Yep, it is official I am the lone male in a house of four. I am telling you , I am fighting this overwhelming temptation to start shaving my legs, and waxing my bikini line (kidding). For anyone else who is in this situation, I am simply amazed at how many words females can say in less than 5 minutes. Sheez! I think I am going to move in with my Bassett Hound (Baxter) just to hear some peace and quiet and to hang out with someone who has testicles. While I love my gals.... Is it too much to ask for some fine tobacco, a cold beer, and some Monday Night Football? Am I crazy here? I am wearly of WAY too much information. Pads, make-up, lipstick, panties, bras, etc. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! Loud scream! Whew! I feel better.
Topher
Monday, October 29, 2007
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
Gilligan and The Skipper!
This peice of humor was written by my Brother D. It is a true story. For all of the blest fishing ability I recieved, D got NONE of it!
Topher
A Markgraf Family Anecdote
(There’s a little Gilligan in all of us)
Just a Simple Fishing Trip. I’m not sure of the exact dates, but I do know it was in the 90’s, probably around 93-94ish. I know that I wasn’t able to drive, but I remember it not being far off. It was the year of the fishing trip. Dad wanted to take me to Montauk (which in his mind is fish heaven) to catch trout. I was GUARANTEED I would catch a fish. For someone who has caught more people on a hook than he has even seen fish, these words sounded like a big brownie blast from Dairy Queen on a hot July day in the dead heat of summer. And yes, though I am a minister and a fisher of men, I’ve found that most folks prefer NOT to be hooked with an actual hook…both in ministry and on the banks of whatever stream I happen to be fishing. So, I agreed and off we went!
On the drive out I remember dad again and again guaranteeing me a stringer full of fish on our return trip home. I’m sure this was easy for him to say, being that my dad is truly a great fisherman. He knows the ins and outs of fishing. I, at 28, apparently still need instructions on the basics: make sure there are no trees you’ll cast into, watch out for people, use this bait (which clearly means I don’t know which bait is used for what fish), and if you catch a fish, keep your rod up so the fish won’t jump off. These are great instructions for me, of course at 14 or 15 this is what I heard. D, as the family often affectionately refers to me, let me tell you some things that’ll help you… trees… fish… rod… bait. Did you get that? Yeah Dad! So obviously I was ready!
We pulled up to the motel and dad checked us in. We moved all our gear inside and put everything in it’s proper place. Fishing poles against the wall, tackle boxes right beside them, clothes in the drawers, trout vests on the hangers and then the most important item of all…the cooler. See, the cooler on this trip, became my escape. Remember, I’m not a fisherman, so that means there must be something else to find some release in, because fishing will NOT be stress free…that’s a guarantee! It’s a guarantee that I probably should have made dad aware of before the trip. So, the cooler was set to the left of the desk and to the right of our suitcases. It was a perfect fit. I eyeballed it as soon as I brought it in. I set it down in that perfect spot and rose up to head across the room to my bed and BAM!!!! I knocked my head on the TV which was mounted strategically on the wall directly above the cooler. Dad looks and chuckles. But that was the last chuckle he’d have. For this cooler would later become is enemy. I, on the other hand, ignored the response, grabbed a Coke, and headed for my bed. We had an early start the next morning.
We got up that next morning and dad headed over to the cooler to grab a snack and water. I observed quietly, and sure enough, BAM!!! And…SHOOT, my dad yells as he starts rubbing his head. “Hurt’s, don’t It”, I said! We laughed, gobbled up our breakfast, and off to the streams we went. We arrived and dad got me prepared. He gave me the right bait and told me I was at a good hole. I discovered here that trout swim in holes…big blue cold ones. Dad left and I quickly casted in.
We we’re using fly rods, something I strongly advise NOT using if you’re not a fisherman. Why he gave one to me, to this day have no clue. See, the fly rod is huge. It’s very long. For someone who already has trouble staying out of trees, this is not good. It’s like telling Superman to crush Lex Luthor with a rock, and then handing him Kryptonite to do it with. So naturally, my first cast was into a tree. Not the line, but the rod. The line never made it to the water because my rod never made it past 12 O’clock. Something else to take note of is that fly rods do not have a casting button. Most poles have a button you hold down and when you cast you release the button at about 2 O’clock and watch your line soar. Not a fly rod. With a fly rod you have to pull a lot of line out from the reel first, hold the line with your finger, and then release it at 2. Yeah right, like I needed more to worry about. It’s hard enough for me to cast a regular line in the water, now he’s asking me to be skilled. So anyway, my rod hits the branch, I let my line go, and down comes my hook. Dad glances over at about the time, I get pissed and start forcing my rod down through the tree limbs. The rod comes slamming down on the top of the water (this is how I secretly alert the fish that I’m after them) and dad says, What are you trying to do, beat the fish to death with your pole? It’s easier to catch them on the hook, he said. I quickly sputtered back, how am I supposed to cast with this pole being so long!? He replied, Look around you D, step out from under the trees and then cast. O Yeah, that was one of those helpful hints he told me about. Right, so I step out pull out my line, and cast again. What a beautiful cast. The tip of my pole was free and clear of the limbs, I released and the perfect moment. This cast was a thing of beauty. As I let the line go, the tip of my rod came down as to sling the line across the water and all the sudden I felt a jerk on the back right, side of my waders. Somehow, I had managed to screw up another great cast. I had hooked myself, so I dropped the tip of the rod down into the water and again it made a smack. Dad looked over again, why are you still trying to beat the fish up? Just try and catch them! At this moment it occurs to me where my sarcasm comes from. Dad, in his rare relaxed form, can be a bit of a Wise Donkey (Smart A**).
After a few hours of performing my fishing pole circus tricks for my dad and the other strangers gathered around, Dad and I decided it might be a good time for a break. I know every one there had to have been thinking, Thank God this idiot is leaving, and maybe the fish will actually come back now. They were probably right too. So, we headed back to the motel for lunch. Finally, I was going to get to relax. By the way, I’ve caught 0 fish at this point.
I, flustered from the early morning activities, took my vest off and through it over a chair and flopped onto the bed with a sigh. Dad wanted to know if I was having any fun, and clearly, he had not seen the events of that day unfold the same way as I had or, I was bunking with a certified moron. But, if you know my dad, you know he’s a genius and so obviously he’s a blind genius. Anyway, he went over to the cooler to get our lunch meat out. He bent over, grabbed the meat, shut the cooler lid and BAM!!! DANG!... that one hurt. AHHHH, here comes my release, the comic relief that I’ve been waiting for. He looked back and I asked him to grab me a coke. He bent down and again, grabbed two drinks and BAM!!! I swear to you he hit his head again. Naturally I’m on the floor laughing at this point. Man, we’ve got to be careful Derek. We need to start paying attention when we get stuff out of this cooler. Just a note, he uses the word we here. I’ve hit my head once and have not been back. He’s witnessed me hitting my head once, and has hit his head a total of three times, two of them in a row. Needless to say, “we” is a term he is using loosely. So we ate lunch and ventured back out in to the wonderful safe haven of the fishing streams.
While at the streams of paradise, I follow dad’s instructions on baiting my hook and we’re off again. He’s standing to my left as I’m casting. If you know anything about fly fishing, it really is an art. It’s all about the cast and placing your line in the perfect spot. Being a descent athlete, I figured this casting thing wasn’t going to be too much trouble. After all, how could things get worse than this morning? And with that thought, I found my hook in my fathers pocket…his shirt pocket. Naturally, as in the course of a cast, I threw my rod forward with perfect force, perfect enough to grab dad’s attention. I could hear the sound of the eyes of my rod fiercely run across the line making a zipping noise. This wasn’t the gentle sound of a line swiftly flowing through the air to it’s intended destination of the stream. No, it was quite the opposite. It was the all too familiar sound of disaster, immediately followed by, “Whoa, whoa D, you’ve got me, you’ve got my shirt!” I quickly turned around and sure enough, I’d given my father a Madonna like nipple coned shirt over one breast. Luckily, once the tension on the line was broken and the hook was removed, the shirt fell back into its regular form.
It was at this point that my father showed me that even HE was getting a little nervous around me. (By this time, any other fishermen that were here have left, either for calmer surroundings or in fear for their own lives. I prefer to believe it’s the first rather than the latter, but no one knows for sure.) My dad looked at me with the familiar look/glare of disbelief that I just did that. He then announced that he was going to go across the stream to the other side so I could work this out on my own and so he could actually start fishing. So here we go again, I’m back to casting. By now I can’t help but feel that I should have a siren on me that warns when I’m about to cast. Something similar to that beeping noise you hear when a large truck is backing up. That way all those around would know to duck and cover. And you would certainly think that my father, of all people, would know by now to steer clear. You would think…but apparently not, because once again, I found my hook floating down through the air right into my father’s waders. I say that I found it, but that’s a little miss leading. I didn’t notice at all. I was simply fishing. And in my opinion, I’d finally done it. I’d finally hooked the big one. I could feel the tension in the line. The line was in the water so I knew it wasn’t fake bite. Yeah right, here I am yanking with all my might, reeling as fast as I can, just to hear, “Derek, DEREK, what are you doing!” “I’ve got one dad, and I’m keeping my pole up so it doesn’t jump off!” “No, no, you’ve got my foot.” And sure enough, I glance up to see my dad’s arms flailing in that out of sync, double rotation, super-speed windmill motion. I honestly never knew my dad had moves, but on this day the Charleston was in glorious form as he danced to the musical sensations of water splashing, feet slipping, and tree limbs slapping. He actually pulled off quite an impressive feat. I’m sure he’d have seen it that way too if it wasn’t that I’d already hooked him twice, scared away the fish once, and forced him to spend the majority of the day fixing my mistakes.
Well the rest of the day pretty much followed suit, including my dad hitting his head one final time on the TV before actually moving the cooler to a different part of the room. The day ended with no fish in either person’s bragging bag. Although, my dad did catch and release a few, none were keepers. Needless to say, everything I caught we either already owned or was a permanent fixture on the banks of Montauk. And even though I returned home have caught ZERO fish, I realized that there was something more to this trip than the fishing. It was the laughing, the sarcasm, the encouragement, the frustrations, and the bonding between a father and a son. We were your typical sitcom. I was Gilligan and he was the Skipper. It was a trip I never wanted to go on, and a trip that I never would have wanted to miss.
Thanks D!
Topher
A Markgraf Family Anecdote
(There’s a little Gilligan in all of us)
Just a Simple Fishing Trip. I’m not sure of the exact dates, but I do know it was in the 90’s, probably around 93-94ish. I know that I wasn’t able to drive, but I remember it not being far off. It was the year of the fishing trip. Dad wanted to take me to Montauk (which in his mind is fish heaven) to catch trout. I was GUARANTEED I would catch a fish. For someone who has caught more people on a hook than he has even seen fish, these words sounded like a big brownie blast from Dairy Queen on a hot July day in the dead heat of summer. And yes, though I am a minister and a fisher of men, I’ve found that most folks prefer NOT to be hooked with an actual hook…both in ministry and on the banks of whatever stream I happen to be fishing. So, I agreed and off we went!
On the drive out I remember dad again and again guaranteeing me a stringer full of fish on our return trip home. I’m sure this was easy for him to say, being that my dad is truly a great fisherman. He knows the ins and outs of fishing. I, at 28, apparently still need instructions on the basics: make sure there are no trees you’ll cast into, watch out for people, use this bait (which clearly means I don’t know which bait is used for what fish), and if you catch a fish, keep your rod up so the fish won’t jump off. These are great instructions for me, of course at 14 or 15 this is what I heard. D, as the family often affectionately refers to me, let me tell you some things that’ll help you… trees… fish… rod… bait. Did you get that? Yeah Dad! So obviously I was ready!
We pulled up to the motel and dad checked us in. We moved all our gear inside and put everything in it’s proper place. Fishing poles against the wall, tackle boxes right beside them, clothes in the drawers, trout vests on the hangers and then the most important item of all…the cooler. See, the cooler on this trip, became my escape. Remember, I’m not a fisherman, so that means there must be something else to find some release in, because fishing will NOT be stress free…that’s a guarantee! It’s a guarantee that I probably should have made dad aware of before the trip. So, the cooler was set to the left of the desk and to the right of our suitcases. It was a perfect fit. I eyeballed it as soon as I brought it in. I set it down in that perfect spot and rose up to head across the room to my bed and BAM!!!! I knocked my head on the TV which was mounted strategically on the wall directly above the cooler. Dad looks and chuckles. But that was the last chuckle he’d have. For this cooler would later become is enemy. I, on the other hand, ignored the response, grabbed a Coke, and headed for my bed. We had an early start the next morning.
We got up that next morning and dad headed over to the cooler to grab a snack and water. I observed quietly, and sure enough, BAM!!! And…SHOOT, my dad yells as he starts rubbing his head. “Hurt’s, don’t It”, I said! We laughed, gobbled up our breakfast, and off to the streams we went. We arrived and dad got me prepared. He gave me the right bait and told me I was at a good hole. I discovered here that trout swim in holes…big blue cold ones. Dad left and I quickly casted in.
We we’re using fly rods, something I strongly advise NOT using if you’re not a fisherman. Why he gave one to me, to this day have no clue. See, the fly rod is huge. It’s very long. For someone who already has trouble staying out of trees, this is not good. It’s like telling Superman to crush Lex Luthor with a rock, and then handing him Kryptonite to do it with. So naturally, my first cast was into a tree. Not the line, but the rod. The line never made it to the water because my rod never made it past 12 O’clock. Something else to take note of is that fly rods do not have a casting button. Most poles have a button you hold down and when you cast you release the button at about 2 O’clock and watch your line soar. Not a fly rod. With a fly rod you have to pull a lot of line out from the reel first, hold the line with your finger, and then release it at 2. Yeah right, like I needed more to worry about. It’s hard enough for me to cast a regular line in the water, now he’s asking me to be skilled. So anyway, my rod hits the branch, I let my line go, and down comes my hook. Dad glances over at about the time, I get pissed and start forcing my rod down through the tree limbs. The rod comes slamming down on the top of the water (this is how I secretly alert the fish that I’m after them) and dad says, What are you trying to do, beat the fish to death with your pole? It’s easier to catch them on the hook, he said. I quickly sputtered back, how am I supposed to cast with this pole being so long!? He replied, Look around you D, step out from under the trees and then cast. O Yeah, that was one of those helpful hints he told me about. Right, so I step out pull out my line, and cast again. What a beautiful cast. The tip of my pole was free and clear of the limbs, I released and the perfect moment. This cast was a thing of beauty. As I let the line go, the tip of my rod came down as to sling the line across the water and all the sudden I felt a jerk on the back right, side of my waders. Somehow, I had managed to screw up another great cast. I had hooked myself, so I dropped the tip of the rod down into the water and again it made a smack. Dad looked over again, why are you still trying to beat the fish up? Just try and catch them! At this moment it occurs to me where my sarcasm comes from. Dad, in his rare relaxed form, can be a bit of a Wise Donkey (Smart A**).
After a few hours of performing my fishing pole circus tricks for my dad and the other strangers gathered around, Dad and I decided it might be a good time for a break. I know every one there had to have been thinking, Thank God this idiot is leaving, and maybe the fish will actually come back now. They were probably right too. So, we headed back to the motel for lunch. Finally, I was going to get to relax. By the way, I’ve caught 0 fish at this point.
I, flustered from the early morning activities, took my vest off and through it over a chair and flopped onto the bed with a sigh. Dad wanted to know if I was having any fun, and clearly, he had not seen the events of that day unfold the same way as I had or, I was bunking with a certified moron. But, if you know my dad, you know he’s a genius and so obviously he’s a blind genius. Anyway, he went over to the cooler to get our lunch meat out. He bent over, grabbed the meat, shut the cooler lid and BAM!!! DANG!... that one hurt. AHHHH, here comes my release, the comic relief that I’ve been waiting for. He looked back and I asked him to grab me a coke. He bent down and again, grabbed two drinks and BAM!!! I swear to you he hit his head again. Naturally I’m on the floor laughing at this point. Man, we’ve got to be careful Derek. We need to start paying attention when we get stuff out of this cooler. Just a note, he uses the word we here. I’ve hit my head once and have not been back. He’s witnessed me hitting my head once, and has hit his head a total of three times, two of them in a row. Needless to say, “we” is a term he is using loosely. So we ate lunch and ventured back out in to the wonderful safe haven of the fishing streams.
While at the streams of paradise, I follow dad’s instructions on baiting my hook and we’re off again. He’s standing to my left as I’m casting. If you know anything about fly fishing, it really is an art. It’s all about the cast and placing your line in the perfect spot. Being a descent athlete, I figured this casting thing wasn’t going to be too much trouble. After all, how could things get worse than this morning? And with that thought, I found my hook in my fathers pocket…his shirt pocket. Naturally, as in the course of a cast, I threw my rod forward with perfect force, perfect enough to grab dad’s attention. I could hear the sound of the eyes of my rod fiercely run across the line making a zipping noise. This wasn’t the gentle sound of a line swiftly flowing through the air to it’s intended destination of the stream. No, it was quite the opposite. It was the all too familiar sound of disaster, immediately followed by, “Whoa, whoa D, you’ve got me, you’ve got my shirt!” I quickly turned around and sure enough, I’d given my father a Madonna like nipple coned shirt over one breast. Luckily, once the tension on the line was broken and the hook was removed, the shirt fell back into its regular form.
It was at this point that my father showed me that even HE was getting a little nervous around me. (By this time, any other fishermen that were here have left, either for calmer surroundings or in fear for their own lives. I prefer to believe it’s the first rather than the latter, but no one knows for sure.) My dad looked at me with the familiar look/glare of disbelief that I just did that. He then announced that he was going to go across the stream to the other side so I could work this out on my own and so he could actually start fishing. So here we go again, I’m back to casting. By now I can’t help but feel that I should have a siren on me that warns when I’m about to cast. Something similar to that beeping noise you hear when a large truck is backing up. That way all those around would know to duck and cover. And you would certainly think that my father, of all people, would know by now to steer clear. You would think…but apparently not, because once again, I found my hook floating down through the air right into my father’s waders. I say that I found it, but that’s a little miss leading. I didn’t notice at all. I was simply fishing. And in my opinion, I’d finally done it. I’d finally hooked the big one. I could feel the tension in the line. The line was in the water so I knew it wasn’t fake bite. Yeah right, here I am yanking with all my might, reeling as fast as I can, just to hear, “Derek, DEREK, what are you doing!” “I’ve got one dad, and I’m keeping my pole up so it doesn’t jump off!” “No, no, you’ve got my foot.” And sure enough, I glance up to see my dad’s arms flailing in that out of sync, double rotation, super-speed windmill motion. I honestly never knew my dad had moves, but on this day the Charleston was in glorious form as he danced to the musical sensations of water splashing, feet slipping, and tree limbs slapping. He actually pulled off quite an impressive feat. I’m sure he’d have seen it that way too if it wasn’t that I’d already hooked him twice, scared away the fish once, and forced him to spend the majority of the day fixing my mistakes.
Well the rest of the day pretty much followed suit, including my dad hitting his head one final time on the TV before actually moving the cooler to a different part of the room. The day ended with no fish in either person’s bragging bag. Although, my dad did catch and release a few, none were keepers. Needless to say, everything I caught we either already owned or was a permanent fixture on the banks of Montauk. And even though I returned home have caught ZERO fish, I realized that there was something more to this trip than the fishing. It was the laughing, the sarcasm, the encouragement, the frustrations, and the bonding between a father and a son. We were your typical sitcom. I was Gilligan and he was the Skipper. It was a trip I never wanted to go on, and a trip that I never would have wanted to miss.
Thanks D!
Thank You Great Great Great Great Great Grandfather John Hoggat for your service!
Today I had quite possibly the finest Fourth of July celebration to date. It started at 5:15 am (the wake up part wasn't so fun) to meet up with a couple of friends for a fine day of Smallmouth fishing in the South Harpeth. We were blessed to say least with an abundance of Smallies caught. I am happy to report that "no Smallmouth were injured during the creation of this blog" as we were practicing catch-and-release today. Sorry tree huggers, you can't gripe at me today! I arrived home mid afternoon to retrieve the pork loin and beef brisket that had marinating for the last two days, then it was off to my brother-in-laws for the cookout. OK tree huggers, vegetarians, and PETA now you can complain! I eat meat.... The temps outside were just right as was the company and the meal. It was about 30 minutes after dinner when World War Three broke out in my neighborhood. This is the moment when everyone within 5 miles who happens to own a lighter decides set off their fireworks. Apparently being armed with a lighter and $1000.00 worth of fireworks makes you more of man. Freud eluded to men who needed to do everything bigger than their neighbor. Man are there some deficient fellas in my neighborhood. I must admit the Freudians (that's the guys in my neighborhood) out did themselves this year. The night sky stayed lit up constantly for at least 4 hours! The night was capped off by the family reading of the Declaration of Independence and a fine cigar for the gents. This reading of the Declaration of Independence brought the day to its proper culmination. I leave you with these thoughts.... Every activity I participated in today including the freedom to write this blog was bought with a price by men of principles who believed there had to be a better way. A better way to govern, a better way to love, and a better way to live. Thank you to the men like my 5th generation grandfather, John Hoggat, who fought in the American Revolution so that I may enjoy these rights guaranteed to me. Thanks to all who have fought and fallen in wars since that time to preserve those rights. God Bless America!
Topher
Topher
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