David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: A Child's Wrinkled Face

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: A Child's Wrinkled Face: A Child’s Wrinkled Face And so it was a couple years ago I asked members of a private community on Facebook to respond to questio...

A Child's Wrinkled Face

A Child’s Wrinkled Face

And so it was a couple years ago I asked members of a private community on

Facebook to respond to questions I proposed. I was the founder of that community

and we discussed memories from our youth. We all had one thing in common – our

hometown.

My book, If The Hills Could Talk included some of the memories from the group in

my collection of short stories. But my works aren’t about only my hometown, they

will spark the childhood memories of Baby Boomers everywhere. I left space for

for two special people to write stories – my sister and my brother. The

one that follows was written by my brother.

This story will tug on your heart as a fish maybe has tugged on your hook at some

time and some place in your life. All of my books can be found on Amazon and at my

Website, www.davidnelsonauthor.com

The Lure

By

Richard R. Nelson

There were a few men and boys in our neighborhood who did not fish, but so few that they were considered an oddity, sort of like the two unmarried women who lived down the street in the same house and did everything together. Neither the non­fisherman, nor the unmarried women were so atypical as to generate inquiry or gossip among us boys who loved fishing and played softball on the Audubon School playground. They were just considered somewhat odd. Now, sixty years later, it seems quite apparent that the moms and dads in the neighborhood probably had plenty to say among themselves about the unmarried women, but we boys never heard of it, just as we never heard one word castigating the men and boys who did not fish. Fishing was considered a part of life in our neighborhood. There were even some women who fished, lots of them, including my mom. With a house full of kids, and an ongoing battle with postpartum depression, she did not often get the chance to sit on a stool and drop a big red and white bobber into the water hoping to swing a big Bream to shore with a ten foot bamboo pole. On those rare occasions when Dad announced we were headed to Massey's Slough or O'Leary's, Mom was the first to put on her shoes and head toward the car. Some women even fished with their husbands and kids from a boat. We didn't have a boat, but we had two and three-piece bamboo poles, which when assembled, were formidable Bluegill, Sunfish, and Crappie killers.

All of my friends fished. A few of them had fancy boats, or rather, their dads had fancy boats, bought with the wages earned as a result of the UAW contract with Deere and company. And, they fished with their dads in the River, not in the sloughs and ponds adjacent to and sometimes connected with the River. Those boys told stories of catching Walleyes, Northern, and Largemouth Bass, prize gifts from the river. Among my friends, I was a second-class fisherman, forbidden by my mother from going near the river by myself. Her paranoia about me falling into the River and drowning was not without foundation. Every summer, or so it seemed, the River took a life, almost like a pagan God that demanded a sacrifice as payment for all the joy and fulfillment the River gave to the thousands who skimmed her surface, swam beneath, and floated upon her waters and walked upon her frozen crust in winter. My mother was simply afraid of the power of the Mississippi to take away her diminutive, somewhat awkward, and diffident son, one whom she had abandoned and who was forced back into her care only a few years earlier. Unlike my younger brother for whom there seemed to be no rule he would not break or boundary he would not cross, I abided by the rules. I did not escape the sting of Dad's belt entirely while growing up, but I had a low threshold for pain and a powerful memory of previous encounters with that rawhide. Following the rules kept me far away from that strip of leather.

Long after all of my friends were fishing in the River, I remained a second-class fisherman until the age of eleven when technology freed me from the constraints of placid ponds and boring bamboo poles. At eleven, I joined the Boy Scouts, which offered me countless outdoor activities, including campouts and fishing along the shores of the Mississippi River. By eleven, I was also mowing yards, shoveling snow, and making downtown shopping trips for elderly neighbors. I took the city bus to the Roshek building stop downtown, picked up goods at several stores, and rode the bus back home. I saved my earnings, bought a used bicycle from a neighbor kid, and purchased a real fishing rod with an open face reel. By the summer of 1959 I could ride to the dam on the Iowa side of the river and fish below the Iowa-­Wisconsin Bridge for Walleyes and Bass and Channel Cats in the River. I was now a fisherman, a first class fisherman, and our family, with some frequency, enjoyed fish dinners, the entrée provided by me. When fishing, mostly alone, along the banks of the River, a calmness washed over me and removed me from the chaos and financial urgency that engulfed our family constantly. Fishing was my escape from the constant family tension, and when I could not fish, books borrowed from St. Peters Lutheran Church, Audubon Elementary School, or Carnegie­Stout libraries took me to worlds far removed from my environment. At age seven, I rented a Viola from the Dubuque Community School Music Department. With four years of practice and playing in an orchestra and performing recitals, my confidence grew. I read through entire sections of libraries. I fished the River by myself. By age eleven I had hit the Trifecta - ­ fishing, books, and music. Some people thrive on complacency.

And then, there are others who always want more, enticed by the lure of the next accomplishment. I began to hear rumors that fishing on the Wisconsin side of the dam was much better than on the Iowa side.

There are probably more lies told at bait and tackle shops on a Saturday morning than on all prom nights in America. While waiting to purchase minnows or spinners, those tales of giant fish caught off the Wisconsin barge or along the dam wall on the other side of the River intoxicated me. I was hooked. Not being old enough to drive, I could only imagine what it must be like to fish that angling paradise.

And then, junior high happened, the worst time of my life with one exception. I became friends with a few guys from outside the neighborhood who fished and owned bicycles and whole new fishing opportunities presented themselves. They fished the paradise with regularity. The summer after seventh grade I finally fished next to the dam on the Wisconsin side of the River. Until I met those new fishing friends, I had no idea it was possible to ride a bike across the Dubuque­Wisconsin Bridge. The cost was ten cents each way, and that summer I rode my bike to Wisconsin, fished on that side of the River, and pedaled back to Iowa. I learned much of value on that first interstate fishing trip, none of it having to do with fishing.

One junior high boy is capable of mischief. Three or four boys together can sacrifice good sense and rectitude in a heartbeat. On a hot, muggy June day we four boys met at the Point Bait Shop. We balanced rods and tackle on our bicycles. The biggest boy was able to balance a minnow bucket full of water and tiny fish on his handlebars. He had done so many times before on trips across the bridge. We pedaled to Rhomberg and strained to reach the tollbooth at the top of an incline. We each paid a dime to the man working the booth. The other three, familiar with the bridge surface, rode hard, standing up pumping the pedals and quickly outpaced me. The incline of pavement continued from the booth to the first girder on the bridge floor. I followed the lead, and as the others rode a good distance ahead of me, I came to the first girder, which was crosshatched with steel, leaving square holes evenly distributed across the floor of the bridge, allowing rain, snow and fish files to fall to the water below, a distance that seemed to be 100 feet, and I could see the treacherous River surface clearly. I was terrified. With each rotation of the front tire across the steel squares and nubs where the crosshatch met, the handle bars jerked back and forth, threatening to throw me and my fishing rod into the River below. I should have listened to my mother.

The bridge was extremely narrow with mere inches between cars as they passed, east and westbound. The speed limit was very slow, so narrow was the bridge and rugged the steel nubs of the grates. For all I knew, the bridge had a weight embargo. It felt as if the bridge were moving back and forth as I crossed it. Every breeze felt like a gale. When I reached pavement on the Wisconsin side, I almost threw up.

We fished for hours until both minnows and drinking water ran out. The tales were true. We caught big, slab­sided Crappies, huge crappies and a few Bass. Occasionally, I got lost in the thrill of catching huge Crappies caught in the roiling water of an open dam gate. Mostly, I fixated upon the trip back across the bridge, sometimes growing dizzy with fear. The fear of death, however, is nothing compared to the fear of defying twelve-year-old peer pressure.

As we gathered our gear and prepared to pedal back home, one of the boys announced that we were not going to stop to pay the ten-cent fee on the way back. I didn't get it but was quickly informed that as we reached the declining pavement on the Iowa side, we were going to speed up and ride like the wind past the toll booth. Now, I was almost petrified. This was wrong, plain and simple. I had never stolen anything, excepting pilfering apples from the neighbor's trees, and I knew this was stealing. And, moreover, I had a quarter in my pocket. The fear of the steel girders, of the dizzying height, of falling into the River and drowning was replaced by the fear of going to jail when we got caught.

Speed by the toll booth we did, me the last in the line as usual. As I approached the booth, adrenaline pumped my feet on the pedals at breakneck speed. The clerk was standing outside the booth shouting at my friends, now almost a city block ahead of me. He turned toward me just as I sped past him, and in a flash, I could see surprise registered on his face. As a law abiding Boy Scout, in that moment I also thought I registered disappointment in his face. I caught up to the others at the Rhomberg Dairy Queen. We laughed, congratulated ourselves on not getting caught, and ate ice cream cones purchased with the coin stolen from the Bridge Authority. We divided the fish and I pedaled home, my stomach sour and my shoulders hunched with shame.

Since that first Wisconsin trip, I have fished the same spot hundreds of times and many of America's great rivers, lakes, and impoundments, and a few in Canada as well. I have been fishing for more than sixty years. I always purchase a license. I always obey the catch and possession rules, now mostly releasing alive the fish I catch. And, if there is a special fee, a toll, an assessment of any kind associated with fishing, I pay it joyously. Fishing has always brought me calmness, peace and serenity. It always has, except for one fishing trip when I was twelve years old.

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: My Older Brother Had Worms

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: My Older Brother Had Worms: The wooden box in our garage on Lincoln Avenue in Dubuque, Iowa was filled with dirt and coffee grounds. At first blush, that box app...

My Older Brother Had Worms

The wooden box in our garage on Lincoln Avenue in Dubuque, Iowa was filled with dirt and coffee grounds. At first blush, that box appeared as a forgotten heap of humus. One scoop of the hands revealed a living mass of movement under the surface. It was filled with worms  - or as we called them in the 1950s, night crawlers. They belonged to my older brother.

Yep, he collected and sold them to any fisherman willing to pay twenty-five cents for a dozen. He even had a sign out front of our house as proof that he was in business. I learned a lot from my brother, Richard, aka “Rick”.

Little did he realize that being two years his junior, I watched his every movement, every action and reaction. To an eight-year old, that was a natural method of learning. However, sibling rivalry often sends brothers in two different paths. When I took his place with each progressing grade level in school, teachers asked me if I was going to be as good a student as my brother. I didn’t listen. When they asked if I was going to play an instrument or be elected to Student Council, I didn’t follow that path either. The drama teacher asked if I was going to participate in plays. I shook my head “No” and thought it was for sissies. Little did either of us realize that a few years into the future my brother would attend college, in part, with a drama scholarship.

I didn’t follow rules like he did. I never made an honor role like he did nor did I earn as many merit badges in Boy Scouts. He always seemed to have either a book or a fishing pole in his hands. I hated fishing – maybe because he loved it. The only thing I ever read was Boys Life.

He ice-fished, fly-fished and sat for hours along the dam that connected Iowa to Wisconsin in my hometown. He was quiet and unassuming. I told stories to all who would listen and had to be the center of attention.

I find it interesting today how I unknowingly admired each of his accomplishments and the person himself when we were kids and teenagers. Little did I know that decades later I would enter the stage and become a national performer with my stories. I am the Cowboy Poet Laureate of Tennessee. Our Governor and the General Assembly gave me that title.  www.cowboycomedyshow.com

I followed his path with music. I am learning to play the saxophone. He is currently learning the guitar – in addition to already knowing how to play the violin, drums, psaltery and other instruments.

He has no patience with projects involving anything mechanical and will go berserk if confronted with obstacles he doesn’t understand. In our family it’s called the “Rick Factor”. I use that behavior often and have a hammer nearby in case I need to smash something into tiny bits.

As an “older man”, he is still an avid fisherman. I have recently started fishing. Richard is moving to a city two hours from my home. We plan to fish together.

He reads hundreds of books each year. I have gone from that little boy who only read a

Scouting magazine to an author. I have written seven books so far and one of my works

 will be shopped soon to become a movie. Songs have been written about, The Shade

Tree Choir. http://youtu.be/y3EWghb6qnU  http://youtu.be/O5I_XS6xb70  http://youtu.be/oQApYp1S9O0

Older brothers can be great friends. I know it’s true about mine. We speak on the telephone halfway across the country each and every week – something we have done for over thirty-years. Recently, we have compared notes about music and fishing.

In the middle of the night when I can’t sleep I sometimes wonder about life. Could we have 

stayed this close for some sixty decades because of worms? You will see what I mean when you read 

my short story, “The Hunt” - it can be found in my latest book, If The Hills Could Talk.  

www.davidnelsonauthor.com

The Hunt ©

By

David Nelson

The sudden spring shower earlier that evening was enough to get them moving. The grass felt damp on my hands and knees as I crept along in total silence with my flashlight. Above me was my second grade classroom, and directly above that was my older brother, Richard’s fourth grade room. I was in the front lawn of one of the oldest elementary schools in Dubuque. Audubon was probably one of the oldest schools in all of Iowa.

In my seven brief years of life I had come to know each and every square foot of Audubon’s playground. In the dark that evening in 1957, I was learning every square inch of the front lawn. My heart raced with excitement but my eyes were focused straight ahead. I felt every muscle tighten in my little body as I crawled on all fours. It was the first time I had been invited to go night crawler hunting with my brother, Richard.

I looked behind as if to seek his approval each time I dropped a juicy, slimy, seven-inch worm into the once empty, three-pound Folger’s coffee can. I saw Richard’s light at the far end of the lawn by the flagpole near Johnson Street and imagined he was having as much success as I was with the hunt.

I poked and prodded at my half-filled can and knew my brother would be proud of me. It was important for me to feel his pride in me. He could once again set his wooden sign against the front of our house at 617 Lincoln Avenue that read “Night Crawlers 25¢ a dozen.” A few days earlier he had sold the last of his stash to a fisherman on his way to the Mississippi River a half-mile from our house.

I felt the eerie quiet of the evening. And that was strange because Audubon was anything but quiet in the daytime. Hundreds of children from surrounding neighborhoods played at Audubon year round. The sounds of laughter and sometimes an occasional fight among boys echoed off the houses lining the school property, small houses placed just feet from one another.  

Audubon playground was where I learned to play baseball. In winter we played basketball on the frozen, snow-covered ground that earlier in the year had been center field. Every summer, the Dubuque Recreation Department offered playground activities for children of all ages.

It was there that we played foursquare, tetherball, Ping-Pong and tossed horseshoes. We had coloring contests, played word games and assembled puzzles. There were relay races and individual sprints in preparation for the all-city track meet. Little did I know, that one day I would become the fastest high school sprinter in all of Dubuque County.

Suddenly, a night crawler slid across the back of my hand and brought me back to the night. I lifted it with my fingers and dropped it into my can. That evening was a special time and place for me. And still is.

Bernie Sanders Morning Joe FULL Interview