Grandpa's Bus, Part 2

How Did I Get Myself Into This Mess?

My initial article of this series concluded with:

Next week, I will describe the setting which drew me back to my boyhood in America’s Midwest. In that prologue, I will introduce you to the origin of Grandpa’s Bus and my reason for being there for the summer.

As promised, here is the setting:

Grandpa’s Bus

Everyone has memories of a special place, a stretch of water where you fished again and again.  This was the place where you had so many experiences – fishing experiences and life experiences – that they form an entire chapter in your history.  For me, that special place was on a shallow, muddy creek called the Little Dry Fork.  I never knew the Big Dry Fork or even a Little Wet Fork.  We just had the Little Dry Fork; it was my family’s special place.  

At one time, the Little Dry Fork was a fine, deep stream and our particular spot was known as “Catfish Lake”.  By the time I was old enough to fish it, however, it was a wading stream at best, and even wading involved cutting across plenty of sand bars and gravel riffles. Intermittent shallows between the deeper holes did not prevent it from offering a virtual fishing smorgasbord of largemouth bass, flathead catfish, crappie, hordes of willing bluegill and perch, and carp. We were very democratic in our fishing; we were willing to catch whatever was willing to bite.  We never knew what was taking our lures or bait until we were halfway through the fight.  You might catch five four-inch perch in a row – “…perfect for branchlines”, Grandpa always said.  But the sixth bite might be something that required tight-lipped, prayerful attention before finally netting it and getting it into the jon boat.

Traditionally, if a stream was not completely navigable by boat, it was considered private water.  By this definition, ours was certainly “private water”. We weren’t too concerned with the legal technicalities; neither were the local people who fished through our section of the Little Dry Fork without undue notice of the pertinent trespass statutes. Still, if it wasn’t completely private, it was close enough.

Our stretch of the Little Dry Fork could only be reached by walking or wading at least a half-mile from the nearest public road. That alone was enough to ensure that our spot remained largely undisturbed.  Our family had fished and camped on this tiny speck of the fishing universe since my Dad was a kid.  Every summer in his youth, all the men and boys of the family took a few days to go fishing “down at the creek”. This fishing trip was scheduled around haying, harvesting, the beginning of school, and other major events of the farm family’s year.  Their tent was a heavy, musty brown canvas tarp, with hay or straw still clinging to it from its last use.  The tarp was thrown over a rope which had been strung between two conveniently placed trees.  Hardly Eddie Bauer quality, but it provided all the shelter and comfort needed by this company, who were there just for the fishing and relaxing.  

I grew up hearing tales of these fishing trips.  One story which always fascinated me was of the time their branch lines caught enough catfish to fill – literally – several washtubs after a heavy thunderstorm caused the water to rise overnight and triggered a heavy feeding.  While camping at the creek, Nature alternately baked, froze, drowned, and blew them away.  But it also rewarded them handsomely at times.

Sometime back in the 1950’s or 60’s, my grandfather arranged to have a bus brought down to the creek and placed on the very spot where the family had camped for years.  Probably from far-off St. Louis, this bus, retired after years of metropolitan duty, was destined to spend its next decades in rustic splendor.  This was a huge, square, steel-bodied city bus.  A distant relative of the M-60 tank, it was well suited for its new role of providing shelter and storage space for the coming years.  Weatherproof, easily locked and secured, with rows of windows providing ample visibility and ventilation, Grandpa’s bus was the ultimate fishing cabin.

How they got that behemoth up and down hills which even today require four-wheel drive is beyond my conception.  They mounted it on blocks and railroad ties, then equipped it with a propane tank - to fuel the gas refrigerator, stove, and lanterns they installed. The bus seats were removed and replaced with card tables and folding chairs, cots, and piles of old, faded blankets and threadbare quilts.  Dishes, silverware, and cooking supplies were made mouseproof by the simple expedient of placing an upturned galvanized steel washtub over them as they sat on the tables between campaigns.  Water for drinking and cooking was carried in each trip.  

Such were the accomplishments of the Ancients.  When they really wanted to do something, they just did it.  In my youthful oblivion, I was blithely unaware of this Herculean task.  When I was a kid, it seemed that the bus had been there forever.  On a blistering hot August afternoon or a damn-chilly Memorial Day weekend, it was always a welcome sight as we arrived in 4WD vehicles and flatbed pickups.  Resting under those huge old trees at the edge of the creek, Grandpa’s bus represented all that was good and simple and enduring.

Between the lingering traces of thousands upon thousands of bus passengers and those musty blankets, the air in the bus was not exactly “springtime fresh” but no one ever complained.  Or, maybe it was from the thin film of residue which covered everything after Grandpa fried up some fresh-caught fish and a batch of his hash browned potatoes – called “hash greys” in the family.  One of my uncles commented that we would never eat such glop anywhere else in the world but, down at the creek, we hungrily consumed every hot, limp shred.  If Weight Watchers had existed back then, Grandpa would surely have been on their Ten Most Wanted list.

Decades later, it seems impossible to believe that I had free range of a stream where the only sounds on a hot summer afternoon might be a farmer on his tractor, maybe a mile away, or, far off in the distance, an eighteen-wheeler going through the gears on its way to the outside world.  In the evening, the wind in the trees was the background music for squirrels leaping from one branch to another.  Grandpa’s “six transistor” portable radio, turned on in the evening to listen to the weather forecast, news, and country music, was a tinny and alien intrusion.  

Despite the gas lanterns, the day’s activities usually ended shortly after sundown and – hopefully – a genuine fishfry.  Soon, it would be time for bed, time for last cigarettes and brief wanderings in the nearby darkness, time for stretching out under those funny-smelling blankets which had warmed earlier generations of my family. About midnight, the crickets would finally quiet down. Then, except for an occasional watery explosion when a big bass fetched his dinner from the water’s surface, the silence was perfect. The new day would begin with a dawn running of the branch lines to see what fortune had delivered to us as we slept. Life was innocent and simple. The rest of the world was a distant fiction, easily forgotten.

When you grow up in Paradise, it probably doesn’t seem like Paradise at the time.  We don’t appreciate what is always there. As little kids, our vision is limited. Later, youths about to graduate from high school and leave for college don’t spend much time contemplating esoteric concepts like “peaceful” and “undeveloped”.  The world was beckoning and I was restless.  How could I be expected to realize that a spot so quiet and isolated was priceless?  More than priceless; such places are virtually extinct in today’s world.  

Perhaps we cannot go home again.  We cannot shed the years, the responsibilities, the regrets. But, I can fondly remember what was surely the best fishing and camping spot in the whole world… down on the creek.

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Note: I showed this to my uncle who had also grown up “down at the creek”. Here are some of his comments:

No crappie or bluegill as I recall—a lot of carp.  Several things you missed ……………

There were a few holes that were over your head—one by the big rock that was probably 6-7 feet deep or a little over

Copperhead snakes and an occasional cottonmouth [poisonous snakes, rare but dangerous]

Mosquitos so big they could bite right through that heavy tarp—which was originally the tarp for the thrashing machine

Squirrels we could shoot with our 22 and that were so good to eat

Target practicing with our 22 rifles and pistol

Deep frying fish we just caught—oh they were so good at midnight with a slice of Holsom bread with a big slice of white onion [Holsum Bread was the name of the hometown bakery.]

Having a bottle of beer—or two—on a very hot evening

Seining for fish—dragging the large net to catch the fish and then getting them by hand out of the net

Trot lines running all the way across the creek as well as tree lines

Running the lines at midnight or one o’clock—and sometimes on a good fishing night we would have something on almost every hook

How quiet it would get about 3:00 am for a couple hours before daylight—just dead quiet

The frogs croaking up and down the creek

Catching frogs by hand with a flashlight—and they were so good to eat

Catching snapping turtles on your hook that could bite a finger right off

Seeing snake skins and live spiders inside the bus

Getting away from the creek if it started to lightening

How dark it was before we had electricity—only occasional car lights on a distant road

I recall my hunting knife I made from a saw blade; my fishing rod Dad gave me when I was 9-10 years old; the one lure I had that I caught a big bass on near the bus

And most of all, I recall just sitting around and being together…………

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That feeling, dear readers, is what I desperately wanted to experience again. Thus, my flight…

In modern times, “flight” means to board a plane and fly somewhere. Another, older meaning is to flee or to escape. That - the second one - is what I did.

And what was I escaping from? Here is the announcement that prededed my summer retreat, the reason for my search for solitude and peace:

How does this following announcement relate to the expat topic? Not directly, I admit. Anyone, anywhere can overload and go crazy. Or, as I am prone to say, “I’m not crazy but my life is crazy.” (However, they look about the same.) But, for expats who have made the decision to leave an unfulfilling or unsustainable lifestyle at least once, it is a little easier to recognize the situation and make that subsequent decision again. I may not be relocating but I am retreating and recalibrating. The alliteration, however, continues unabashed and unabated.

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James Beard, at the height of his popularity as a cooking school instructor, cookbook author, and media personality, famously began one of his articles with the announcement, “I am on a diet”. At the time, Beard was weighing nearly 300 pounds. It was seriously affecting his health and his doctors gave him an ultimatum: Lose weight or die. He made the reasonable choice and immediately began exploring lots of menu items that were not laden with the fats and salt that featured so prominently in his cooking. He radically altered his diet and, in doing so, went on to continue to write and cook for many more years.

I have a problem also, but it has nothing to do with weight. I am overworked and it is entirely self-imposed. Recently, I realized that a weekly sabbatical day or even a three-day weekend is not going to solve my problem. Partly, that problem consists of mental state - confusion, overwhelm, and tired brain unable to focus - but an equally important element is pure physical exhaustion. I have depleted my energy reserves. Put succinctly, my lifestyle for the last couple of years has been far too sedentary and far too intense. Everything has been done on the computer. Furthermore, I realized that I couldn’t visualize anything but work and more work, with almost all of it sitting in front of my computer.

Thus, I have decided to take an indefinite hiatus. My body and my mind need a long rest. Commencing immediately, I will stop working on the books and publishing weekly articles online. In general, I will try to stay away from my computer.   

So, faithful readers, I bid you farewell for the duration of my online absence. I will miss our interactions and I will miss my work each morning during those quiet hours - while my two roommates sleep - when I can sit at the computer, sip coffee, and compose my thoughts. But a healthy, sustainable lifestyle is the highest priority, and reestablishing that is what I will be doing for the next few weeks or, if necessary, months. Nervous breakdown? No, not really. Just the growing awareness that I have been moving in the wrong direction, expending more energy (both physically and mentally) than I was replenishing. And, as a good old Missouri truism reminded me, “If you keep going the direction you’re headed, you’re gonna get there”.

For inquiring minds that want to know more details, I have no crisis, no medical emergency that I am dealing with. No psychological issues, either. (At least, no major ones. But when a person starts to jump anytime there is a loud voice nearby, that is a pretty good indicator that nerves are stretched too tightly.)

In our modern life, it is virtually impossible to impose a complete digital blackout upon ourselves, even if we wish to do so - and I don’t. I am not trying to entirely deprive myself of communications, research, entertainment, answering trivia questions, correspondence, online ordering and digital payments, plus many other features that remain in the background until we need them. It’s like checking your watch or phone for the time. We may overdo it but we certainly don’t want to stop being punctual for appointments. What I am removing is the incessant urge to be doing something - anything - that involves sitting at my computer.

When one cannot imagine a day without “work”, when the absence of a detailed plan where one always knows the next action step for reaching a specific objective makes one uncomfortable, when one becomes restless for no particular reason, when the prospect of some new learning curve to struggle up seems daunting, when the day’s burn-out point comes earlier and earlier, it is time to stop and smell the roses - before one starts pushing up daisies.

I will not completely remove my digital devices from my life. I have a huge stockpile of good ebooks that I have acquired but never read. I have been horribly remiss in staying in touch with family and friends. There are some things I want to study for the pure joy of learning. There are old movies and music from my digital library that I have not unearthed for years. Too busy working.

So, what am I going to do with myself? I will fill my days with activities that “please the hands and rest the brain” as Gordon MacQuarrie so beautifully stated it.  Spending lots of time with my son during his summer holiday from school is a high priority and one of the greatest of pleasures. Visits to the health club - maybe not daily, but frequently - are on the agenda. I have no aspirations to be a bodybuilder; I just want to live to be 100.

I recently learned of a possible place for me and my son to go fishing close enough that “going fishing” does not require a full-day commitment. Living in a megacity offers many advantages but nearby rustic fishing spots are sadly lacking. Fishing can be sophisticated, involving expensive equipment and acquired skills, or it can be as simple as Tom Sawyer’s cane pole and imagining that you and Huck are drifting down the Mississippi on a raft.

Cooking and baking will be a large part of my digital-free lifestyle. As our forefathers (and foremothers) knew, working in the kitchen can fill up most of our days when we do not resort to all the conveniences available to us today. (Yesterday, my son offered to use an app on his phone to order a single can of beer to be delivered post haste to our door. I declined but shuddered at the prospect of such a dubious service. What’s next? Someone to drink it for me?) As part of my recovery therapy, cooking offers a number of benefits in a quest for improved quality of life. Inherent in cooking for yourself are opportunities for a greater sense of control, a healthier diet, working with your hands, and the simple joy of doing something completely and excellently and by yourself. Don’t forget the things that will be missing while you are alone in the kitchen: dependence upon cooperation and coordination, miscommunication with others, division of labor negotiations, management oversight, assigning blame, and cleaning up someone else’s mess.

Don’t give up on me; I plan to be back. I enjoy what I have been doing. As Hemingway observed about following our chosen path, it may be the most difficult thing I have ever undertaken but it is also the most satisfying and fulfilling. But, as I wrote wistfully in my personal journal recently: We cannot escape from our responsibilities but we can seek temporary relief as needed.

When will I be back? I will definitely take the rest of the month of July off. But, is there an end date for this period of solitude and digital silence? I will answer that with the closing lines from a story by Gordon MacQuarrie:

“Did he say when he would reach Nine Mile?”

“Yes, sir. He said he would get there when he was damn good and ready.”

There was a pause and a sigh at the other end of the line. Then Banks said, “That’s him, all right.”

Thus… Goodbye for now.

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And, if my lament has moved you, please move to my Buy Me A Coffee page to show how moved you are. It’s your last chance until I resume this weekly drivel.

buymeacoffee.com/rgreenzzub

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Returning to the Present: Now that I am back in the digital saddle, the cost of a single cup of coffee (or more, if you are feeling generous) at my BMAC page is still the best way to support my summer’s insights. (No animals, small children, or adult children were harmed in making this plea.)