TR-Sort Of

"Frank Reid" wrote

I thought the DNR was the same as what every one here puts on the back of
their security badges, i.e. Do Not Resucitate.


I have to wear a Do Not Resucitate sign whenever I take a nap.


Passerby 1: "Omygod! How long do you think he's been dead??"

Passerby 2: "I don't know, smells like maybe a week or two!"

Me: "Hey, whats a guy gotta do to get a little shut-eye around
here?"


Timothy Juvenal

"George Cleveland" wrote...

And there stood the Curmudgeon.

Beautiful. I spose we can all grow into whatever we choose, attitude-wise.

Timothy Juvenal

"George Cleveland" wrote...

And there stood the Curmudgeon.

Beautiful. I spose we can all grow into whatever we choose, attitude-wise.

Timothy Juvenal

"George Cleveland" wrote...
snip
I fell into a reverie about old men and the bitterness that
hangs about some like fog on a cold September morning. A reverie about
my own grandfather slowly making his way across the darkening fields
of my father's farm. His dark green Johnson push button reel and glass
rod hanging from his hands. A Tiny Torpedo tied to his line.

And then I reeled in my line and went home.

What a fitting end to a great TR. Thanks for the nice read.
--
TL,
Tim
http://css.sbcma.com/timj

"George Cleveland" wrote...
snip
I fell into a reverie about old men and the bitterness that
hangs about some like fog on a cold September morning. A reverie about
my own grandfather slowly making his way across the darkening fields
of my father's farm. His dark green Johnson push button reel and glass
rod hanging from his hands. A Tiny Torpedo tied to his line.

And then I reeled in my line and went home.

What a fitting end to a great TR. Thanks for the nice read.
--
TL,
Tim
http://css.sbcma.com/timj

On 18 Jul 2004 18:07:02 -0700, (cruxgems) wrote:

George Cleveland wrote in message
I fell into a reverie about old men and the bitterness that
hangs about some like fog on a cold September morning. A reverie about
my own grandfather slowly making his way across the darkening fields
of my father?s farm. His dark green Johnson push button reel and glass
rod hanging from his hands. A Tiny Torpedo tied to his line.

I'm sorry your recollection of 'old fishermen' is that a "fog of
bitterness" hangs around them. I'm 78 and still look forward to each
trip with the same eagerness that I did when 12 years old with a can
of worms, cane pole, bobber and hook. I help the Indians weir spawning
Kokanee each fall to measure and count in the stream that runs through
my property, and the only thing that makes me bitter is to watch the
youngsters throw rocks and turn their dogs loose in the shallows to
disturb them. My circle of fishing friends include one past 80, and
the only thing that might make him bitter is to miss a fishing trip
because of the gout. My Grandfather died at 86 and although his sight
faded, the sparkle in his eyes never did.



"the bitterness that hangs about *some*"

Cruxgems, I certainly don't think of all old men as being bitter. Not
even most. My father(79) is a good example of some one who gets a
kick out of life. But the particular individual I met on the river has
his equivalents sitting at the bar of almost every tavern up here in
the northwoods, starting about 9am, bitching about the DNR, their
families and life in general. Sad cases.

g.c.

On 18 Jul 2004 18:07:02 -0700, (cruxgems) wrote:

George Cleveland wrote in message
I fell into a reverie about old men and the bitterness that
hangs about some like fog on a cold September morning. A reverie about
my own grandfather slowly making his way across the darkening fields
of my father?s farm. His dark green Johnson push button reel and glass
rod hanging from his hands. A Tiny Torpedo tied to his line.

I'm sorry your recollection of 'old fishermen' is that a "fog of
bitterness" hangs around them. I'm 78 and still look forward to each
trip with the same eagerness that I did when 12 years old with a can
of worms, cane pole, bobber and hook. I help the Indians weir spawning
Kokanee each fall to measure and count in the stream that runs through
my property, and the only thing that makes me bitter is to watch the
youngsters throw rocks and turn their dogs loose in the shallows to
disturb them. My circle of fishing friends include one past 80, and
the only thing that might make him bitter is to miss a fishing trip
because of the gout. My Grandfather died at 86 and although his sight
faded, the sparkle in his eyes never did.



"the bitterness that hangs about *some*"

Cruxgems, I certainly don't think of all old men as being bitter. Not
even most. My father(79) is a good example of some one who gets a
kick out of life. But the particular individual I met on the river has
his equivalents sitting at the bar of almost every tavern up here in
the northwoods, starting about 9am, bitching about the DNR, their
families and life in general. Sad cases.

g.c.