gated communities so you need to know and follow the rules of each particular area. The upside of this is that because access is often restricted the fishing pressure is generally pretty low allowing for an abundance of large fish.
  We had rented a house that backed onto the canal in the Palmetto Dunes area. From there we could walk or bike ride to the beach or watch how the golfers were doing, or relax by the swimming pool. But more importantly we could fish from our backyard. In autumn a lot of the houses are empty. There is little traffic by either kayakers or boats driven by electric motors. The largest number of fishing boats I have seen out at one time in one day is two and that usually includes us.
  Following Jeremy Wade's example we began by listing the possible suspects. From guided expeditions in the area we had learned first hand that when you set the hook it could be a lady fish or a trout or a black drum or a flounder or hopefully a big redfish. Redfish are the target fish of sport fishing because of their size and fighting ability. For those who fish they power through the water and leap through the air like a giant sized small mouth bass. In fact they are often called spot tailed bass based on their acrobatics and because they have one large black spot on the base of their tail. At three years old they go about 6-8 lbs and by the time time they are about five years old they have become the  hefty 27 inch plus specimens known as bulls.
  While Sam went on a hunt for new equipment and more information, Bryon and I took up his spot on the bench. Bryon was using cut bait while I had an unweighted live five inch bait fish swimming under a bobber. After Sam's experience we sat right in front of our gear. Rods propped, hands ready. Well not that ready. After awhile I found mine filled with a beer in one and a cigar in another. Both went flying when the hit came. My reflexes were just fast enough to keep the rod on this side of the water. The hit was brutal. Line screamed and the pole bent deeply as I hung on with both hands and the butt of the pole jammed into my waistband.  A few seconds of fury and then nothing. I reeled in slack line to find that the bait and hook had been bitten off, the heavy duty leader severed. Could a red fish really do this?
   In Sam's words, "The  next day I was relaying my sad story to a professional fishing guide, who works this lagoon where we fish daily. He wasn't fazed one bit. Turns out, what I thought was a unique event, is a common occurrence. 'Them big ones'll do that', he said dryly. 'Lottsa tackle layin' in here'. "
 I still wasn't convinced and I became a lot more sceptical when Bryon came running in from the dock to show me a picture that he had just taken. You could just make out the figure of the top of the back and head of the five foot alligator that had cruised by our section of the canal.
I was shocked. We had been coming to this area for six years and had yet to see an alligator in this section of Hilton Head.  What was it doing here?  There is probably no one with a better working knowledge of the ecology of Palmetto Dunes than Captain Trent Malphrus.

  This Hilton Head native has been fishing the lagoon system since he was a kid and has been guiding since he was twelve. He doesn't even have to commute to work because he is also a resident of Palmetto Dunes. It is fair to say that he knows every bit of this 11 mile watercourse.  He is a keen observer of all nature in the area and many people enjoy his birding and nature tours. How important is his local knowledge? One year we rented a house on the lagoon specifically because we felt that it backed onto a good fishing spot. We fished hard for a few days and then threw in the towel and booked a trip with Trent. We had been out with him before and he had introduced a ton of knowledge and technique to us that was a good deal different from the fresh water fishing that we were used to.
  We hopped on his electric powered boat and we began the slow wakeless glide over tea coloured waters. "Don't worry boys. It might take a while to get there but it will be worth it." Some time later we arrived at the back of our house. "You can start throwing casts to the bank starting here.

I looked at Sam, Sam looked at Bryon and Bryon looked at me. Nobody said anything - we just started casting as the boat moved towards its final destination of about three long casts away. From that spot Trent started to put on a clinic, having us landing doubles and triples of redfish and trout on live bait and artificials.  Less than a football field had separated success from failure. "Yeah local knowledge is that important so when it came to information about the local gators I emailed Trent. This was his reply:
"The gators are not extremely common in here but we have had a few. They cannot live for extended stays in the brackish water because of the salinity levels but they seek out the lagoons to clear their skin of mites that attach to them. If he becomes a nuisance or aggressive, definitely let security know. We don't usually have a problem with them bothering anyone but unfortunately pets can be curious and fall prey if they get too close, so if you have a dog or cat with you there, keep them a safe distance. These gators are very quick on land. We look forward to hopefully seeing you guys again this year!"
- Captain Trent
  Well we had our answer to what the gator was doing there but I still didn't think that this was our mystery monster. I have seen alligators feed many a time. They might snap and tug and even throw in roll or two but they don't take off like an aquatic dragster. I ruled out the gators.
  It seemed to me that the best bet for our mystery river monster was a large redfish so in the tradition of Jeremy Wade, the next step would be to track a big one down ourselves. Our timeline was short, Trent was booked, and another guide and client who was passing by that day said that the bite was really slow. This meant fishing outside of the lagoon and that meant only one thing, Captain Mark.
 Sam and I had been fishing with Mark since the days when he would plunk us in kayaks and have us paddle out to the good spots. Sometimes you would have to go through some eye widening waves to get there, but there is nothing like having your boat towed around the ocean by a big red that you have just hooked.

 Mark has since gone on to having us in his nice white 17' Action Craft Flats boat.  The big Yamaha 90 HP engine gets us out to the fish quickly and then the Minkota pilot trolling motor does the fine tuning around fish holding structure. The boat is big enough to handle us comfortably so that we aren't worried about snagging each other's ears when we are standing and fishing the same side of the boat, yet small enough that it can sneak down creeks that would exclude other craft.
  We were pretty keen to get fishing as soon as possible but Mark had us wait a day due to changing weather and timing of the tides. That's one big plus when booking with Mark, he'd rather that you have the best chance at being successful than just take you out in the hopes of catching fish. It might cost him a day's pay to stay ashore but by gaining a reputation as someone who isn't just going to take you for a boat ride, he is gaining a loyal following.
  On a beautiful 62 degree F sunny morning we gently made our way out of the South Beach Marina and then blasted around the corner and stormed at top speed heading for the mouth of one of his favourite creeks. The engine had barely shut off when Bryon got into his first red. I followed immediately with an 81/2 pounder and the tone of the day was set.

 The three of us are very competitive.  One guy's success brings brief heartfelt congratulations followed immediately by deep personal bitterness because he is taking too long to get his picture taken, followed by having his line cast over, followed by him losing his hot spot on the boat because he stepped aside to get some new bait.  If Blackbeard, Captain Kidd and Henry Morgan were to join us, we'd out cut throat the lot of them.
  After a few minutes without a hit, Bryon started complaining that we only had him there to watch Sam and I catch fish.  His next fish was a 10lb red followed immediately by an 11 lb monster  followed immediately by crossed lines and a lost position on the boat. Sam and I countered immediately with double hits that brought in 8 and 9 lb feisty beauties. By this time Sam and I had started to resort to subtle hockey style hip checks to gain bow territory. We refer to this technique as the Deck Rhumba.
  We were catching them by the species - rays, flounder, trout, redfish - and Mark was working hard to keep up with the doubles and triples.  Over the course of the morning we had put Mark through the paces of landing over thirty fish EACH. Guiding probably should be made an official Olympic event. It would include weather reading, marine chart reading, navigation, boat operation skills, equipment selection and repair, tying knots, untying snarls, finding bait, baiting hooks, and  filleting  as qualifying events. In the semi finals it would be  unhooking a fish, measuring, photographing and safely releasing said fish and rebating the hook all at the same time for multiple people. In the final round it would  be poling the boat entirely by oneself in snag strewn shallow water, while lighting a smoke in the wind, passing a beverage, and never losing a beat telling a good story.
  On the way back in, Mark spotted some giant redfish laying against a bend in the shore. Bryon and Sam hooked but finally lost a truly huge fish each. I managed to hang on to mine and although at 12 3/4  lb it may not quality as a true monster, I was thrilled to hoist my biggest redfish so far.

 I'll let Sam finish this story about our mystery river monster:
 "On our next trip with Capt. Mark, ( just over 20 fish each) I also told him my tale of woe, to which he replied with a laugh, 'I've seen guys on my boat have the rods ripped right outta their hands, when a big Red hit their bait!'  His advice - 'always keep a good grip, and never leave your rig unattended when the baited line is in the water. If you want to take a break, reel your line in'. Lesson learned! I just had to ask though - "Mark, just how big do you think this fish is, that made off with my rod?" Without hesitation he replied, 'I'm guessin' 20 to 30 pounds', and chuckles again! 'There's some big ol' Reds in there, 'cause there's no pressure on 'em'.  So, somewhere in that expansive Palmetto Dunes Lagoon, on Hilton Head Island, in South Carolina, is one very large Redfish, towing around one very expensive rod and reel! Until next year......…..

You can reach these two great guides yourself and look for your own monsters.

Trent    captaintrentmalphrus@gmail.com   and  www.PalmettoLagoonCharters.com

  

Trent introduces the boys to flounder fishing.

Mark    tailermayd@yahoo.com    and    www.tailermaydcharters.com

O,Oh..Oh..Christmas Tree

I knew we were in trouble as soon as we stepped onto the money mat. Now by my definition the money mat is a term used in retail for any area set aside for upselling. Some places are easier to spot than others. Take the world of audio video for instance. Most equipment on the floor has a sale sticker on it but as you step into "the theatre/symphony experience room"  nothing you are going to be listening do is going to be on sale.   Did you ever notice that the indoor car show rooms, and the salesman's office are both carpeted?  It came as no surprise then that when we spurned the snow drifts and the bitter wind of the "cut your own" area and headed instead for the warm, draft free, heavily scented, seasonally musically enhanced shelter of the pristine Christmas tree barn that we had in fact stepped onto one whopping  big money mat. These trees were not bound by ice and snow or trussed up and tossed together such that you are left to speculate as to their true shape. No sir, these beauties were standing on their own like prize pouter pigeons each fully fledged in awe inspiring green plumage. Salespersons  dressed in archetypal Canadiana mad trapper hats and red checked jackets guided you through the maze to whatever specifications that you would care to throw at them such as " I want something -tall with a not too tall look, make it full but not bushy, I don't mind a few dropped needles but nothing sharp needled, it must be fragrant but I'm allergic to the scent of pine."  "Right over here sir."   In our case we wanted "something in the much taller than what you have at a reasonable price but not too wide category. Not too much leaf drop and lots of smell."   "Right over here sir. Them there trees outside they ain't no trees. Now this here's a  tree!"  You could either purchase it outright or make a number of payments that would take you right up to next Christmas. The tree costs slightly less than half of what I spent on my first car, but what are you going to do? You see normally we would be satisfied with the typical 6'8" tree that they sell at every main retail store like Walmart and Canadian Tire and now even at our grocery store. This year however we have a new "sun room" with a cathedral ceiling and your pedestrian six footer just wouldn't make the grade now would it?  To seal the deal they make a fresh cut on the end and send it through a machine that trusses it up like all the "guess what I'm going to look like" ones. They do not however conscript anyone to haul the heavy beast to your car nor do they employ a crew of sailors to lash it onto your roof so that it doesn't become a coniferous missile the first time that you turn a corner.   Our tree holder is quite unique and I believe designed and built by the same business that sold us the tree. It has a large wooden cross for a  base on which is affixed  a large nut and bolt and a sturdy metal basin capable of holding about a gallon or so of water. A guy rope system leads from the wooden base to a sturdy metal chain that you put around the tree trunk. Simply attach the metal hooks at the ends of the guy ropes to the metal chain, tighten up the lines and you are done. This system has worked flawlessly for at least a decade.  Now it would seem that Christmas trees grow in proportions similar to crocodiles. "Whilst" we were in Australia we learned that crocodiles grow more or less evenly to a certain point but once they get to that magic number they grow disproportionally wider and heavier for every inch there after. Thus a 3 meter croc could be a threat but a 5 meter croc is potentially a man eating monster. It therefore follows that a 6 foot 8 inch tree is a lush blessing while a 9 foot 6 incher is a forest force unto itself.  It took Gord, Dan, and myself (holding the light end) to wrestle it down from the car, journey around the house, clamber onto the new slippery as a curling rink man made material deck, and force the sacred symbol through the sliding doors of the new sun room. After a respectable time of  heavy breathing recuperation the three lads endeavoured to lift the offering vertically enough to allow Jan to slip the tree holder underneath it. On the second "UP!!!!!!!!!" we succeeded. However when the base of the tree hit the metal basin a frightening "Whhoopummmp. aaaa whoommpa" ensued. Never have we heard this sound before and as a group  we went into silent denial. Hear no problem, there is no problem. The chain was lashed to the trunk. The guy ropes were hooked onto the chain. The question,"Is it straight?"was fielded. "Straight aye straight!" or thereabouts came the answer. The guy ropes were set. Done.   Next came the cutting of the bindings which held the creature in tight to its core. As the scissors cut the strands of mesh you could hear the straining  of each coniferous muscle as it readied itself for freedom.. At the final moment of unleashing our new sun room became a sun closet stuffed with a tree.  "Quick get the water!" I am a big believer of getting water into the tree right pronto. A newly set tree is a thirsty tree and you need to get things in working order right away lest you are left with some dried out needle dropper. A gallon of water specially treated with some overly expense bit of chemical almost but not quite guaranteed to make your tree more supple longer was hurried into the metal bowl. And some of it stayed in the bowl too. Drip by drip the now chemically enhanced expensive water left the bowl for the flat lands of the electrically heated ceramic floor. At this point re-lifting the tree to do some sort of investigation was out of the question. The next best solution seemed to be to jam a few thin cleaning sponges between the floor and the bowl, then surround the main sponges with back up sponges. Now there's a festive sight you won't find in a Martha Stewart photo shot.  The tree was left overnight to "fall out" as they say.    In the harsh light of day all seemed fine once sponges had been wrung and replaced and a smattering of needle filled puddles had been dealt with.  The division of Christmas tree labour unfolded as per usual. Jan with the aid of a step ladder put the lights on the tree. The kids had their own bags of ornaments to put on and then when it was all done I put on the angel. The angel was now at a height which was well over the adjacent ceiling fan. I couldn't help wondering aloud even then if we were going to get through an entire holiday season without someone accidentally engaging those big wooden blades.   The next day as I was out pushing the snow blower along the sidewalk the tree was busy doing a face plant onto the floor.  The news was broken to me as I shed my boots and parka at the door. Instead of a hello I got, "It's going to be okay and no one was hurt." This was a gambit designed to head me off at the pass as they used to say in the old western movies. In the past I have not been known for my calm measured response to some situations. My kids have nick named it as the rocket to craziness, and although the years have mellowed me I could feel my right eye starting to twitch.  I have always found it difficult to part with items of nostalgia. I have a deep appreciation for those whose lack of will power to throw things out leads to clutter and even hoarding on a disruptive scale. However when generations old glass hits hard ceramic floor with both speed and force many decisions about what should stay and what can go got made for us.    I surveyed the sight and fought the urge to drag the offending hulk out into the snow and let it rot until at least mid summer. Serve it right if you ask me but there are others involved here- best to be the better man. So once again it was hauled back onto the leaking stand. No worry about spilling water as it was already on the floor. Once again the fastening procedure was underway until  "Ah ha, the culprit has been found!". The tree was so heavy it had bent one of the attaching "S" hooks right out straight. I used pliers to bend it back but this time to an almost closed position. The tree spent the night standing straight but in disgrace, stripped of its lights and remaining unbroken family treasures - the jury still out as to its future worthiness.  The dawn found it still upright though it was listing to one side. Easily enough fixed but  it was a long time before Jan attempted the redecoration. I had by this time turned my back on the confounded conifer. I didn't even have the heart to watch let alone take part. In the endI got on the ladder again an replaced the angel who now at close inspection looked like she was at the losing end of a bar fight.   Just about in time for happy hour the tree decided it was too full of the Christmas spirit and leaned over against the sliding door like some inebriated  rookie at his first office party. "Heeeey who are you look'n at bu-bu-buddy?" My entire head began to twitch, followed closely by the my rest of the right side of my body. Jan's eyes began to tear.     It was time to brain storm. I suggested a good chopping down with the axe followed by a jumping on of the branches and subsequent pouring on of gasoline. The flames to be put out by a group pee. Jan offered up the idea of rope. I speculated that we had inadvertently dragged home a tree inhabited by that legendary mean woodland spirit the Wendigo. I therefore proposed and  then performed an exorcism of my own Celtic design. I waved a shortbread and a glass of single malt in its general direction and yelled,"Evil spirit be gone!" Jan suggested really, really, thick rope.    During the next round of lifting, steadying, rope tighten,and floor mopping, Gord decided that we should have the over head light on. A good idea and not his fault that the light switch is smack against the  fan switch. The tree took the bashing surprisingly well and the repainting of the the angle's face a total success when viewed at a distance.   So now you know why our Christmas tree is tethered to the brass handle of the new sliding door by green anchor rope thick enough to hold the yacht Britannia. You will also note that it is covered only in ornaments that are made of cloth, wood, or aircraft weight aluminum.  The tree for its part seems to behaving nicely and holding its position. The bowl isn't even leaking as much. Maybe the shortbread and scotch did the trick. Still a bit of time before Christmas though.   Ken

The Skeleton in the Cellar- a Christmas Story

 You know the place. It can inspire primal fears and loathing, and almost every house has one.  Un-insulated and away from any source of heat, they are well named as cold cellars. They are a place of faintly heard scuttling sounds, spider webs and items left on shelves until some time of need. My grandparent’s cold cellar was a classic. It was long and narrow and pitch black until you could somehow reach the string that was tied to the chain that controlled the single light bulb that hung in the middle of the ceiling.

 It was Christmas day at my mom’s parent’s place so the whole extended family that was forced to try and get along for a few hours was crowded into the rather modest sized living room. We were stacked in levels. We occupied the floor, the couches, the chairs and their armrests. Some kids got relegated to laps. Safe topics like the weather for the entire previous year were bandied about. My father got along with his in-laws, but just. In the old family photos of these gatherings my dad’s face exudes brooding boredom. My parents would have liked to enjoy a smoke and a drink but it wasn’t on the agenda for these gatherings. Here the focus was on restraint, religion, and temperance.

 I was about six years old and looking for a diversion from the obvious family tensions and the ongoing weather chronology so I escaped into the kitchen. Grandma was busy with the supper preparations and I was happy to oblige when she asked me to go downstairs and fetch a jar of preserves.

 The basement was a wonderland for a young lad. You could say that my grandfather was way ahead of his time when it came to notions of recycling or you might say that he had mastered the art of collecting. Grandma just said that he never threw anything out and that he could never just walk by an auction or a garage sale. He would even get in a foot race with the neighbours, shovel in hand, to be the first to collect the fresh horse manure as it hit the road from the horse drawn milk cart.

  The basement was made of un-insulated cinder block. The main area was bordered with multiple levels of shelving and the rest of the space was divided into rows of free standing fixtures like you would find in a hardware store. Each shelf contained some sort of treasure. Some had neatly stacked collections of coins that were mostly silver but I do remember a few gold ones. There were stacks and stacks of National Geographic magazines going all the way back to issue No 1. Some shelves contained old wooden games that were as often as not missing a few pieces. There was a stereoscope and a shoe box filled with the pictures that went with it. On what little wall space remained were hung reminders of a more rugged way of life - a pair of great big wooden snow shoes, animal traps and a very long ancient looking gun.

 My task at hand though, involved the dreaded cold cellar which was located under the stairs that led to the basement. I cautiously opened the planked wooden door and peered into its dim depths. I could just make out the string hanging down beside the bulb. The trick would be get to that string, reach up and pull on it before the door closed and left me in the dark with a legion of spiders. I opened the door as far back as I could and then charged in. The light quickly began to fade by marked degrees. The room went black but my hand was already pulling down on the string. Somewhat breathlessly I looked around me. On my left were shelves of pickles, preserves, jams and jellies - enough to last that winter and maybe a few more. I grabbed the jar and was just working out the problem of how to turn off the light and still be able to find the door when I glanced to my right.

 At just about eye level, on its own shelf, lay the bones of a human being. They were all nicely organized from skull to toe pieces. I had some plastic toys and I could tell that these pieces weren’t plastic or anything else but the real deal. On the surrounding shelves were things that I hadn’t noticed downstairs before - native rattles, drums, and a war club. I already knew what a war club was, a shaped rock, attached to a stick that was used in battle to smash the skull of an enemy.

  Preserve jar in hand, I burst through the cold cellar door, dashed up the old wooden staircase (that despite its steepness had neither risers nor railing), placed the jar on the counter as I tore through the kitchen, then plunked myself on the safety of my father’s knee. Moms have laps. Dads have knees. In panted whispers I confided about my findings in the cold cellar. Dad nodded and in hushed tones filled me in.  “You know that your grandfather is part Indian.” (We didn’t have the term First Nations in 1953.) He said it as a statement but it was news to me. “Well, during the last of the Indian Wars your grandfather killed that guy and brought him back as a war trophy. He’s been in the basement ever since.” While part of me was now frozen in terror another smaller part was starting to think that this was the most exciting Christmas ever.

 Like most children, by the time the presents started to be opened I had gone on to new interests. In subsequent visits however, I braved the cold cellar to more carefully inspect the skeleton and its related items. I began to consider all of the basement’s objects as pieces of a puzzle which if carefully stitched together would tell the story of my grandfather’s bloody past. Surely the clues were all there; a long barrelled gun, a war club, and a skeleton, all hidden away in the most remote part of the house. You didn’t have to be a Sherlock Holmes to reach the right conclusion. Over time I accepted the obvious truth about my grandfather and comforted myself with the idea that what happened in the past stayed in the past. I did, however, make a point of trying to never anger him.

 At one point my parents sold our home in Hamilton and moved to Scarborough, leaving me to live with my grandparents so that I could finish my grade10 year. One evening, after supper, we were sitting around the kitchen table and my grandfather started going on about old relatives in Ireland and Scotland, and his apprenticeships as a youth. Something struck me as being out of whack. I asked how he could have done all of these things and still have been able to fight in the Indian Wars. I was met with wide eyed stares from both grandparents. I broke the silence. “You know. The dead guy in the cellar. The one that you killed. The skeleton. It’s still there.”

 My grandfather laughed so hard he darn near guffawed himself out of his chair. Grandmother’s reaction was a good deal more on the shocked and stoic side.

  It seems that although there were a good many Celtic Metis in this land, my grandfather wasn’t one of them. He was, however, a man with the innate Scottish/Irish bent to waste not, want not, and to hold on to things “just in case”. Living through the depression just amplified this tendency. It seems that my grandparents had bought their house from the original owner who had been an Anthropology professor at Hamilton’s Mc Master University. The professor had used the various artifacts including the skeleton as part of his courses in Native Studies. When he moved out he left a lot of teaching materials behind. My grandfather, being the consummate collector that he was, just hung on to them.

After my grandfather died, my grandmother stayed in the house until she was ninety. When she went to the nursing home, the other relatives cleared out the basement and sold the household items. I don’t know what happened to the skeleton or any of the other wonders from the basement. I only know that I still don’t like having to go into a dark cold cellar. Ken

Thanks for passing it on.

 Dear Friends
    Thanks for passing my stories at http://thekennychannel.blogspot.com on to others. Last week's readers included people from  Australia, Canada, United States, Indonesia, China, United Kingdom, Japan, Russia, United Arab Emirates, Germany, and Thailand. I occasionally get a reader or two as well  from Venezuela and Montenegro. While I have a number of the people/places/connections figured out there are still quite a number that are a mystery to me.  If you know anyone who would like to be added to my blogspot list I will need to have them send me their gmail/hotmail etc. Otherwise I also post on facebook and hope for others to pass it along. Some people have complained that it is next to impossible to leave a comment on the blogspot site. The best way to comment if you want to is through my gmail which is   mcleodkg@gmail.com     If you are already a facebook friend then that works too.  Thanks again for passing my stories along. Hope that you continue to enjoy.     Ken

The Fedora

          

 I love the new fedoras that the kids wear.  They are short brimmed and can be wildly colourful.  You need to be a certain age to get away with it.  That’s okay because music and clothes are part of what defines a generation.

          For me, the real fedora was the one that my father wore.  A grey full brim model that sported a black band and a small blue feather.  Worn at a jaunty angle on a rather large head, it wasn’t always easy for him to find his hat size.  It went along with his business suit, trench coat, and sample case.  He sold greeting cards to the headquarter stores like Eaton’s and Simpson’s in downtown Toronto.  Sometimes he would take shortcuts by using the alleys.  In the old days the city was known as Toronto the Good, however on this dreary early winter’s day that was questionable.

          He was getting older then.  I was still living at home but not for much longer.  Maybe his age made him look like a good mark.  Personally I wouldn’t have chosen anyone with a 6 foot one height and a 34 inch waist to pick on.  The assailant must have been a bit of a monster himself for when he approached from behind and left, he was able to lean his right elbow into my dad’s neck while his girlfriend grabbed at his shoulder with both of her hands.  While the ultimatum was being delivered the sample case got shifted from right hand to left.  A sample case is like a leather brief case on steroids.  It carries your promotional products and your order books.  You keep it clean and shiny like your shoes.  It doesn’t get set down on anything but carpet.

          While the attackers probably hadn’t considered was that their target might have been trained in what is known as “black hand” techniques due to a brief stint in the special forces as part of a project that involved being dropped behind enemy lines via gliders and creating pre D-Day havoc.  The invasion day got moved up and the project got scrapped, but not before certain motor pathways got ingrained.  My guess would be that if you blinked you would have missed the two fingers of the right hand being thrust up just under the solar plexus of the attacker.  The result of this sort of blow leaves you trying to throw up violently while trying to breathe at the same time. (By the way, do this wrong by even so much as an inch and you will spend the rest of your life in jail.)  The case switched back.

          So there he was.  His left hand holding his puking and gasping assailant up by the back of his neck while his right hand held both the sample case and female accomplice.  Now what do you do?  Why you rob them of course.  He took every cent that they had, which wasn’t much of course, because otherwise they wouldn’t be trying to steal from him now would they?  When he told me this (don’t tell your mother) over a beer at the end of the work day, I was horrified.

          “You robbed them!!!”

          “Yeah, there’s a Sally Ann’s right on Queen Street.”

          My, but my father loved to donate to the Salvation Army. I’ll bet he gave one of his little half smiles as he pushed the money into the glass bowl.

          I don’t think they make a fedora, or the man who wore it, like this anymore.  Different times, I guess.