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17/08/2021

I feel Your Pain

I guess if I’d admit it, there are two questions that I really dread being asked. As the recipient of a fine Christian raising and a desire to be a good example to the young folks that I might influence, these two questions, invariably back me into a moral corner every time. “Where’d you catch it?” and “What did you use for bait”.

For the most part, fishing techniques, general areas [entire lakes or rivers] and proven baits, I share with relish as I love to talk about fishing. It’s when someone in the conversation, either by innocence or design asks one of these questions that I am most apt to stray from the path of righteousness and lie like a cheap rug.

I am comforted by the fact that I am not alone in my struggle to fight the good fight. I know countless fishermen who are bastions of virtue and honest to a fault until they are confronted with one or both of these infernal queries. I’ve seen many a fine man sweat and squirm and then lie like their life depended on it. Some things are just beyond our ability to control and sadly after years of struggle and guilt, we become callous and the lies flow as naturally as a mountain creek. This widespread moral struggle has moved me to start a support organization to help encourage and support my fellow fishermen. It’s called LAA, [Lying Anglers Anonymous]. I have gone to great extents in research and expense to identify those of us who suffer. This is not an obvious condition to all so I have developed a formula to identify just how deep someone is mired in this unfortunate trap.

% = chance of lying

If they look you in the eye and speak with great conviction. 100%

If they suddenly remember something they forgot to do on the boat. 100%

If they won’t look you in the eye and sound unsure. 100%

If the preacher is there with you. 100%

If they swear on their mothers’ life. 100%

If they say they’ll take you there. 100%

I’m sure by now you’re beginning to realize the gravity of these folks predicament. No one sets out to be like this. It’s just an unfortunate aspect of an otherwise wonderful sport, which is why I have decided to kick off the newly formed L.A.A.(lieing anglers anonymous)inaugural meeting with an introductory years membership for only $999.99.

Just think of it. You can freely and safely admit all your inconsistencies in a group that understands why you can’t truthfully answer those questions and you just might pick up a few tips on fishing spots not privy to the general public.

As a fellow sufferer, I understand your pain and these days, what with the economy and such, I understand if you are reluctant to purchase the L.A.A annual membership. Just to let you know the depth of my concern for those afflicted, you don’t have to join but if you want a clear conscience and would like to finally tell the truth about your fishing spot or special bait, I’m listening!

By Danny Maybin

11/08/2021

Hazardous Duty

Among the jobs I’ve tried to hold down over the years {and there have been many}, one that sticks out in my memory is when I worked as a musician for a traveling gospel quartet. There is nothing I can compare to spending a weekend with a bunch of guys, away from their wives, exercising their freedom of religion in ways I’ll spare you.

You would never believe that man up there on stage, crying and telling his story is the same guy that you had just learned things from, back at the motel, you really didn’t want to know and now really wish you didn’t.

On this Sunday, we pulled up in front of a great big church, out in the middle of nowhere. When you’re on a bus, you don’t pay attention to where you are. It’s just another place to set up, do your job, take down and leave. I do remember someone saying north Georgia so at least that’s the region.

Our lead singer was delivering a particularly emotional presentation that day. The guitar player and me kept looking at each other and waiting for lightning to strike us or one of us to fall over dead. After no one was incinerated, I realized mercy is far better than justice.

We finished up and sat down in the back for the preacher to close the service. Now, I had noticed that from time to time, you run across a preacher that resents music cutting into his time and will go to great lengths to extract a pound of flesh for the offense. This was one of those times. It was already nearly twelve o’clock and I had already decided what I wanted at Shoney’s. Instead of closing the service, he went straight into the sermon he had prepared. Normally that would not have been a problem but I’d already made my stomach a promise.

Not only did he preach his complete sermon but he had an alter call that he refused to close, saying he knew somebody needed to come forward. I admit I was tempted to go forward just to shut him up but that incineration thing flashed through my mind.

The preacher became increasingly desperate as time dragged on with no one coming forward. Finally, during congregational prayer, he slipped to the back, to a young man standing beside me. He took the young man by the ear and dragged him to the alter! What worried me most was that our guitar player might be next. I knew for a fact that he always carried a 45 revolver in the back of his amplifier. If the preacher pushed him, it could quickly go Chernobyl, as he was as hungry as I was!

Thankfully, he only needed one. We made it on through the tour without so much as a singed hair.

Upon returning home, the guitar player and myself, tendered our resignations, citing “this gospel music is far too dangerous!”

27/07/2021

The Dead Sea Fishing Camp

Over the years, I have been blessed with more than my share of fishing opportunities in the Atlantic, Pacific, countless lakes and rivers and inland coastal. There are so many kinds of fish and so many different methods to catch them, I doubt anyone could learn it all in two lifetimes. I think this is what creates the mystique we all get caught up in. We seek that hidden wisdom that always pays just enough to keep us coming back.

As I now have more years behind than ahead of me, I’ve learned to not diminish the fun of whatever activity I find myself immersed in by over thinking all the finer points and taking too seriously the honing of my skills. To that point, I have begun to see the whole picture, so to speak, of whatever endeavor I happen to attempt, especially fishing. Interaction with people and quietly observing what’s going on around you can be extremely entertaining.

Just a little while back, a couple of fishing buddies and myself set out on a three day brackish water trip that promised plenty of action. We loaded the truck and camper with six coolers, nine tackle boxes and about nine hundred rods and reels [Just in case one got broke] and headed out with great anticipation.

Our destination was a brackish river on the east coast and that’s about all I can say as some folks there struggled to see the humor as it unfolded before us. There was a campground on the river that I had booked months earlier and we arrived late the first night. The attendant told me my spot number and the couple staying in the spot right behind us along with their beagle Harvey, came out and helped us get set up. I threw out a couple of bait traps and we turned in with great hopes of a fruitful days fishing and it was all going to start next morning.

It turned out this beautiful river should have been called the Dead Sea.
Even the bait traps were empty except for one anemic bluegill about the size of a ping pong ball. It seemed to look at me with grateful eyes, sensing its misery in this river was over. Even the bread in the bait traps had turned black !
We gave it a valiant effort and as the sun was now high, we decided to head back for lunch. As we neared the camper it became painfully obvious that our peaceful little campsite of last night, now in the light, more resembled the backlot of a tire store ! We downed a couple of sandwiches and decided it was more pleasant at the Dead Sea.

We returned to the camper empty handed only to find a party going on at the site behind us, including Harvey the beagle and an older lady from another site that we called [just among ourselves]”Granny”. The site in front of us was occupied by an apparently single, middle aged man with a large motorhome pulling cargo trailer that he had graciously offered us to lean our poles against along with our tackle boxes on the ground. It helped keep our site uncluttered and I was grateful. I never heard his name but he was at the party as well.

The festivities went into the morning hours and ended with the couple in a huge fight, Harvey in between them howling and Granny crying.

The following morning we decided to try our luck in saltwater, so we dropped the camper and headed for the coast. We caught fish although nothing remarkable and were beginning to feel a bit better about the whole situation by the time we headed back to the campground.

We returned to find the whole campground in an uproar. There were about a dozen people in front of the couples camper, including Granny and Harvey. Apparently in our absence, the woman of the couple had taken a fancy to the guy in the motorhome and the guy of the couple had returned from somewhere earlier than expected only to find them both in the motorhome and now she wouldn’t come out ! The owners of the campground were there along with several concerned souls from different campsites. I know all this because as soon as she saw us, Granny made a beeline to one of my buddies to get us up to speed. I watched as she told the whole sordid story with such worry in her voice but I also noticed a sadistic gleam in her eyes as she expressed her concern.

The day was getting on now and we were tired so we thought it best to grab a sandwich, sit around the picnic table and see where this was going.
About the time things were starting to quiet down, we heard a SLAM and the sound of breaking glass. Her now ex had thrown a beer bottle at the motorhome and taken out half of the window in the kitchen slideout. He ran up to the window and started screaming things that I can’t write here.
All at once exhaustion seemed to overtake him. He turned and leaned with his back against the motorhome and with tear filled eyes looked up at the sky as if searching for answers. This is where things went off the rails.

As he leaned back and looked up a female hand emerged from the broken window holding an inverted beer can. The funny thing was, he didn’t seem to even notice that he was being drenched . Everything got real quiet and his countenance suddenly seemed that of complete serenity which made us a little nervous.

I guess a half an hour passed and it was still quiet. We were thinking the show was probably over when I heard his camper door quietly open and shut. The next thing I saw was this poor beer drenched guy headed back to the motorhome with a pistol ! The occupants of the motorhome must have seen it too because it immediately fired up and tore off up the drive. It was almost sundown when they took off and as the sun touched the horizon, I gained a memory I doubt I’ll ever lose.

We had most of our gear stowed except what we had used that day, which was two or three fishing poles and my old standby tackle box. I’ve always been amazed at how easily fishing gear can tangle. As the motorhome guy took off, one of my poles caught on the trailer fender which in turn caused my lure to grab the handle of my tacklebox.
Imagine if you will, a huge motorhome pulling a trailer, roaring into the sunset, red dust curling up around the tail lights, my tacklebox sliding then bouncing five and six feet in the air, [it’s amazing how strong braided line can be] Harvey chasing my tacklebox and howling like he was on fire, the ex behind Harvey cursing and pelting the trailer with rocks and Granny on her knees, both hands in the air, alternately crying then looking to see if she was being noticed.

By this time we were all pretty sure the fat lady had sung and there was nothing more to do but pack up and find a local motel. After two six packs and a bucket of chicken, some basic cable and a good nights sleep we all felt better about our fishing trip although we did check the local paper next morning to see if anyone had actually been shot. No news is good news.

It was a long way home but it gave us time to get our fishing stories straight. It was mostly a quiet ride with the silence being broken with an occasional muffled laugh as we each remembered the funny things that happened on our fruitless fishing trip.

Thanks for reading,
Danny

29/06/2021

The D.M.V. Witness

Of all the places I have to go, I think the D.M.V is my least favorite. In fact, I can’t think of anyone who has ever gotten up in the morning, exited that they are going there.

If you think about it, the teens are scared to death of the driving test, those who work are irritated that they have to be there and the elderly are worried they won’t pass the eye test. It’s the only place I know of that you wait in alphabetical order just to get in line to take a number and wait!

On one of my visits; I had already gotten to the number stage and like most of the rest, was trying to carry on polite conversation with my fellow sufferers. Somehow we tend to think this will make the ordeal more tolerable but I find awkward conversation only tends to heighten my stress level but I seem to always do it anyway, which drives me crazy as well.

On this visit, I was actually sitting outside the waiting room, in the hallway where you can watch the teenagers walk out to the car with the examiner and come back in looking like they had just seen a horrible accident. It can be quite entertaining.

The hallway also was the access for the highway patrolmen’s offices and various other related offices. We were all sitting there in those govt. issue, plastic seated chairs, alternately talking and watching for the next terrified kid, when a man, obviously upset came walking in.

He made eye contact with no one and marched straight to the Lieutenant’s office door. Taking the door k**b, he realized that the door was locked and would have to talk to the receptionist via the intercom beside the door. This apparently irritated the man to no end, as he stamped his foot and said something that shouldn’t be said, even in the D.M.V.!

We were all now listening very carefully as this was the most excitement we had had this morning. Finally, he pressed the intercom button and demanded to speak to the Lieutenant.

A calm, southern, female voice came back saying” I’m sorry but the Lieutenant isn’t in today”. He then demanded to know who was over the Lieutenant. Softly the voice came back again saying “That would be the Captain over in Asheville”. Now in an even louder voice, he requested who was over him. Again, in that sweet voice she said, “that would be the Colonel down in Raleigh”

By this time all of us, including a couple of very interested state troopers were all watching and listening to see what would happen next. I couldn’t believe my ears. He asked once again almost yelling “and who is over him?”

There was a long, painful silence in which you could have heard a bug run across the floor. Finally, the intercom crackled and that still, sweet, southern ladies voice came back saying “Bless your heart, that would be Jeeesus” and she continued with “ now I don’t have a number to give you, but I’d be glad to introduce you to Him cause it sure sounds like you need to meet Him”.

The two patrolmen quickly retreated back to their office but you could still hear the laughter through the big oak door. I was glad that I was sitting on the other side of a pay phone where the guy couldn’t see my face as everyone in the hall was breaking up.

The poor guy was beyond words by now so he just scowled at us and started screaming, not words but only visceral sounds. He turned and stomped out the door and we all listened as he peeled out of the parking lot.

I don’t know if the man ever got the satisfaction he so desperately sought. One thing I do know; he is now acutely aware of who’s at the top of the D.M.V! Sadly, my reluctance of going to the D.M.V. is worse now. I know I’ll never have that much fun there again.

20/06/2021

Dwellers of the Edge

Technically, you could say we’re a good, dependable, community minded family and if there were rules of civility to gain a heavenly home, my bunch would get in on technicalities.

Over the years, “Living on the edge” and its sister “The ragged edge” have become catch phrases .

If you can imagine your total social circle as a large platter with jagged edges, and if you looked outward to see something like a firecracker fuse dancing and popping along the edge, you have just met my boys.

At times they may seem haphazard, wild or dangerous. {My wife and I have heard all the adjectives.} But behind all this , there is honestly method and deliberate thought put into the way we have chosen to live.

I have acquired many silver strands in my once curly brown hair, as I allowed these two boys to take on all they could handle and try to appear “matter of fact” in whatever situation they had conjured up.

Some of the sound bytes that give that salt and pepper look are, like my wife calling me at work to tell me that my seven year old just got pecked in the eye while teasing the chickens. And then there are my favorites like “I think I smell smoke at the boathouse” or the golf cart’s in the lake again!

I’ll never forget while fishing below the lake at our house, my youngest yelling from behind a sandbar “Dad this darn gator won’t leave my lure alone!”

If you want to sprout a little silver, arrive home late for an introductory meeting with the new game warden only to find your ten year old has had his rapt attention for the last twenty minutes!

We have taught our boys manners—and they know how to use them. They are not hoodlums or bad kids, they’re just out there on the edge because that is home to them. Incidentally, this is where memories are made.

My wife is in total agreement with this method of raising our sons. If anyone is deserving of guaranteed passage, it is her. We’ve lived in countless locations, from the Georgia swamps to the mountains and from lake houses to one room cabins and one six month stint in a Holiday Rambler, her pregnant, with me and the boys, always in pursuit of the outdoor experience.

Yes, we’re right out there with them, trying make sure they do say “yes ma’am” and “please” and “thank you.” They think I’m leading but honestly, sometimes it’s like when grandpa’s horse would take the bit and run until you thought you would fall from exhaustion.

Sure some folks might look at us funny and maybe sometimes they should but these boys are at home where few seldom venture and can come to the inner circle without effort when need be. It’s not the life for everyone but it works for us and who we are. I would that everyone could find their spot on this great big circle and reach out.

by Danny Maybin

26/02/2021

The Cussing Bridge

Looking back over the years at the likes, dislikes and decisions that helped shape who I became as an adult; I have to admit that the art of blackguard, cussing or course language was very appealing to me as a child.
Learning the words and their placement was easy. Anyone who can speak can readily learn where to properly where to put them. But early on it became obvious that one man could say these forbidden utterances to his own disgrace, leaving folks with the impression of an ignorant and distasteful man; Whilst the same folks would listen with rapture as another would use the same words and phrases. Aside from a few winces from the women folk, could leave them spellbound, as it were, convinced that this man was apparently above the average intelligence and obviously an authority on the subject at hand.
At nine years old these sorts of things were very puzzling. I knew for a fact that some of the former were kind, smart and gracious men. I also knew that some of the latter were liars and deadbeats, though not all. From my estimation there were fine men and scoundrels in both camps. So what did it matter?
It seemed to me, being the recipient of a fine Christian raising, there was no choice but to try be as honest, wise and prudent as a young man should be, but I did so enjoy hearing someone well versed in the artful use of the forbidden language with such accuracy and surprise. To my nine year old reasoning, this was the zenith of maturity. To exhibit all the virtues of manhood, display the ability to delight and transfix those listening with intelligent and dynamic speech and possess the talent of throwing in the bad word in such a way as to actually enhance the discourse.
It was at this point, I began an earnest, self taught study in the discipline of "artful cussing".
As a reference the word "cuss" is not as ignorant or slang as you might think. Cuss is merely the word curse. After a couple hundred years of the beautiful southern dialect, in which the r is dropped in virtually everyone and two syllable word, the word cuss is more proper than curse; at least down here. To say someone said a "curse word" would be a dead giveaway you're not from the south. At any rate I had set forth on the path of artful cussing.
At that time in my life, I spent a lot of time with my grandpa. He was the caretaker of the Argyle plantation in Flat Rock N.C. or as the locals called it ; "the King Place".
Mr. King, as I was instructed to call him was the son of the Honorable Judge King. Judge King was responsible for the majority of the 19th century migration of wealthy Charlestonians to Flat Rock, trying to avoid the tuberculosis plaguing the south in that era.
Mr. King, his son was a lawyer out of Atlanta. When Mr. King would come up to Argyle, grandpa and I would sometimes walk up to the cottage behind the "big house" where Mr. King would stay on his visits. The big house, or Judge King’s home, by then, had been relegated to heirloom status and no longer provided even temporary dwelling. It had proven far to expensive to keep up.
It was on these infrequent visits that I picked up quite a few clues to my earnest endeavor.
Mr. King was a fairly small man with white hair on the sides and none on top by that time in his life. He had a look, if you can imagine of stern softness with questioning eyes and a poorly hidden smile. To a nine year old boy he was disarming, endearing and demanding of respect all at the same time.
I have known a few others with that great mix of qualities but that was not what interested me most. Being a young boy in what was the still " the old south", I'd had repeated instruction on speaking only when spoken to and listening carefully, especially when we visited Mr. King, since he was the owner of the plantation.
It was on one of these visits with my listening instead of talking that I came to know a true master, in my estimation of the forbidden language.
Mr. King would listen to updates on farm business and talk with grandpa about those sorts of things but then he would magically bring me in to the conversation and proceed in telling me a story, usually consisting of southern history, always with a hint of morals and virtue.
He would not have used guttural language, even with an adult only audience, but the damns and hells and so forth were so eloquent, I'm sure he could have taught Sunday school using them and been revered for it.
This, in my mind confirmed my theory. Here was a man, powerful in presence, obviously learned, wealthy and virtuous using the words I was usually punished for using, except he used them in a way to enhance his presence and stature amongst those around him.
In his latter years, I doubt he spent a tenth the time at Argyle as myself. I spent many a summer day exploring the old plantation.
Going south from the front of the "Big House" and parallel with the Robert E. Lee Memorial Highway that ran a quarter mile in front of the King Place was the old entrance to Argyle. On this road was an old plank bridge that crossed, of course, King Creek. It was here on this old bridge that I began my quest for self enhancement in the art of cussing.
The old bridge was the perfect place for several reasons. First, it was far removed from any of the goings on of the plantation. It was also situated just below a large rock shoal. This gave adequate sound cover, so that I could, at full volume, practice emphasis and inflection without someone at ten paces, being able to clearly hear what was being said; in case someone came up without my noticing. Lastly, there was water under the bridge and where there is water there are fish. Consequently, whenever I felt like practicing my cussing, I could just tell grandpa I was going fishing.
Those summer days at the old plank bridge were many. Not all were serious study and practice but there were more than enough sessions to satisfy what I felt to be at least a minor in the art.
Looking back, I'm not sure those words were of any real value but at that time they sure made an impression on me.
I'm not trying to justify the words or my interest in them. This is just the remembrance of a little boy on a plank bridge trying to figure out life.

13/02/2021

Whoopin’ Logic

Growing up in the mountains of western North Carolina, I had what I consider a wonderful childhood. Many would view it as less privileged, but the kids in my community and myself were blissfully unaware of all the trappings of urban life.

In the summer us kids would be shooed out of the house after breakfast and threatened under penalty of a whoopin if we came back in before supper. This was never a problem as I remember. We had creeks, trees, toads and bugs, and we all had a slingshot.

We also all had responsibilities. Johnny and Keith had to milk twice a day. Steve had to feed the hogs and his dad’s mule. I had to carry water and firewood. These were the everyday and I mean every day chores.

Being little boys, we also got in trouble on a regular basis but the only “time out” I knew of was when dad would stop to rest when we were cutting firewood. No sir, when you got in trouble in our neck of the woods it was serious business. No parent I knew back then, to my knowledge, ever voiced concern about damaging their child’s self-esteem. If we were in trouble, we knew exactly what was fixing to get damaged.

The mountain people I grew up around were gentle folks but when it came to the kids; Yes meant yes and no meant no and there was always a keen hickory stick nearby to keep that in the foreground of our decision making process.

If dad happened to be the administrator when my behavior strayed outside the lines, it was to me, akin to a walk to the gas chamber. On the other hand, when mom was up to bat, it was more like “it’s gonna hurt, but I know I’ll live” [unless she told dad.] By nine or ten years old, mom had me well versed with this activity we all knew as a whoopin. I never got used to it but I got to where I would find myself debating as to whether or not it was worth it to execute whatever idea my buddies and me had come up with.

The only time it would still get too hot for me by then was if I acted up in church. I never understood it but mom’s strength seemed to double on Sunday mornings.

Our church was a little white clapboard building with the sanctuary in the front and four small Sunday school rooms in the back. From time to time I would have a lapse in judgment during the service or maybe the Sunday school teacher might complain to mom. There was no debating. The next thing I would know, a strong hand would have me under the arm and we would hastily exit, me on my tiptoes, down the aisle and out the front door of the church. From there I would be marched around back to a little path lined by multiflora rosebushes that led to the church outhouse. About halfway the path curved so as to hide the outhouse from the Sunday school room windows on the back of the church.

By the time we would reach the outhouse, mom would always, as if by magic, have broken off a perfect switch. As I said earlier, those Sunday morning whoopins were particularly intense. One morning it was so hot that I could bear up no longer so I broke loose from that iron grip and ran. As I rounded the curve on the path, to my dismay, I saw the faces of all my contemporaries pressed against the window of my Sunday school room. I was stunned by the look of eager anticipation on their faces. This slowed me down enough for mom to catch up. When she caught me, she didn’t continue, she started all over but this time to the delight and entertainment of my Sunday school class.

One Sunday morning in particular sticks out in my mind. I don’t remember the transgression, but I remember the hand under my arm, escorting up the aisle and out the door. As we reached the doorway and before I could decide it was not a good idea, I yelled back over my shoulder to the congregation, “Ya’ll pray for me!” To my surprise and delight, the whole congregation broke up with laughter. I believe in prayer but as mom and I were returning to the church service, I realized that my request, at least for me, had resulted in far more harm than good.

I guess I’m not as smart as a lot of folks because it took many sessions at the outhouse before I finally figured how to make this situation tolerable. I have to admit it was purely by accident.
One morning we were at the outhouse and in the middle of one of her, dreaded “power swings,” I tripped and stumbled backward. I immediately detected less heat and started backing into her swing as fast as I could go. What made this even better was that it was apparently very exhausting, trying to “bring the heat” using very short strokes in rapid succession. This had not only made the ordeal far more bearable but had also cut the session time in half!

As we walked down the path back to the church, I noticed that no one was even looking out my Sunday school window. I guess mom and I had become old news by then. I couldn’t help but turn my head away and grin a little. I had just discovered a tool that, in my mind, was guaranteed to produce a happier life! I was also thankful that mom was apparently, solely responsible for Sunday whoopins.

As we turned the corner and started back into the church, there were three or four men from the community standing in the church yard talking. As we approached, I noticed they were trying their best not to laugh. To this day I don’t know why I did it but as we walked by them, I dropped my head and with a quivering voice said, “my momma whooped me like a dog.” Mom gripped my arm and sped up, heading for the front door as the men were now laughing out loud and slapping their legs. I’ll never forget the look on mom’s face. It liked to have scared me to death and I was thankful she was too tired to take me back around the building.

Things were a lot different back then. I guess some folks reading this might think my story is harsh. But I’ll tell you this. I love my parents, my wife and kids. I care about my neighbors and I’ve been fortunate to have never been incarcerated. I’m thankful for my raising and I’d like to see more folks adopt the philosophy that kept me on the narrow path. I just wish I had learned that backing up trick a little sooner.

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