Here’s what just happened.
I was out reading your blogs, buzzing here and there in the blogosphere for the past hour or so, when suddenly a Fierce Desire struck. I’m never sure what to do about these Fierce Desires to write blogs, tell stories. Do you simply allow your typing fingers to have their way? Or do you attempt to discipline your Fierce Desires into some semblance of order, telling them that they must incubate until morning’s light, or perhaps stay silent until next Tuesday?
I try asking my Heart (which is always the best thing to do) but the Heart feels divided. Or perhaps it’s impossible to hear the heart because too many thoughts are adding their opinions. So to heck with it, you’ll have to bear with another essay, or perhaps you’ll wander away to look elsewhere on your computer at Tonight’s News or maybe your friend’s latest posting on Facebook.
There’s a story I’ve been wanting to tell you, but haven’t figured out how or where to fit it in. It has to do with glasses. Barry’s glasses, to be exact. I suppose you’re thinking this might be a boring story, but it isn’t. It’s high excitement! (At least it was to us.)
First, may I tell you that Barry’s ceased ice fishing for the year? Yes, he’s a good ice fisherfellow, and knows when to pack away his ice auger. The ice is melting (even though it’s still two feet thick in areas) but the real culprit is the wind. The wind shifts and croaks and can move ice hither and yon, breaking up solid floes and sending fishermen out into the netherlands of Lake Superior, I kid you not!
Thus, wives of icefisherfellows (newly minted word!) smile with quiet content when their fish-crazy husbands pack up and Announce they’re Off the Ice for the year. Phew… No crazy helicopter rescues necessary this year.
Back to his glasses. The following story happened after we returned from sunny warm–yes, delightful–southern Florida. Our icefisherfellow headed out on the bay by himself.
It was a Saturday. The wind blew fiercely. Snow gusted. His glasses fogged up. He took a compass reading so he could find shore, just in case visibility disappeared.
He set up his green ice fishing tent, placing the glasses in his front jacket pocket. He drilled the hole with his auger. He set up his lawn chairs in the tent. He lowered the fishing line into the hole. He leaned over…
You know what’s going to happen, don’t you?
He leaned over…and his glasses fell out of his coat pocket.
In slow motion they fell to the ice.
In slow motion they slid, yes they skidded, ever so purposefully, toward that fishing hole in the ice…
Down the fishing hole into the icy water the glasses lazily dropped.
Barry immediately fell to his knees–yes, with the two total knee replacements from the past year–knees upon which one does not kneel–
–and with one fell swoop, one liquid movement, his arm darted down in the fishing hole–at least a foot down in the water–and his fingers grabbed the glasses as they dropped down, down, down toward 250 feet deep in Lake Superior.
And he caught the glasses! He actually CAUGHT the glasses before they disappeared!
It was a miracle, dear reader.
(Which is why I had to tell you this story. Do you agree it was a miracle? Please say yes.)
Post Script. He actually called the eye doctor to order new glasses after this incident. Just because. The glasses are getting kind of old, you know. He shared this story with the receptionist.
“Do you know how many times we’ve heard stories of ice fishermen dropping their glasses down the hole?” asked the receptionist. “More times than you can imagine…”