Fishin'

I am staying at my grandmother's house outside of Crockett, TX. So is an armadillo; probably several families of armadillos. Only two other people have been out to the house, and they both told me the same thing: "You need to get your gun and get those armadillos." I went to the store yesterday to get a fishing license, and as I reached into my bag for my wallet, one of the employees said, "She's got a gun!". Telling people that I am from Houston does little to convince them that I do not own, nor want to own, a gun. My great Uncle Wetzel thinks that it is absurd that I am traveling without a gun, and my mother, who hates guns, seems to agree. "If I had a gun, I wouldn't use it. I wouldn't shoot anyone." That falls on deaf ears. I was just at the Houston County museum. Houston County was the first county in Texas, and my family got some of the original land grants. It is no use for me to ever try to move out of Texas again; that blood runs thick. The man at the museum, who has only been here for six years, commented that the county seems to have more churches (some founded by my family, of course) per capita than anywhere else he had seen. People here seem to have an unswerving faith in the words of their preacher, and in the strength of their weapons. And still I wonder about the Man of Sorrows, who turned everything on its head when he said to turn the other cheek, to work extra when forced into labor, to give to those who steal, and to bless those who curse. And still it is our hope that everything will be made new, that sorrow will turn to joy, that peacemakers will be called children of the living God, and that the marginalized and dispossessed will inherit the earth.

I went fishin' with Uncle Wetzel. He has a lakehouse on Houston County Lake, where I spent many Fourth of July's growing up. He would pull me behind his boat on an inflatable ski bob, with me yelling, "Faster! Faster!" and my brother yelling, "No! Slower!" It was on his boat that I got caught on a trot line, the hook going completely through my hand in the web between my thumb and pointer finger. Uncle Wetzel taught me how to cast, and how to reel 'em in, probably as soon as I could hold a rod. He picked up 3 dozen minnows to use as bait before I met up with him yesterday. Please keep in mind that I have weekly debates with myself about going vegan on a permanent basis and that the butterflies I massacre on the road make me feel sick. I looked into the minnow's eyes as I pushed a hook through its lower jaw and out through the top of its head. Big mistake. I got Uncle Wetzel to bait the rest of them for me. I told him it hurt my feelings. "Why?" How can I explain the connection I sense with every living being? The same reason that I can't shoot armadillos or human intruders. How can you explain that you would rather be broken than to break? And how can I say this while I'm eating a steak? I'm glad that I got to relive the good ol' days with Uncle Wetzel, but I think that'll be my last time to go fishin'.

Leave comments. Let me know you're out there in my little virtual neighborhood. I'm planning to head back West tomorrow, out to Guadalupe Mountains National Park.

Peace, friends.

"'Tis grace that brought me safe thus far, and grace will lead me home." ~John Newton