Abuelita (Grandma)

Full disclosure (that's not my abuelita)

Because my mother so loved her mother, many of our vacations were spent at mi abuelita’s house in Mexico.  I have many fond memories of our vacations en el Humo, Veracruz (an island).  What’s not to like, by comparison it would be like visiting your grandmother who lives in Hawaii.

At the age of 8 or 9 years old, there was always someone to take me fishing off of a boat, or one of my uncles would take me for rides on a speed boat.  All I know is that I haven’t seen a speed boat more impressive (other than the ones they used on the TV series Miami Vice).  My uncle’s speed boat had dual outboard Mercury motors.  He could turn that boat on a dime, and go so fast that he could create a large whirlpool.  I remember that he was a daredevil, and would always pull out of the turns just before losing control of the boat.

 

Plenty of wild life, chickens, dogs, pigs, cows, donkeys, goats, etc., etc.  The locals got their drinking water from underground natural springs.  There was a sweet taste to the water.  My grandmother owned and operated a “puesto,” (small general store), and she let me work there whenever we visited.  Her merchandise included: eggs, raspas, sodas, pan dulce, carne seca, especies, Manteca, galletas, dulces, agua fresca, café, leche, and anything you can think of including navajas para resurar (shaving blades-Gillette).  Please don’t think of the bulk purchases we make today.  I am talking about one blade at a time, two or three eggs at a time, and so on.  Maybe that’s where the label convenience store originated.

 

In retrospect, just maybe that’s where my entrepreneurial spirit got its start.  The bottom line is that you couldn’t plan a better vacation for a fast growing city boy.  While on vacation, our most common meals consisted of seafood’ shrimp, prawns, lobster, oysters, fish and crab.  Caldo de marisco was on the menu on any given day.  I remember my grandmother always being apologetic for the poor people’s meals.  I guess she didn’t realize that we couldn’t afford to eat like that in the U.S..  I almost forgot to mention that my mother’s side of the family made their livelihood, from the seafood industry.  I come from a long line of fishermen.

My favorite line is; "give a man a fish and he will eat for a day, teach him to fish and he will drink for a lifetime (just kidding)."  Lo major de los tiempos…..

By Hook Or By Crook

By Hook Or By Crook

After the age of 8 my parents separated (soon divorced) and I was raised by a single mother.  Sound familiar, I guess back than like today it happened a lot.  We lived in Salinas, California when my parents decided to go their separate ways.

Being originally from Tampico, Tamaulipas my mother decided to move to Texas to be closer to her family, while remaining in US to allow me the opportunity to be all I could be.  This post is not about my successful life story it’s about one very small aspect of living with my mother, and how she made the rules to meet her needs.  First of all out of all the cities in Texas, we ended up in Harlingen (no rhyme or reason), without having family or friends there.

My mother was very extremely resourceful, she immediately landed a full time job at a food processing plant (casa fria), and a part time job to make ends meet.  Her goal was to get the best house she could afford in the best neighborhood (safest) she could afford to raise me in.  Unlike many families in similar situations we had one major thing going for us, permanent residency (green cards).

She was determined to make sure I had a college education, and a religious upbringing.  Like many children, I had a sharp mind that was open to learning.  All I needed was a proper atmosphere, and good teachers.  Texas was and has always had a great reputation for a top educational system.  School was a very easy sell for me, I loved learning, and still do.

 

The hook or by crook part also known as the carrot and the stick, was when it came to church.  For example if I wanted to get my fifty cent weekly allowance, and go to the movies on Sunday afternoon, I had to go to church.  Sometimes I would claim to be sick, and my mother would say, fine stay home, but you are not going anywhere else.  All of a sudden I would make a miraculous recovery and go to church.

 

If all went well and I behaved, my mother would take me to lunch at a special tortilleria where they sold menudo, caldo de res, pollo en mole, and barbacoa with rice and beans, and hot tortillas right off the parrilla.

Life was good, but it was even better when I acted like a model child.  El major de los tiempos….

Porque Deje De Pescar

Pescando en el Rio Yakima

 

My fishing experience was very special, for safety reasons it always included family outings.  There’s no way I would be allowed near the river or lake by myself at that age (we are talking nine or ten years old).  My mother was very protective, and possible overly cautious.  I can honestly say that I inherited that from her.  When the family moved to the Northwest from Texas, is when we became (especially me) one with nature (everything and anything outdoors).  I totally identify with the large number of Dallas Cowboy fans, even if my NFL team allegiance belongs elsewhere.  When I lived in Texas, I was so young but already indoctrinated into believing that no other State mattered.  Some of the more popular television programs helped to heighten the hype.  One such program was “Tales of the Texas Rangers,” (1955-59).  There again television programing of the 1950’s and 60’s will be material for another blog posting.

 

I guess the relevance is that in Texas I was a city boy, and when we arrived in Washington State I became a country boy.  The relocation introduced me to my 21 year old step brother that I was meeting for the first time.  I swear if you looked up outdoors in the dictionary, his picture would be there.  He was a hard working foreman at a large farm (approximately 7,000 acres).  I was so impressed with his work ethic, and especially his well-rounded skills.  His truck had a gun rack and he regularly would go pheasant hunting on his way home from work (during open season of course).  He taught me how to fish, how to ride horse, drive tractor, he even introduced me to deer hunting.  I don’t think I’ve ever told him but I owe him a big debt of gratitude for helping me build the foundation that would become the life platform on which I still stand.  That is another great subject for future posting.

 

Meanwhile back at the farm; before I got caught up in the world of work (due to age limitations) fishing was a regular part of my day.  We had ponds on the property that were stocked with fish, and whenever possible we would fish off the side of the river that bordered our property.  I must remind you that we didn’t have Nintendo, Xbox, or any other Game Systems.  We actually had to use our bodies and minds to keep ourselves entertained.  It wasn’t unusual for me to be riding a horse from one pasture to another and make believe that I was being chased by outlaws, or god forbid a band of wild Native Americans (politically correct).  Now back to fishing and the reason I quit.

 

It was a typically beautiful hot summer day with not a cloud in the sky (easy 87 degrees).  The river was as usual running beautifully fast and smooth taking the mountain snow melt right past our property.  The river water level was low typical of the time of year, and there were many boulders that were sticking out above the water level.  Being the adventures type that I’ve always been I took all my fishing gear (tackle box, fishing pole, fish net, some bait, a couple of candy bars, and a soda), and jumped from boulder to boulder until I was half way into the river some 20 feet from shore.  My arms were actually filled to overload.  Approximately three and a half hours later, after catching my limit for the day, I decide to get back to shore. 

 

By now the river level was a little higher and some of the smaller stepping stones were no longer above water, so what had been a fairly easy skip and jump out to the fishing spot was now a larger jump, and jump situation.  You see, when the gap is that far apart, you have to keep your momentum going, to complete the jump.  To make a long story short the last boulder that I jumped on to had a curled snake laying on it enjoying the warmth from the boulder.  In retrospect, it was probably all of 18 inched long, but at the time it may as well have been a python, or rattle snake.  By the time I saw the snake I couldn’t do anything but land on it.  The snake wrapped itself around my ankle, and that night I couldn’t sleep from the experience.  I never went fishing again, unless it was from a boat, and only into my twenties.

 

That is about as big and bad as my fishing story gets.  What’s your best fishing story?  Stay tuned the best is yet to come…..