December 2018 – Mike's Life

Gone fishin’ (and eatin’)

My son loves to fish. Loves, loves, loves to fish. If I gave him the option of having a roof over his head or fishing, it’s pretty much time to tell him goodbye.

He fishes in the morning. He fishes in the afternoon. On plenty of occasions I have called him and said, “Dude, it’s dark. How are you still fishing.”

His usual response: “Yeah, I’m packing up and will…WAIT – BITE! GOTTA GO!”

We rarely keep what he catches. Part of that is that a lot of the fishing he does is around the lakes and ponds near our neighborhood, and I prefer my fresh fish not to be marinated in a brine of lawn chemicals and road runoff.

Another reason, however, is that cleaning a fish is a lengthy investment. It’s messy, it takes a good bit of time, and it kinda smells like fish.

But every once in a while, you want to be able to catch your supper. My son had done some research online and found a new pier he wanted to fish. He was positive he was going to catch dinner. I reminded him that, should he catch dinner, he and he alone was in charge of cleaning it. He made it very clear that no one else was invited to take part in cleaning said future catch, as it was his catch, his clean. Fishermen are a prideful lot.

My daughter was home from college and she came with us to the pier. She likes to fish on occasion, but is more of a stand-by-the-rod-and-Snapchat kinda fisherperson. If she catches something, great. If not, at least there was Snapchat.

After an hour he had a few nibbles here and there. I told him we were getting close to needing to pack up, and he offered his usual closing offer, “Five most casts?” Which means 15-20 more casts, because, you know, almost got a bite on that last one…

He cast one here and there and then BOOM! His line dove. He sprung into offense, grabbing his pole and positioning himself in the perfect fishing stance, which I say because I have no idea what the perfect fishing stance is, but good chance you don’t either, so we can just go with whatever stance our mind’s eye finds appropriate.

After fighting for a few minutes, the fish broke the surface. It was a sheepshead, a beautiful black and white fish that hangs out around pier pylons. It took a few more minutes, but he pulled it in, and he measured it to ensure it was the appropriate size for a keeper. It was well within the range. Dinner time!

When we got home, my son set to cleaning the fish. Because this is 2018, he first spent about 30 minutes on the couch watching YouTube videos on how to clean sheepshead. The internet is really something.

While my son was on fish duty, my daughter and I went into the other essential component of a fish fry – hushpuppies. We had the hushpuppy mix and read the directions on the side. It said we could either use a deep fryer or bake them in the oven. I asked my daughter which we should do. “What kind of question is that?” she said. Deep fryer it is.

My son soon had the fish cleaned and ready to be dipped in a batter. My daughter tended the hushpuppies on the back deck (I learned early on that deep fryers are an outside game, lest you want your house to smell like a Waffle House for a week; I love a Waffle House, but I don’t want to live in one). Oh, the perfect fish fry was on its way.

In short order, we were loving friend sheepshead and hushpuppies. My wife is not a big fan of fried food, so she politely tasted and then went back to some spinach concoction she created for herself. But the other three of us wolfed down our health food dinner, and enjoyed every fried minute of it. Not sure when we will try and catch dinner again, but I am sure it will be before we know it. And, whatever he hauls in for the catch I’m sure will be a perfect meal for the evening. Thank goodness the internet is there to tell him how to prepare it.

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, he now lives in Mt. Pleasant. You can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike or at www.mikeslife.us.

I fear the end is nigh for a pair of dear friends.

After years of dedicated service, I am afraid my trusted slippers may need to be retired.

They have been faithful companions for almost 15 years. They have slept patiently by my bed each night during that tenure. They have faithfully protected my toes from stubbings during a late night bathroom break or snack. They have kept my feet warm every morning as I got ready for work, waiting until the last minute until I go Mr. Rogers and switch out my footwear. And they have dispatched countless cockroaches that have dared enter my house.

(Those of you who know me know that I am am a big animal guy. I often relocate animals to safety. I even escort spiders outside of my house, and have asked my pest control guy to leave the ones outside alone, which he does, although he did look at me kinda funny when I made the request. But mice, mosquitoes and roaches – nope. It’s war.)

I call them my slippers, but I know that some people call them house shoes. I cannot call them house shoes in an effort of complete description. I would have to call them house and dog walk and driving kids to carline and oops I forget to get gas in my wife’s car like I promised so I better hurry up there before she’s ready for work shoes.

Quite simply, these two friends have been faithful companions. But even the most faithful of companions will succumb to Father Time.

If you were to ask others in the this house, they have been in need of retirement for some time. For at least the last six Christmases, my wife has casually said, “So, have you thought about Christmas?” and I’ve responded with, “My slippers are fine.” And the conversation stalls.

This year, however, I think she was taken aback when she asked the question and I just remained silent. I applaud her for hiding a smile.

But I know that the time is here. They are threadbare, inside and out. The tops are dotted with stains, primarily, I presume, coffee sloshed from a carelessly toted coffee mug on a morning dog walk.

Inside, there is not much of that precious yellow fuzz that looks like fiberglass but feels like someone captured a cloud and lined the shoes with it.

Now, the insides are more like a slab of cold plastic, serving its purpose of staying between my feet and the ground, but unable to provide amenities beyond that. I know it pains them, as everyone knows devoted slippers can feel pain. That’s just science.

I have spent some time online searching for a new pair. At one point, I even did it while wearing my slippers, but I kept them well under the table so they did not know. I have considered going to the store and shopping, but then I would be conflicted with the desire to want to try them on but the eww factor of not wanting to put my barefoot where someone else’s barefoot might have been. And let’s be honest here, trying on slippers with socks is just an insult to what the slipper is there to do.

I will keep looking, and eventually settle on a noble replacement to serve the next decade or so. I will not be getting anything fancy. No tassles, not patterns, no monogramming. I need my replacements to be like their predecessors – basic, effective, efficient.

Once the replacement slippers do arrive, it will be tough to figure out what to do with my old slippers. Obviously, I can’t donate them to a clothing place because, well, eww. But it will be so hard to just toss them aside as if they have no worth. I would be tossing away memories of thousands of mornings, where they were always here for me and my feet.

In the end, however, I know what must be done. I will don my new slippers. And I will grab the dog’s leash. And the moment I step out the door, my wife will throw those bad boys straight out.