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A Reel Hairy Tale

Sunday, I crossed off a bucket list event: deep-sea fishing. My good friend Kim and I went out on a charter with Yankee Fleet in Gloucester; the boat set sail at 3:30 p.m. and returned at 8 p.m. Kim had gone on a couple trips 20 years ago, but I had never been.

We Malcolms had a relaxing Sunday at home, so around 2 p.m. I thought I should get showered and dressed. I skipped washing my hair, thinking it would just get blown to shreds on the boat. I skipped most of my make-up too. I found a cap and tossed it into my backpack; I found an extra one and tossed it in for Kim, along with an extra long-sleeved thermal shirt for her.

When I picked Kim up, I was shocked at her appearance. She had done her hair, put on make-up -- and she even smelled good! I said something like, "We're going fishing -- you know that, right?"

The boat was bigger than I expected: at least 50 ft. We staked out two PVC pipes at the very front of the bow to hold our fishing poles. Out of around 35 people, Kim, me, and six Japanese tourists were the only ones who stayed out on deck at the bow as we left the harbor. Most were huddled quietly in the cabin, looking like they were going into a coal mine: no laughter, no chatting.

We couldn't have asked for a more perfect day: sunny and only 2-foot waves. The boat glided out of the harbor toward the open Atlantic. At the mouth of the harbor, another fishing charter that was coming in tooted and waved. We waved back and seconds later we plowed into that boat's wake. And our bow created a spectacular 10-foot spray that showered us and our Japanese counterparts.

Kim's curls were washed away. I turned to look at the crow's nest, and as I suspected, this was a highlight of the Captain's day. Through my sea-water drenched hair, I saw the Captain chortling behind the window of his control tower. I told Kim I had an extra cap and shirt, but she opted for the extra layer of warmth over the cap.

An hour out and in 200 ft. of water, the Captain dropped anchor. We watched one of the ship's mates as he showed a woman across the bow from us how to get set up. Our bait was sea clams that we weaved onto the hooks with three pokes. The reels were open-fly (that's what I call them): with a flick of a lever the line comes whizzing out as the 1-gram weight pulls the baited hook to the bottom of the ocean. Back on our side of the bow, I watched Kim go through the steps of dropping the line; then I followed suit.

The Captain descended from his splash tower. "That made your day didn't it?" we ribbed him. "You bet it did!" he replied. We bantered with the Captain, the two mates, and the loveliest fisherman named Paddy, who shared the bow with us. Paddy, probably in his 70's, had his own gear, bait, and a big confident cooler to store his catch. A bit shy at first, Paddy was one of those guys who would be a great neighbor. Kind, polite, and good-hearted. Paddy gave us a couple pointers along the way, but he had the corner on big fish at the end of the day with a 2-foot codfish.

Kim and I waited for a nibble. I told the Captain that without a bobber I wasn't sure what to watch for. He reached out to the end of my pole and gave the line a couple little tugs to show we what it felt like when something went after the bait. With the line locked in placed on the reel, I held the line above the reel with my fingers so I could feel the line move as well as the pole when something bit.

Three feet apart on the bow, Kim and I chatted and laughed. Me with my cap and she with her now non-curled hair blowing in the wind. All rods were quiet, not much happening. We saw a small codfish come in -- only 15 inches and they need to be 19 inches to keep. Then, tug, tug. OK! Fish on my line! I started to reel it in as the Captain came in our direction.

"Where's your camera?" shouted Kim as she reached for my coat pocket. I was so focused on pull, reel, pull, reel that I could hardly talk. "Pocket!" I replied. "Which one?" Kim asked as she reached across me to the far coat pocket. You know, in my frenzy to get dinner onboard, I could not say "jean pocket." And I couldn't let go of my pole to get the camera out.

"Don't worry about the camera, Linda, just keep reeling and get that fish onboard!" directed the Captain. Then, came Kim's direction: "NO! NO! DON'T REEL! MY HAIR IS CAUGHT IN YOUR REEL!!"

Thankfully, Kim wasn't it pain. Because I would have felt horrible busting a gut if she was suffering. I was losing strength from laughter that made my whole body shake. My cheeks were so scrunched up in the fit that I didn't see how the Captain released Kim's hair. I only heard his voice saying, "OK, Linda, reel it in!" Still in a fit of laughter, I reeled and reeled and reeled and finally Kim yelled, "It's a shark!"

Yes, I had nabbed myself a dogfish. An inedible, 2 ft-long slender, shark-like fish. After a brief photo, the ship's mate, who had taken it off my line, released it. No good to eat. Paddy told us they release urine throughout their body if they aren't cleaned right, so the meat tastes like ammonia. But, he said, in England they were used in fish and chips. Unsure if there is any truth to that. Unsure of many fish stories we heard that day. But absolutely sure of the hair-in-reel one.

After the hair-in-reel & dogfish episode settled, the Captain declared, "I've been doing this for 30 years and have never seen that before." Pretty sure he was referring to the hair-in-reel part.

Paddy summed it up best, "You two girls are having the most fun out of everyone on this boat!"

Yes. We didn't catch dinner, and we came home smelling like we had been clamming not fishing. But we had a wicked good time. Three days later, we're still stretching the laugh muscles and wondering how the Captain and his mates are telling the story!

(Another adventure, this time snow-shoeing down a mountain, in the dark... Fierce Mountain Gnomes.)

When the Headlights Came Looking for Me

The humidity of the last couple weeks reminds of the two times in my life I recognized the headlights coming down the gravel road as Dad out looking for me after dark. Thirty-two years separated those two summer evenings. The first time I was 17 and a senior in high school. I wasn’t home by the time I said I would be, but I wasn’t getting into trouble. I ran into a friend, started to chat, and lost track of time. Once on the gravel road leading to our house, I recognized the headlights and Dad recognized mine. We both slowed and rolled down our windows. “Get home.” That’s all he said. Remembering that evening still sends waves of guilt through me.

The second time I was 45 and had the boys with me in Iowa during a hot, humid summer visit. We had been in town picking up a few groceries and visiting my brother and his family. When we left town, I told my brother we were heading to Mom and Dad’s. It was so brutally hot I had picked up a gallon of ice cream at the grocery store for our neighbors. I thought they might enjoy a little cool treat the next day, but as I was driving down their gravel road at 8:30 in the evening, they were all still up and sitting outside, begging for a slight breeze.

I braked, reversed, and pulled into their driveway. My friend Mary saw it was me and walked over to the car. “I thought you might like some ice cream. I was going to bring it over tomorrow, but since you’re still up…” “Oh, my gosh, thank you so much!” The word “ice cream” put a cool energy into everyone: one of the kids disappeared into the house and came back with several spoons, and they passed around the gallon of vanilla ice cream.

The boys and I plopped on a picnic bench to visit. We had just stopped at Dairy Queen so didn’t need another helping of ice cream. Liam studied everyone eating ice cream then broke his silence and pointed at Mary’s brother-in-law, Ben. “Hey, are you from Little House on the Prairie?” Fortunately, it was pass dusk so no one could see my cheeks burn red. Ben wore a long beard, plus suspenders and a work shirt very much like Pa’s. “Yes, Ben does look a little like Pa from Little House on the Prairie, doesn’t he? But he’s not. Mary and her family are Amish, and they dress differently than we do.” As I was explaining away, Ben interjected, “Oh, do you read those books? We love them!” As it happened, we had been reading them – and making homemade butter.

Liam and Will went off with a few of the kids to look at the kittens. A few minutes later, Liam came back to show me a kitten. He had a firm grasp of it. Around the neck. I jumped up to save it. “Sorry, he’s never held a kitten before!” I explained, drawing a few puzzled looks. “Really? Come here, Liam, let me show you how to hold a kitten,” Ben offered. In seconds, Liam was cradling his first kitten in the nook of an arm, petting it with his other hand. How to hold a farm kitten is innate when you are 5 years old and live on a farm.

With full darkness settling in, we said good-night. We got into the car, cranked the AC, and headed down the road. And there were those headlights. I was 17 again. We met. We rolled down the windows. “Where have you been?” “At Mary’s.” “We have been trying to call you!” “Oh… My cell phone was in the car. I didn’t hear it ring. Sorry, Dad.”

Sorry, Dad, but I was in one of my favorite spots: visiting with friends without a cell phone or a computer. We started to chat and lost track of time.

(Another hot Iowa summer memory: Walking Beans.)

The Eye of the Storm

I am over three years out from breast cancer diagnosis, cancer-free, and well into the swing of alternating MRI's and mammograms every six months.  These don't seem to get any easier as time goes on. After my mammograms in July, all is good.  The Eye of the Storm reflects on that day.  Please forward this to a woman you know who is living with or beyond breast cancer.  And please, let her know she's not alone.

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One of the loneliest places on earth is the mammogram room on a call-back “just to check some calcification that wasn’t on the last mammogram.  We’ll book time for an ultrasound, just in case.”

That’s where I stood July 19th, six days after my Friday the 13th birthday mammogram.

First trip into the chamber.  “If the calcification appears scattered then we check again in 6 months.  If it appears to be bunched together, then we would want to look at it more closely.”

After four initial compressions, the radiologist wanted to take a few more.

Second trip into the chamber.  “OK, hold your breath.”  I can’t hold any breath.  I can’t work out why.  Four or five more tight squeezes.

“Just have a seat and I’ll be back in a few minutes after the radiologist reads these.”

This is a new breast care center, so I get to wear a light salmon pink johnny.  The blue johnnies are still in the dressing rooms but under the salmon johnnies.  Should all of the salmon ones get worn, well, thank goodness for the blue ones.  Fucking things.  I must get a Hug Wrap for myself.  “Don’t forget!”  I scream to my subconscious.

“OK, Linda.  We need to take a couple more.”

Third trip into the chamber.  “This time we need to take the images while remaining compressed for 10 minutes.”  “Are you kidding me?” my cancerous snarkiness raises its protective head.  “More like five actually.  We need to work out where the calcification is.  This is the calcification.”

Bunched together... shit.  “The mammogram shows it but doesn’t clearly identify where it is within the breast.”

I realize why I can’t hold my breath.  I can’t breathe in to fill my lungs.  The compression keeps my breathing shallow.  I’m holding my breath on the exhale with no air in my lungs.  I pick a spot on the wall; hyperfocus on it; tell my brain more oxygen will come soon.  So that it doesn’t panic.

“Let me look at these before you go back to the waiting room.”

I stood in the middle of the quiet, dimly-lit room with the whole world spiraling around me.  Which path do I walk on out of here?  The room is calm.  Peaceful.  In the eye of the storm.  A storm of normal life and responsibilities is what I walked in with.  Will I walk out with the same or in the middle of another storm that makes the first one look like an April shower?

“Looks good.  You can wait outside.”  Minutes pass.  Have I done everything I should?  What are my priorities?  Do I need to focus more on family, less on volunteering?  Liam’s life book isn’t done.  Do I even pray any more?  Do I over react to things that I really shouldn’t?

“Sorry, Linda.  We need to take a few more.”

Fourth trip into the chamber.  “So the radiologist thinks the calcification may actually be on your skin.  In that case it is 110% NOT cancerous.”  Well, that’s good news.  Perhaps my blood pressure dips a few points.  More exhaled breath-holding.  More compressions.  “That should do it.  Go ahead and get dressed and just sit in the waiting area until he reads these.”  Ahh… the power returns as the salmon johnny is dispensed into the dirty laundry.

“Linda, come on back.” Oh, for fuck’s sake, I need a “Linda-go-home.”

Fifth trip into the chamber.  “Don’t worry about changing into a johnny again.  Let’s just take this.  He wants me to roll you so we get a horizontal shot proving the calcification is on your skin.  He just wants to be very careful given your history.”

Back to the waiting room.  Ten minutes later, I’m sweating.  I sent a message via a passing nurse saying, “I’ve got to go get my kids.  I can’t stay any longer.”  My kids are at a short play date that should have ended a half hour ago.

After checking in with the technician or radiologist, the nurse came back with a smiling reply, “We’ll see you in a year.”  I’m pretty sure the technician forgot about me as I sat wanting to crawl out of my skin in the waiting room.  After nearly two hours, five visits to the mammogram room, and 20 compressions, I flee to pick up my boys.

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.  And tired.  And teary.  Next time I’ll stand in the middle of that room with a Tuscan red and yellow Hugwrap about me.  I’ll arrange for a friend to meet me afterwards for a class of wine.  Then perhaps dinner with Bill.  Could I give myself the day rather than a tight two hours to sail through the next one?

That eerie calm standing in the eye of a storm.  Exhausting.

Morels

Walking to Ada’s last week, I passed Mom & Dad’s neighbors’ house.  Herbert came out, said “hello” then asked why I was carrying two cornstalks.  When I told him it was to keep the mean country dogs from biting me, he raised an eyebrow.  He can raise one eyebrow higher than anyone I’ve ever met.  “Come here…  Take this.”  I had deliberately not picked up a stick, thinking that would be too heavy.  “It’s hickory.  It’s not heavy.  You’ll need it for the house on the corner.”  It was as light as my two cornstalks combined. We walked to the end of his drive and then he walked down the road with me.  I explained I was walking in the Avon Walk Boston in May and was putting in a few miles while visiting Mom & Dad.  “Hmm, I walked two miles yesterday, picked morels.”

I could smell them frying when he said that.  Dad had brought a few home from his travels earlier in the week; Mom fried them in flour and butter.  We each had a tiny serving.  An appetizer.  A tease.

(For those unfamiliar with morel mushrooms… They have a relatively short season and look like sponges.  They are earthy tasting and pretty common in Iowa, but ya gotta know where to look for them.  Any timber with cattle grazing won’t have them.  They sell for $40 or more a pound.  No one I know sells them.  They EAT them.)

Salivating, I say, “Where?”   A question no morel mushroom hunter answers.  The one-word question just tumbled out of my mouth.

“In our timber.”  Right next to the field I had been cultivating in on Sunday.

“Oh.”  Wondering if I could sneak in and pick just a few.

“We must have gotten four pounds yesterday.  But there were snakes everywhere.  Little baby ones.”

“Oh…”  80% chance this was a bluff.  Morel Mushroom Territory Protection Strategy.

“Just little garters?”

“No.  Some other kind.”

“Rat?”

“No.”

“Corn?”

“No… Fox I think.”

I had never heard of a fox snake.  90% chance this was a bluff.

“I know what you’re doing.  You’re just telling me there are snakes so I won’t touch your mushrooms!”

“Noooo!  I wouldn’t do that.  I’m not kidding.  There were snakes all over the place.”

He seemed honest.  Sincere.  70% chance this was a bluff.

We parted ways after a quarter mile; he returned home and I continued to Ada’s.  On the way, I met the three dogs on the corner.  They rushed to the road, angrily barking.  I held the stick and the cornstalks high and shouted “Stay!”  They stopped.

Back at home, I told Mom about my encounter with Herbert.  She laughed – 99% sure it was a bluff.

Snakes make me scream.  I could not go morel hunting back there to prove it right or wrong with the possibility of barging in on a snake family.

That afternoon, Mom & I took the boys to a wildlife exhibit featuring Iowa animals.  And there it was slithering in an aquarium tank: a fox snake.  Native to Iowa, it emits a smell like a fox to ward off enemies.

But the sign said nothing about their ability to guard patches of morel mushrooms, nestled amongst bluebells, jack-in-the-pulpits, ground ginger, and the plants that look like little beach umbrellas.  This specimen was at least three feet long.  No regrets in not calling Herbert’s bluff.

People to Know: Wendy

Some people see the world in black and white. And those people expect, well, to see black and white in everything. Then there are those of us who live in a world of gray hues. Where ideas bud, meld, refresh, intertwine… and that drives the other half a little nutty.

Take my friend Wendy Sue Web Guru. Wendy built my site. Then she built her site:www.wendysuewebguru.com. Wendy is a great web guru. She loves the stuff. Wendy is also a problem-solver. She sees through obstacles and can formulate a plan to get to the other side. Wendy believes in herself and has a positive outlook. She’s a good coach.

So… which is she? A web guru? A coach? My take: she’s both. Wendy took my personal endeavor and gave it a place to live and to grow. I don’t know “hosting” or “platform” or other web geek-speak. Wendy does. More importantly, she can translate web geek-speak for us non-speakers. I didn’t worry during the creation of my site. I felt comfortable saying, “I have no idea what you are talking about.” Wendy made sense out of it.

Together, we worked out what I wanted to do with my mountain of writing. She made the vision come to life from bare bones to what it became: www.lindamalcolm.com. Now, I know how to add stories to my site, and I know how to easily communicate with my readers. It has been an exhilarating journey!

If you have a passion and need a forum to share it – and have no idea how to do it – don’t think about it in black and white: “I can” or “I can’t.” Wendy is someone who makes things happen.  At the moment, Wendy is offering a great deal for a couple lucky people: creation of a website for $300.  If you are interested, take a look at her site for details.

Believe me, you “can.”

Besides, “can’t” died in the war. That’s what my dad always says.