A Men's Thing

Like he had told me the day before, my father woke me at four. He had given me a fishing rod for my tenth birthday and till this day I never used it. It certainly was his own hobby. Once in a while he would disappear a full day with his fishing gear; sometimes my older sister would go along.

But this day would be different: we would have a real men’s day and do men’s things.

He whispered to me I should be very quiet; no need to wake everybody. When I came downstairs he already had made a peanut butter sandwich for me, served with a glass of milk. Obviously he had been downstairs a bit longer. His plate was empty and in the kitchen sink. The moped stood packed next to the window. I could see our fishing rods sticking out from the back. He was busy pouring coffee in a thermos flask and hummed a song.

It was a long ride to the big channel and he had to shout a few times I should hold him tighter. We didn’t want to lose me of course. At these times my hands would seek a better grip and would get the smell of his leather jacket even more in my nose.

Slowly I saw the sky getting lighter and when we got to our goal, the day was there. I got off from the moped and must have walked in a funny way. He smiled when I tried to get my legs going in a normal manner. My behind felt like it was made of wood, but slowly I got a tickling feeling and things became back to normal again.

He held a piece of barbed wire up so I could crawl into the meadow that bordered the water. I picked up my share of the things we were dragging along and we went straight to the water. There was one pile of cow poop and of course I stepped in it. He laughed out loud, announced that this would make a nice story at home. I was not amused and tried to scrape the stinking stuff from my rubber boot. He went on and returned to get the rest of the gear from me, it took me quite some time. Things went better when I found a stone. I scraped the rest off and joined him.

My father put two folding chairs on the bank and had the other gear arranged in a nice manner. This way we could get to almost everything, even without getting to our feet. He poured us a coffee in plastic mugs and we warmed our hands with these. Halfway the coffee he announced that we would get into action.

First he took his fishing-rod from its cover, planted it in the ground and opened a small tin with little holes in the lid. It was full of maggots, wriggling white worms trying to escape. He picked one out and speared it on the hook. He took the rod in his hands and threw the line into the water.

The rod was planted in the ground again.

It was my turn, so he did the same thing with my fishing-rod. While busy with the maggot he said that I should learn this too; there was a little trick to it, because if the insect was not attached in a good manner it would slip off in the water. And if this happened you would never catch anything.

                                                                     Robert McAffee - Fishing with Dad

We sat for some time staring at the floats and said nothing. Father asked me if I liked it here as much as he did. “Mwah”, I said and looked a bit better around. I wondered how a painter would paint the colour of the water on canvas. I thought he needed brown, green, grey and black. The sky was just grey with some darker grey clouds that drifted along the horizon but slowly were getting near. At the other side of the water I could see a church tower very far away. A dog was barking on a cargo boat that passed by. A man talked to that dog and waved at us. It was the third boat that passed since we sat down.

Once a bigger boat passed and made big waves. We had to step backwards to avoid getting wet.

Later a miracle happened, my float went up on and down. Father was even more excited than me. “You got one!” Following his instructions I gave it a big fight and got it in. Father scooped the fish out of the water in the landing-net. He fished it out and showed it to me. It was a few inches big, maybe five. Shaking his head he fiddled the hook out of the lip and nose of the fish. He saw me looking in disgust, exclaimed that the fish would be fine and threw it in the water. I saw it disappear slowly, laying sideways in the water. Father explained that this was because the fish was shocked, he would come to his senses soon again. Lucky for me he did the new bait for me on the hook again.

A man with a fishing-rod walked up to us and asked if they were biting a bit. Father shook his head, told the man I was the only one that got something till now. He nodded in approval to me and rolled a cigarette. He asked father about the bait we were using and nodded again. Father showed his different hooks and the man put one thumb up and spat in the water. He walked away and got seated almost out of our sight.

“Nice day, right?”, father said to me. “Fourteen”, I said and he looked at me in astonishment. I looked at the sky; the darker coloured clouds were winning from the lighter ones.

It had started to rain and father gave me a poncho to stay dry. “It will stop soon, according to the weather forecast.” But it didn’t. Once he told me we would wait ten more minutes for the rain to stop. “Nineteen”, I answered. “Oh, we’ll see.”

It was raining harder now and he had enough. We both got the lines out of the water. My bait was gone. “No wonder you didn’t catch anything”, he said. He took his bait off and put the rods in the covers. We collected everything and were off. I looked at the water one more time. Twenty-one.

This time I manoeuvred around the pile. Father was quite handy with  building the gear on the moped again. I stepped up behind him while he was telling a story about other fishermen. They would buy fish and take it home. We were honest folk so we wouldn’t do that. This I fully understood.

It wasn’t very long before the rain stopped and the sun came out. A bit bleak, but this really was sunshine. “What a shame you wanted to go.”, he said. I didn’t react.

At home my mother asked how things had been. Father told about the fish I caught and explained that the fish wouldn’t bite because of the threatening rain. I found my book and read on while he took care of the stuff we had taken along. “Of course you should help him”, mother said to me.

So I ran up to him and offered my help. “No need; you don’t know where I keep the stuff.”

It was the last time he asked me to go along; months later I noticed that my fishing rod had disappeared. I never asked where it had gone.

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First published May 3 2011 on www.authspot.com

Not like them?

It was very busy at the ferry terminal. Quite normal in the summertime: lots of tourists from the mainland of Europe go to London and people from the UK like to visit countries like the Netherlands, Belgium, France and Germany. Once in a while the amount of people is doubled by groups of people from India or Pakistan. And like today they are easily  recognized because of the way they are dressed.
While Europeans walk around in shorts and t-shirts, they wear winter clothes and coats.
People like me don't like these big groups, because when you check in and they go first;  you'll have to wait for ages.

This time it was not different from other times. A few group leaders in orange jackets tried to get some order and get all these overdressed people in a queue. One was a small guy, a bit overweight and sweating like anything. He kept checking schedules and shaking his head in disbelief and disgust. One was more normal sized, he had a schedule in the pocket of his jacket and was enjoying a cup of coffee while having his feet up on another chair. The third one was a very tall guy with a broad smile that never left his face. He was the one who got all his folk in one line.

A member of staff of the ferry company came over and I could hear her saying: "Could you please tell your people to go a bit more to the back? We want to let the other passengers go first and then handle your groups." The small group leader got very agitated and started to shout while the coffee lover just stayed where he was. He just smiled friendly and didn't do anything. The tall guy just nodded, grinned and started to convince his people to back off a bit. The person of the ferry company dragged a few poles with red string towards the group and like that made a sort of division between the groups of Indian people and the rest of the passengers.

Suddenly a girl popped up from behind the Indians; to me she looked like a typical Dutch girl. Quite tall, slim, on sandals and with a backpack. She apologized to the ferry staff member and got from behind the red line and joined the rest of us.
A boy of about seven or eight observed what happened. His mother stood next to him.
"You better stay close to me", she said. "They might think you belong to that group."
Like his mother he was dressed in jeans and a shirt. But the color of his skin was a lot darker than hers.
He reacted like he was a bit shocked: "They would not do that! I'm different."
"They might not notice, Edward. And why do you think you are different?"
"I wear normal shoes, Mum."
"They do too."
"I have nice hair."
"They do too."
"I have normal clothes."
"They do too."

I could see him thinking about this, having a good look at his and their clothing.
Something his mother was saying wasn't right, he could sense it.
But to be really sure, he slipped his hand in hers.
And it stayed there until they got their boarding tickets.
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Music gives you peace

Using the train for travelling is a good thing to do. It's always fast and you don't get the stress of being on a busy road. And lots of times you can find a quiet part of the train where you can read a book or a magazine.
And nowadays you can even go on your computer, so you can continue being connected to your loved ones.
This time I'm not very lucky with quietness: a family takes the seats on the other side of the aisle.
Father in his shorts, mother in a dress with a big flower pattern and two boys. One is around 14 and quite slim, wearing jeans. The other is a few years younger, wearing a jogging suit. He is very much overweight, so maybe it is not very comfortable for him to wear anything else.

The boys are arguing. The youngest one shouts: "You can't keep these skittles for yourself! That isn't fair!"
His brother reacts: "You almost ate the whole packet.  Now it's my turn to have a few. There are hardly any left." The younger one kicks against the table.
Mother gets into action: "Now you boys don't fight. Here is a bag of wine gums. These are nice too."
She puts the bag in front of the fat boy.
He is still not happy: "It's not fair!"

But nobody is listening anymore. Father is busy texting on his mobile phone, mother is reading an important article about singer Peter Andre in a magazine and his brother has put earphones on his head, listening to his I-pod.
The boy continues sulking and sinks down on his chair; his chin is resting on his fat stomach and he manages to get his feet next to mine. The foot nearest starts tapping on the floor.

                                                         Rockabilly hairstyle

After 5 minutes I have enough of this and drag my luggage to another seat, a bit away from the happy family.
I look out of the window, but after some time it feels like somebody is watching me.
I notice a man in his forties sitting backwards in his seat looking in my direction. He is sitting two rows in front of me.
He is doing something I've never seen before: he is spitting in his hands and rubbing the saliva in his hair.
It's very shiny because of this and he sculpts it into a sort of rockabilly style.

When he is done, he stares with an angry look on his face in my direction.
Only then I notice the young man in the seat between us; he has managed to lie on the seats and he has earphones on his head. His eyes are closed; I don't know if he is asleep or just enjoying his music. Vaguely I can hear something escaping the earphones. He is very peaceful and it is very clear that the angry looks of mister spit hair don't reach him.

I pick up my book and the train starts leaving the station.
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News in a Rocking World

One of our local pubs is frequently the venue for concerts of local bands. A year ago it came in the hands of a new landlord. The old one had a constant struggle with some of the neighbours because of the noise of the concerts. And so there was a sound limiter, a device that cuts off the electricity of the instruments. So in the old days we used to have fun at unexpected moments when only the drummer could play on. We would all cheer and a technician had to put everything back in working order.
Somehow the new landlord had managed to get rid of this awful thing so there were no limits to the sound at all.

                                          Neil Young and Crazy Horse

This Sunday afternoon a Neil Young tribute band was playing. Neil Young himself normally does acoustic concerts or concerts with Crazy Horse. This band combined it: before the break the musicians played the ballads and after that songs from Buffalo Springfield and Crazy Horse. And they showed how loud it could get. The normal impolite chatting of some spectators had stopped and our ears were almost popping out. The people sitting next to us looked at each other and left in a hurry, leaving their drinks. The crowd was standing in amazement and almost started headbanging. I say almost, the average age must have been between forty and fifty. At that age people don't do that sort of thing.

A man in his eighties shuffled to the vacant seats, carrying a few newspapers, followed by a lady of the same age carrying a glass of water and a glass of wine. While the loudness of the music caused a squeaking in my ears he was reading the newspapers and she was fiddling with her blackberry. After each song she would look up and applaud politely. He read on, nothing could disturb him. Sometimes he would reach out for his water. After the last page of his papers he emptied his glass and stood up. She finished her wine, put the blackberry in her handbag and followed him to the way out of the pub.

The band just started "Keep on Rocking in the Free World".
Did I really see her shaking her head up and down or was it my imagination that fooled me...
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Dumplings

We had just taken our seats in the bus, when the driver collected her things and stood up.  She told the passengers that her shift ended and that the new driver would be there in a few minutes.
"We sure hope so!" most passengers shouted in her direction. She got off the bus and walked away with a big grin on her face. She was amused, but we were not, because we expected to sit in a motionless bus for some time.
After a few minutes a tall, bald and skinny man wearing green trousers and an orange shirt got up and stepped out of the bus to have a fag. He walked nervously alongside the bus a few times till his cigarette was smoked. He threw the butt on the floor and got on again.

He walked up to some people behind me and stayed on his feet next to them. He obviously wanted to start a conversation. Normally people will moan about the buses or the weather, but he had a different subject.
He ranted on about an exam he just did in college. I didn't expect that from a man in his fifties.
The last question really made him upset, he told us. "Everybody was complaining about that one! No way we could answer that!"
The people, an elderly couple and a lady with a zimmerframe reacted in a polite and understanding manner. Even gave him tips about making complaints.

                                                 Dumplings

But he was thinking about something else already.
"I have a great stew in the oven. It has been there all day and it has dumplings. I have really big dumplings!"
The couple looked at each other and didn't react, the lady grabbed the zimmerframe and placed it a bit nearer to her feet.
"Yes, really big dumplings!" And he looked at the women in the bus, one after another. But nobody reacted.
The new bus driver had arrived and the man took a seat.

After a long period of rearranging the driver's seat, mirrors, placing the money box on the door of the cabin and giving directions to passengers who really needed another bus, we drove away.
After a few stops the man with the coloured outfit left the bus and took a seat on a bench at the busstop. He lit a cigarette while we drove off and waved with a big smile at the lady with the zimmerframe. She didn't wave back, but his smile stayed on.
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A Holiday to Save a Marriage

Sometimes you can feel that people are looking or staring at you. I looked up from my plate and thought that my eyes met hers. Normally people will look down or watch in another direction when you meet their gaze, but this time it did not happen. Then I realised she was not looking at me, but staring at a point somewhere behind me. She was sitting motionless behind her empty plate while the man opposite her seemed to eat on. She was in her forties, blond, quite good looking and bored to death. At least it seemed so by the way she was yawning. He just ate on. Not a word was exchanged between them while I watched this scene.

She got up and walked away towards the food at the buffet and returned a bit later with a selection of the little desserts. These were very nice, just like everything else in this hotel. A while later he did the same and now I could see what kind of a man he was. He walked very upright and had a thick moustache without the drooping sides that can make the face of a man so sad. To me this man in his forties looked like a military. He sat down and the couple continued their wordless meal. I could not help making a remark about it to my wife. It's really sad when you don't have anything to say anymore to your partner.

When they finished they got up, they had to pass our table and the way he walked in our direction I would name manfully. But the way he grabbed her hand I would call desperate. She looked at him in an almost questioning manner but did accept the gesture. My wife saw what happened and came to the conclusion that these people were here to save their marriage. I felt for them: it's so hard to fight for something that you feel slipping your fingers as sand on the beach.

The next day I saw another couple coming to their table and discussing something with the man. The woman was hardly listening, I could see her stare away again. After a while the other couple left the dining room.
On one of the next days the woman was sitting on her own at the dining table. Only when she already was having her dessert her husband and the other couple showed up. The three spoke enthusiastic about something, maybe a trip they made together in the city or such? The woman seemed to listen with only half an ear. She had her chin in her hand and smiled politely. After the story was finished, she greeted and left the dining room so the man had to eat with the other couple.

The next time I saw them, they had an other wordless meal. The other couple showed up again and this time the woman left the dining room before the story of the couple was finished. Maybe she had to go to the toilet? She did not return, I noticed and the man had to finish his meal on his own.

And then I saw them in the lobby. There were very comfortable seats, settees and armchairs.
He was sitting on the settee while reading a newspaper, while she was sitting in an armchair while texting. In between them there were three suitcases, like a barrier that was impossible to breach. The holiday had ended.

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Clean

   The better pubs in England have landlords and ladies who are true hosts. They don´t just sell you a beer or a snack but will try to make you feel at home. Now I have come over here for some years already, I know a bit about where to get the feeling that you are welcome and at ease. In one of my favorite pubs the landlord is sometimes even seen playing a game of ring throwing with his guest. And it is big fun if he throws whilst being blindfolded or standing backwards to the goal. In that manner the guests have a slight chance to win a game.

 
   The landlord is becoming a bit of age and has his health problems, but despite that you will never see him ill tempered and he always shows his youthful smile. His wife has even more problems because of the dreadful disease of MS.  When you see her you would certainly not guess her right age: just like her husband she has a very young appearance.  Once in a while when she is feeling good she will show up in the pub and will try to give a hand to the staff.

   This time she has taken the job of cleaning the tables. When she gets to our table with the blue wet rag in her hand, we take our glasses and the beer mats off the table to give her room. My wife asks how she is doing and that stops the landlady in her work. She sighs and tells us that things are not getting easier. Because illness and age there is a lot on her mind.  She polishes the table and I'm ready to put my beer back when she stops and  tells us about the trouble she has with her medicine and the side effects it causes.

   She sighs and starts polishing the table all over again. Suddenly she stops again and tells us about the annoyance she gets from hearing politicians talk about the National Health Service and discussing diseases and not showing any real knowledge while doing this. She shakes her head in utter disbelieve and polishes the table again. Then she greets us and moves over to the next table. Nobody is sitting there and because of that she's finished quite soon. We put the beer mats back on the table and place our glasses on top of them.

When I go to the bar to order a new round of beer, I see her on the other side of the pub in a discussion with some other customers. Because they are always filled to the brim I spill a bit of beer from both glasses on our clean table.

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