Derby Day!

Ah...Derby Day! There's nothing quite like it. The excitement in the air, the crowds cheering on their favorites, and kids racing across the park to turn in their fish in hopes of winning the prize.

What...you thought I was talking a horse race? Nah...that derby was held last week.

This derby is the Kids Fishing Derby held at Whatcom Falls Park each May, the Saturday prior to Mother's Day. The anticipation mounts as children eagerly await this Saturday morning. Still more excitement and tension builds in their parents. And certainly none of them is as eager as City Boy.

The falls at Whatcom Falls Park

The Derby is a tradition in our family. Uncle Warthog, you may recall, won the first derby every held here. I've won, Little Hitler has won. Geek Boy and Darling have both won. In fact, the officials often joke that they're just going to write in our last name when they see us show up, as they know one of the kids will show up in line for a prize when they're handed out.

City Boy didn't grow up here. He didn't get to fish in the derby as a kid. But the man is driven. To distraction. For weeks leading up to the derby he's planning the attack. Poles, lures, hooks, lines, and reels begin showing up in the living room. Weights are analyzed. New colors of power bait appear, seemingly out of thin air. And there sits City Boy; his eyes glazed over and a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth (and drool; mustn't forget the drool.) The man is in a fishing stupor this time of year.

It's so peaceful right now...tomorrow it will be swarming with rugrats!

The derby begins at 9 in the morning. The little kids fish first, those 9 and under. There is a two fish limit, with prizes going to the top ten girls and the top ten boys. By now the fish have been stocked in the pond; trout raised specifically for this event. They're not fed the day prior to the derby so they're hungry and will bite for the kids. And bite they do! It never fails that the first few kids have their two fish within two minutes. As fast as you can throw out your line, you've got a fish at the end.

Trout being raised in the park hatchery.

Of course, they're a bit slower to bite for the second round of fishermen. Those fish bellies are now full of lost power bait, eggs and worms. It takes a good five minutes for the first few kids to get their fish. Still, most of the kids there have caught there fish within half an hours time. They then trickle out to the park and wait for the prizes to be given out.

Same trout, now excited because they think I'm there to feed them! Don't worry, they aren't starving; they do this everytime someone walks by.

So here we sit. Bait has been purchased. Chairs have been loaded into the car. The tackle box has been carefully filled and each lure, hook and sinker is in it's proper, easy to locate place. The bucket is ready for the fish. Donuts are handy for an early morning breakfast as we walk out the door. City Boy's plan of attack has been laid out carefully. Everyone knows their positions. We all know that we need to use the rest room at least 30 minutes prior to the starting whistle blowing.

WE
ARE
READY!

And Darling just told me.....

"I don't think I want to fish this year."

Who you callin' Weird???

Shabby in the City tagged me. Seven weird things, she says, I must post about myself. Oh, please! The agony of attempting to select just seven! But here is just a taste...


7) When I say I'm a cowgirl, I mean just that. I learned to ride on the back of a Guernsey milk cow. Nothing like riding a cow. You can trust me on that.


6) I like pickles with my peanut butter. I've written to M&M/Mars several times asking for a candy with pickles and peanut butter, sort of an alternative to the Reese's candies, but they continually turn me down. I don't know why...doesn't everyone enjoy that combination? mmmm...pickles dipped in peanut butter...


5) I learned to speak pig Latin when I was nine. Not terribly unusual on it's own, I suppose...however...I came home from school and neither of my parents were home. I don't recall where they were...there was probably a note saying they'd stepped out to a neighbors or something. Shortly after I arrived there was a knock on the door. I answered it to find a warthog. Not just any warthog. This one was my uncle. Uncle Warthog. And while we waited together for my parents to come back home, he taught me to speak pig Latin. I'll bet none of you learned pig Latin from a warthog.


4) My uncle is a warthog.


3) I'm the official photographer in this county for slug weddings. No, really! The pay isn't great, but the dandelions are fairly tasty as long as you get to them before Uncle Sylvester.


2) When stores ask me for my zip code, I give them someone else's.


1) There's not much I enjoy more than a good, creepy cemetery! If it's got an angel with glowing eyes? All the better...

I swear her eyes glow at night! Really!

Soooo....now I'm supposed to tag seven others. But you know what? I'm not going to play the game. Well...not quite in the same fashion. I mean, the weird thing has been travelling around like a virus, and I think it's time to morph! So instead of seven weird things...

I'm going to hand out boogers. And this will be played like the thinking blog tag, but instead of blogs that make you think, you'll need to tag three blogs that make you laugh. Laugh enough for boogers! Which of course is somewhat weird, so it does fit rather nicely after all. And the best part is, you don't really have to think (about how weird you are or anything else!)

And here are my three little boogers for today:

Blind As A Bat. That would be Beth. She loves to laugh. She loves to laugh at herself. It says so in her profile, so it must be true. Plus, I'm pretty certain she's caused a snort or two in me over the past couple months. Trot on over and wish her little boy a belated happy birthday!

Catching Light. This is Vicki's blog. When I first 'met' Vicki, I realized we had a lot in common. We both blog. We both take pictures. We both have horses. Both of us are women. Women with children. We are also both Christians. However, the similarities end there, because unlike Vicki, I've never been to a sex shop. And if I had been? I seriously doubt I'd tell the world about it on my blog. Okay, maybe I would, but I've never been. Vicki, however, has both been and posted about it. And when I read about it? Well, booger worthy if anything ever was.

Dan's Blah Blah Blog. Okay, I tagged Dan a few weeks ago for the Thinkers Blog. Like me, he complained of the pain involved in thinking. Like me, he wished he didn't have to think. And yes I think my husband is the sexiest, best man in the whole world!!!

Wait! I didn't type that! My husband has nothing to do with Dan! Sheesh, step away from the keyboard for a moment and City Boy takes over...

Okay, back to Dan. Dan is funny. But not as funny as his cat. Go check out Dan's cat, Lulu. Poor Lulu is is hopelessly abused, and somehow she found a way to express herself on Dan's blog this week. And she hasn't even got opposable thumbs! Way to go, Lulu! You get a booger for your effort at the keyboard. (PS...my cats made me give the last booger to Lulu!)

Now...all three of you little boogers must find three more booger worthy blogs and pass it on... Hey, look at it this way, you're at the top of the booger pyramid! You don't have to worry about handing it out to someone who's received twelve dozen of these stinking awards already!

Banana you glad I didn't say Orange again?

Darling: Knock, knock.

Me: Who's there?

Darling: Orange.

Me: Orange who?

Darling: Knock, knock.

Me: Who's there?

Darling: Orange.

Me: Orange who? (sigh...)

Darling: Knock, knock.

Me: No, I don't want to play this any more.

Darling: MOM! Knock, knock!

Me: Who's there??

Darling: Banana

Me: Banana who?

Darling: Banana you glad I didn't say Orange again?

This is Darling's best joke. And her favorite. I know, it doesn’t make any sense, and she's doing it backwards. That, she tells me, is the point and what makes it funny. What can I say? I fail to see the humor.

This morning Darling and I hit the ground running, leaving the house at 6 am so that we could drive to the town of Silverdale and pick up some rubber mats for the horse stalls. City Boy had found them for sale on Craig's List, and they were about 25% the price you'd pay new, so it was worth the long drive and ferry ride to get there.

However, I'm not so sure it was worth suffering through Darling's knock knock joke. Again. And again. And again. So, to keep her otherwise occupied, I handed her my camera.

Darling behind the lens. And in the rearview mirror.

Darling was born with a genetic disorder. It affects half of the family, really. It's camera-itis. My grandmother has it. For years she carried the latest model of Polaroid camera with her to all the family functions. It was such fun to see those instant pictures! My mother and uncle are long time sufferers. My uncle's case is so severe that he's opened up a professional studio. For a while it appeared I'd escaped this malady, but I’m really just a late bloomer. And now Darling has it. She has her own camera, but if I even begin to loosen the grip I’ve got on mine, she snatches it away and begins snapping shots of anything that passes in front of her lens. All I can say is “Thank God for digital!”

To further amuse the child, I offered to let her select the photos that would be used on this post. She was delighted. I told her, however, that there was one condition. She agreed to my trade.

Darling took pictures of everything. Her favorite subject is herself. That amused her while we were waiting in line for the ferry.

Darling's feet. Darling has Converse shoes. Darling loves shoes!

Then she took photos of the scenery as we were crossing Puget Sound.

View from the ferry across Puget Sound.

Big Blue Boat.

And she danced. She danced the Thriller dance. In public.

You try to scream but terror takes the sound before you make it

You start to freeze as horror looks you right between the eyes,
You're paralyzed

That was fun. Let's do something else now.

Then, I became the target. She took pictures of my feet. She took pictures of me trying to nap. She took pictures of me pretending to nap, thinking I didn’t know she was taking pictures. And I was beginning to miss the knock knock jokes! However, the thought of the trade off was too good, so I played like a good sport.

Aren't my feet cute? Ariat boots; you just can't beat them!

Yes, Darling, I can see you. That's why my tongue is hanging out!

Yes, I always sleep with this expression on my face.
It's what keeps City Boy so enchanted!

Just keep telling yourself...remember the trade off...remember the trade off!

On our way home, we stopped at Uncle Warthog and Aunt Alice’s home. Uncle Warthog had some family history to share with us. He challenged us to find anyone who had a relative here in WA State before we did, as it appeared that Pierre Chartier showed up back in the 1820’s. That was a blinking long time ago! Long before the Oregon Trail. He’s been working for years on the family history, and if you’re into genealogy like Darling and I, it’s fascinating!

Oh, and Darling’s and my little trade off? Here it is.

I Fish, Therefore I Lie!

It's raining. It's pouring. I don't hear anyone snoring... I'm waiting for the ark to come floating past, though. We've had nothing but rain and snow since November and the place is soaking wet. I know some folks are dealing with drought, and trust me, if I thought I could send you a gallon of rain I would. Or a barrel. A rain barrel full of rain. Except that they've made it illegal to collect rain here in Washington without a permit. Why, I don't know. It's not like we've got a shortage of the stuff!

Not that the rain doesn't play a role in our growing seasons. A couple of years ago we had very little spring rain, so our intuitive governor declared a state of emergency. She also said that farmers shouldn't water their crops. I suppose it's because someone else needed the water more than we needed food.

Like the cemeteries. As you know, I'm rather drawn to cemeteries, and one of the things I noticed during our drought was that there were an awful lot of sprinklers keeping lawns green while our farmers weren't growing food for us to eat. Many of those sprinklers were in cemeteries, and they splashed a good amount of water all over the paved roads. Now, I'm no expert, but it really didn't seem right that the farmer's were needing to ration their water while dead people were allowed to have beautiful lawns.

Dead People's lawns can be watered, but we cannot water crops or collect rain water without a permit.

Then again, politicians tend to favor those who vote for them, and since our governor had a large contingency of dead folks vote for her, I suppose she was just doing what she felt was right. But enough talk of dead people and droughts. It's raining now, and the ground is so wet I can't plant my peas, which should have been in last month.

I wouldn't mind the rain so much if it were fishing season. Everyone knows that fishing is good after a rain. I come from a long line of fishermen. Well, at least the previous generation fished. A little. There's this kid's fishing derby held here each spring, and my Uncle Warthog and Dad were there at the first one ever held. Uncle Warthog paddled around the pond in his little row boat. He was the first kid to catch his limit, and he still has the bamboo fishing pole he won that year.

Sunset down at the bay where Dad and Uncle Warthog used to fish.

My dad and his brother the warthog were great fishermen. They'd go down to the docks at the bay and fish during their lunch breaks 'back in the day', eating their sandwiches and tossing their hooks out into the water. Dog fish were what they were after. A bucket of white paint sat on the dock with them. They were the sons of a painter; painting was their summer job. When they caught a dog fish, they'd pull it up and slap a white stripe down it's back, then set it free. And that's how there came to be skunkfish in the bay.

I've never fished for skunkfish or dogfish. I do recall a fishing trip with my dad and Little Hitler (my bossy little sister) when we were young. He brought us, along with the neighbor girl and her dad, down to the falls to fish. We climbed down the steep hill and over slippery rocks. Little Hitler and her friend stayed down on a small rock while Dad pulled me up onto the big rock that was right beneath the falls. That's where the fishing was best, he said.

Do you see the rock? Neither can I.
But I swear it's there, under all that water.

Now, this particular creek was for kids 14 and under only, so no adults were allowed to fish. Which is why there were grown ups all over town grabbing the neighbor's kids and dragging them out on fishing trips. None of them, however, was as brave as my father. We were the only ones who dared to go right under the waterfall. The others were up above us, or down below. Kids and their adult partners, all with their poles in hand and hooks in the water.

Another view of the falls.
Naturally, there was less water when we were fishing that day.

My dad had me by the waist as I tossed my line down behind the rock we were on. We were being sprayed with water from the falls, but that was okay. The dad of Little Hitler's friend stayed down on the low rock with them, where they were catching bull heads and crawdads, getting an occasional trout in the process. I, on the other hand, stood cold and wet and fishless on the rock with my father telling me to just be patient.

And then it happened...a strike! And a bite! It was huge; I'd never felt a pull like that on my rod before. Dad helped me set the hook and I began fighting to pull that fish up out of the water. There's about a ten foot drop behind that rock, and of course standing on top of it you can't see what you're pulling up. It was so heavy that I thought perhaps it was just a log or something, but Dad insisted it was a fish.

Soon a small crowd gathered above us, looking over the falls. People were lining the bridge. I had a huge fan club! Wow...too cool. I was ready to sign autographs. The neighbor dad left the smaller girls down on their little rock to come and look. A teen aged boy got brave enough to jump over the big rocks to stand alongside of us. He layed down on his belly and reached over the edge of the rock.

The bridge that crosses the creek; the falls are there to the left.

I heard shouts and gasps coming from the people around me. It was a big one! But I couldn't see it. I could only hold onto that reel with my cold little fingers and try to pull him in. Then the line lightened. "I got him!" shouted the boy. Another cheer!

My eight year old mind raced. What did he think he was doing? That was my fish he'd got! And I gave a huge yank on my pole, lifting the fish off his fingertips...and of course once it was off the fingertips it fell back down to the end of my fishing line...which snapped...and my fish was gone.

The cheering turned to groans. Heads were shaking as people walked away, disappointed. The teenager, who'd only been trying to help, was still cheerful, saying he'd never seen a fish that big come out of the creek, must have been three, four pounds! Friend's dad had gotten a peek at it, saying it was at least 18 inches, if not more.

Walking back to the car, Little Hitler wrinkled her nose at me, stating that she'd caught trout for dinner, but I hadn't. I sneered back. "You may have caught trout, but we'll eat it and they'll be gone. My fish story will live on forever!"

And so far, it has!