This blog is officially dead. Get a shovel and some lime.

A Tom Texter Moment

Jenn and I were decompressing before bed, flipping channels. I stopped on Sundance or Flix, a musicmentary or docusical, whatever, I knew the music. I listened, trying to place it. Suddenly, in my mind, I saw an attic in Reading. Not mine, the stairs came up in the middle. Red curatins, I think, though they were probably sheets.

I was watching the Pixies sing Surfer Rosa and other 'hits', and the images I saw were Tom's room, with LP's we'd driven to Lancaster or York to buy.

I wonder where Tom is these days...

Reilan at Five Weeks

She is quite the cute baby.

Nana and Cousin Jordan visited from Pennsylvania.

I burned $50 in steaks.

And we went to the Virginia Zoo.

A good, albeit tiring, week.

So much for plans.

You cannot plan a fishing trip more than an hour ahead of time. The Weather Gods predicted thunderstorms for today, but we decided to sally forth anyway. Paddles 6 1/2 miles into the wind only to find our camping spot was lower than expected. We did have a Plan B a little farther away that looked good. We saw a 6' fish jump clear out of the water from 1/2 mile away. That got us excited, but later deflated us whem it turned out to be a mammal. Other than that the only bite was probably a good-size shark that peeled of 60 yards of line before it cut the 80 lb leader. Decided it wasn't worth camping overnight with nothing biting, so headed in as the winds increased to 20 kts higher than predicted. The smoke from the fires in NC that Tridaddy mentioned found its way to the Eastern Shore. We then missed a turn , ran out of water to paddle in, back tracked, etc etc etc.

Basically, we paddled 20 miles to take a dump in a marsh.



Headed out again 7/6....

My Father's Day Gift

...is a weekend on the ESVA, fishing for tarpon from a kayak. It's a four-hour paddle from the launch. We're camping in the marsh, hopefully on a spit dry land. With luck, I'll try my hand at landing an 8ft, 200 lb fish from a kayak.

More details to follow...

My, oh my, how time flies.

On Wednesday, May 21st at 11:04 AM, Reilan Marie "Chicken" Seiders was born into this world. By chance, one of my fishing buddies, Darrell Hollifield, helped with the Cesarean (Darrell is a trained Surgical Assistant and didn't just wander in off the street). The delivery seemed about normal to me, but I was solely a spectator. With Jenn in the capable hands of a kayak fisherman, Chicken and I went off to the neonatal unit, where she weighed in at 8 lbs and 7 oz and measured 21 inches.

We then spent a relatively uneventful four days at Virginia Beach General, and quickly Chicken fell into a routine: Sleep. Eat. Poop. Repeat. Jenn's recovery proceeded well.

Now we're finally home, and her brothers are spending their first night with her:"What's Chicken doing now?" "Where's her winkie?" "What's she eat?" Dylan says her crying hurts his ears. There's a lot we all have to get used to.

So, nothing earth-shattering outside the miracle of birth, but perhaps it's worth reviving this tired old blog--now that I have something to write about. But...maybe a quick nap first.

What's In a Name?

**News Flash**

We're pregnant. Baby Girl due about 1JUN2008.

You would think that with 300 million letter combinations in the English language, we could find one that was soothing to both of our ears. No such luck. She refuses to name the child after a football stadium (Kenan, or now, at Amy's suggestion, maybe Kiernan). I refuse to name the child after a witch--OR Mr. Bean (Rowan).

This has been the cause of much consternation and even more eye-rolling. There are Rules:

1. Must be Irish-ish, but not so Irish that the spelling would confuse non-Irish.
2. Must end in an 'n'.
3. Must not be the name of any student who Jenn doesn't like.
4. Must not be the name of any student who she has had more than 2 of the same name...ever.
5. Must not be the name of any girl I have slept with.
6. Must not be the name of any girl I have spoken to.
7. Must not be the name of any girl I have ever looked at.

Lord help us...

Ahem.

I have been remiss. My poor, neglected blog. It seems to take a back seat to anything.

A quick recap:

I haven't been fishing much, due to work, family, and the fact that my fishing club has turned into a knitting circle. Aye, caramba, what a bunch of bickering Bessies. This coming Sunday, I'm headed up to Kiptopeke to fish the concrete ships for mega-stripers. Last year we had the place to ourselves--there's a boat launch 500 feet away, but they sped past to where they 'knew' the big fish were--but, because of a few loose lips, we'll have to fight the boaters for space. I love a crowd. ::rollseyes::

Jenn is with child, due in late May or early June. We're convinced it's a girl, but won't know for a while. We've spent a couple of nights playing around with names...Irish names.

I've decide that you can't change a tiger's stripes in respect to work. I'll probably begin training for MSCE certification after the New Year. "Will this make you happy?" Time will tell, darling, but at least I won't be living on broken promises any longer. It is more than likely going to take a year, so I can't burn my bridges just yet.

I took Dylan to Chapel Hill to see the 'Heels beat Duke. He demanded we leave at the end of the 3rd. Watched the (surprising) end from our hotel's sports bar, where he spilled a butt-ton of chocolate milk on me. Met up with my friends Beeks and Lori at the Bob Evans beforehand...shoulda called TriDaddy as well. Two nights with Dylan...I slept for 3 hours as soon as we got home. The kid is a whirlwind...

Adios!

Bobby A. Gatling Sr. , Chesapeake

Bobby A. "Andy" Gatling Sr., 41, of the 2600 block of Elkhart St., died Sept. 26, 2007. Born in Portsmouth, he was employed by Tidewater Landworks. Bobby was a member of Mount Lebanon Baptist Church, Chesapeake and was a coach for the Chesapeake Recreation Department. He is survived by his wife, Donya M. Gatling; two daughters, Ashley N. Gatling and Brittney E. Gatling; son, Bobby A. Gatling Jr.; parents, Dianne E. and Leslie Gatling Sr.; two brothers, Leslie Gatling Jr. (Janette) and Jamaal Gatling (Tawanda); grandmothers, Josephine Gatling and Edna Dailey; granddaughter, Jade Gatling; three aunts, Valnetta Edwards, Kim McLean and Brenda Brinkley; four uncles, Craig Avents (Karen), Bobby Daniels (Cassandra), Johnnie Avents and Walter Gatling (Barbara); mother-in-law, Vicky Porter; father-in-law, Lawrence Gibson (Dorothy); brother-in-law, Shawn Porter (Keisha); and a host of nieces, nephews, cousins, in-laws and friends. A funeral will be held at noon Monday by Dr. Kim Brown in Mount Lebanon Baptist Church, Chesapeake. Burial will be in Albert G. Horton Jr. Memorial Veterans Cemetery, Suffolk. Viewing will begin Sunday at 2 p.m. The family will be at the residence to receive friends and will also be at Fisher Funeral Home, 1520 Effingham St., Portsmouth, from 6 to 7 p.m. Sunday. The body will be in church Monday at 11 a.m. www.fisherfuneral.com.

The story of how I procured those fish...

Cam and I had been fishing for hours. We got at Crab Creek at slack high and had fished all of the outgoing with one snagged croaker to show for our efforts. Other than that just some Gulps with the tails bitten off.

Cam was playing on an exposed sandbar when I decided to try the gut where I had been with Forrest. Maybe that had some fish now that the water was moving in. Cam was not amused. He was ready to go home, but I wanted to catch more than a sunburn before heading in. Getting to the gut was proving difficult at dead low. There wasn't much water, but there was plenty of mud. Cam hates mud. There was some crying, but after various and cursory threats to his health if he didn't keep moving forward, we made through to the oyster beds and the gut itself. Thankfully, there was another sandbar for him to play on. He was over fishing. I made a few casts with the expected results.

"Cam", I said, "you stay here. I'm going to drift down this channel to the white house. If nothing bites, we'll go home. Do. Not. Get off this sandbar." "OK", said Cam. "look, a golf ball!" I drifted away, casting my line and shaking my head.

Halfway down I decided gulps weren't going to do it. I could see fish knuckling the water, but they weren't eating. At least not this. I put on something new called a Redfish Magic. It has a spinner bait attached. I got the color Cory had suggested.

I hate new lures. How fast? What depth? Do I jerk? I went with a quick straight retrieve. Nada. I varied it up, but still nothing. I was getting close to the white house. I did manage some see grass, though. Once more, I thought. I cast, aaaaaand....sea grass. Great. Then the grass started moving. Some thing had picked up the lure off the back of the grass. So after a minute, I had the fish Cam is holding.

I held it up to show Cam. He thought I was yelling for him to come to me, so he jumps in his kayak and paddles to me. Well, this'll work, I thought. "The fish are here", I told Cam, "but you have to be quiet. They'll spook easy. Just hang on to my yak and I'll hand you the rod once we hook one."

We circled back to a point halfway through my drift and let the wind and current take us toward the white house again. I was casting like a madman. I really wanted to get a fish f...THERE!!!!

"CAM, I GOT ONE!! C'MERE!!!" Cam tried to shoot himself along side my kayak but was only partially successful. Meanwhile, I discovered this fish was bigger than the first. He made two or three solid runs and peeled line off my rod. "C'MON, B'FORE HE GETS OFF!!!" Another run at 90 degrees to the first...this fish seemed determined to find a away out of the mess he'd gotten himself into. Cam was holding on to my side handle now. Just needed the right moment to hand it off. The fish was pulling us both around the flats, probably close to 350 lbs all told, and a fish was pulling us around. Another run, and the line goes slack. Crap. CRAP!! He's turned towards us!!! I reel line in for all I'm worth. The fish comes across the oyster flats, then goes under my kayak, then sees Cam and doubles back towards me. As I get the fish to the boat, the line wraps around and oyster and is cut. As the line goes slack, there's a splash as the fish falls in the water, and I see him dart under the boat with my new lure.

Cam and I look at each other with wide eyes, and like that kid from the Incredibles, scream to each other about how awesome that was, even though the fish got away. As were talking, I notice a white line in the water about four feet from the kayak. It was the fish I was fighting, wore out, sitting there. I reached over and picked him up, took my damn lure back and put him in the box with the other.

They were delicious...

The week(s) in pictures

I hate computers.

No, no. It's true. I fargin despise them, even though they are the medium that allows this little ray of sunshine, I still hate computers. Specifically, I hate the HP Pavilion. More specifically, I hate the HP DVD writer 300n contained therein, which is currently holding all of our pictures hostage. It is refusing to recognize most disks, and for the few it does, it offers up a cheery ACCESS DENIED! message.

I hate computers.

Our pictures are being wrongfully imprisoned, and the moment I figure how to post their bail, the Pavilion will inch that much closer to being used solely as a paperweight. For the 1998 Yellow Pages. Slowly rotting at the base of the local dump.


This message written on the Dell Inspiron 1501. Take THAT, HP!

Some updates...

Here's a quick "stream of consciousness" thing of all the little tidbits I've wanted to post but don't have time:

• Andy came to work Saturday. He's got a clot on his liver, along with some non-malignant cysts that have been giving him extreme pain, hence his extended absence. They gave him something for the pain, but it made him too loopy to work. I think they're giving him blood thinners now.
• Dylan got a 'big-boy' bed. Two college graduates couldn't figure out all we had to do was separate Cam's bunk beds and we were set, so we went on craigslist and spent $200 for a kiddie captain's bed. The lady we bought it from lied to my face when I asked about the hardwear to put it together--it was the wrong stuff--so I had to rush over to Home Depot on a Sunday night. Thankfully, I found someone with a brain and together we figured a way to hold the dern thing up. C'est la vie...all's well that ends well. I can't believe he's three-and-a-half already, though, and getting bigger and brighter by the hour.
• The job search is not going well. Since my buddy Glen took his new job, he's been working until 7pm, so I've cooled off on that. I probably blew a project manager gig by not jumping on the stick like I should have--but on the other hand I still have no idea what the job actually entails, so I'm only sweating that but so much. Otherwise, I've got a list of job-related websites a mile long but I've only seen two jobs that are close to what I want. One is a hands-on manager, so it'd be a lateral move and I'll be pushing wheelbarrows until I'm seventy. The other is a sales position for a local nursery that starts with a $13K pay cut. Teaching is looking good again...or selling my bodily fluids. I read somewhere about niche sites that cater to specific careers, but damn if I know where they are. This could take a while. I had hoped to have this wrapped up by August 1st. Thankfully, I have a job to pay the bills for now and can afford to wait to make the right career move.
• Everybody wants to start a landscape company with me, but no one understands I have a mortgage to pay.

Drum Line

"Do you want me to cast that?", I asked. I always have visions from There's Something About Mary when Cam casts in the same county as me. Now, we've tethered our kayaks together--the wind is probably a touch strong for him to battle by himself all day. This way I can tow him if he gets tired and just might get to fish a little myself. Cory and Kevin were nearby and had landed more than a few fish already. Cam's got a half ounce jighead with a Moon Glow Gulp! attached to the ten pound line that was wound around his brand new reel, which in turn sat stoutly on his seven-foot light action rod. I sit no more than six feet away, facing him, and nervously hoped for a 'yes'.

"Yeah, go ahead. You do it", he says, and passes me his rod. Amen. There's only a small space between us to cast into, and I have to cast back into the wind (if I cast with the wind we'll run over the line as we drift). A flick of the wrists and the Gulp! arcs away, headed to a spot about twenty-five feet awBAM!!

Seemingly before the lure hits the water, the surface explodes and the fish is on it!!! "Here, Cam!!", I yell with excitement, "Take it! It's your rod!"

Cam shakes his head. "No! You do it!!" Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz, says the reel as the fish burns off some line.

"Take. The. Rod.", I say, "and reel it in. It's your fish!" Cam reluctantly takes the rod and starts reeling hard. Zzzzzzzzzzzzz, says the reel as I realize I forgot to adjust the drag when I attached it to the rod this morning. After a few attempts, I get it set enough that Cam can feel the fish at the other end of the line as he reels. His eyes get big. Zzzzzzzzzz, says the reel and his eyes get bigger. This fish has shoulders. Cam takes a foot or two back, but the fish, still green, makes another run and the reel sings once again. "Watch him land a flipping 30 inch fish" I think to myself as I cheer him on. Back and forth it goes for another minute or two until Cam gets the fish close enough to the kayak for me to grab. I hoist it up for him to see and cry, "It's a drum!"

"A redfish?!?!", he asks. "That's my first one ever!! Is it big enough to keep?" Cam loves to take fish home, not so much for the eating but more for the cleaning. "I dunno, but he's FAT!" I lay a tape across Cam's fish and feel just a tinge of disappointment as it comes up a quarter-inch short. "Nope, sorry bud. He goes back. The rules don't get broken, even for your first red drum. Let's get some pictures, though."

Cancer Andy Update.

Yeah. Not so hot. He still makes it to work every now and agin, but I haven't seen him for a week or two. Last we spoke, he said his platelets were low, necessitating a shot of whatever into his bone marrow (ow!) to stimulate production. That in turn "made me look like a beaten slave". Some things made his face break out. His hair is starting to thin. And he's lost 20? 30? more? pounds. The Benadryl before the chemo makes him drunk.

On the bright side, he's still sucking air, but the outcome of this drama is becoming more dubious by the hour.

Talking helps.

Had a good talk with Beau-retard, one of my co-workers, today. Beau is, in all seriousness, a fine, upstanding, Christian man. He's the person at work whose family life is most similar to mine. And he's probably the guy at work whose opinion I value most.

He'd been talking about leaving to work in a different field, and has an interview with the VP of a local outdoor advertising firm here sometime soon. A some point, he turns and tells me, "You oughta start putting out resumes, too. Don's never going to change. He needs to be in control. He doesn't want to grow his business. None of that bodes well for you." Basically, everything I've ever complained about to anyone regarding work, Beau verbalized inside 10 minutes and then told me I was selling myself and my family short.

I explained how I felt a bit trapped, having worked in landscaping for 14 years, yet having no degree, no quantitative CAD experience, yet being fairly highly paid (due to massive overtime) for what I do. He countered with, "You've managed construction projects. You've mediated costumer disputes. You've negotiated contracts. No one really cares what your degree is in, unless you're going to be a doctor or an engineer, which neither of us are, they just want to know you're bright enough to graduate. And if you don't tell them that 80% of your time is spent planting pansies, then you can use that other 20% to get the job."

And he's right. Getting out of this hellhole is just a matter of selling myself, and of conquering the fear of change. Jenn and the boys sure as heck deserve more, and after a decade-and-a-half of 50 to 60 hour weeks, I wouldn't mind something a little more family-friendly myself. So I guess it's time to give the ole resume a spit shine and see what's out there, landscaping or otherwise.

In the meantime, Cam and I are taking Friday off and going fishing. He's a good kid, and I promised him last week I'd take him if he could behave himself at school, He did, but Tropical Storm Barry interfered with our plans. So, depending on the tides, maybe the Eastern Shore...

I think I have a new motto:

Fish laugh at me. Women loathe me.

I'm not at all in my special place. However, it's entirely of my own doing. I went fishing with Glen, who's very much the albatross when it come to actually wanting to catch a fish. Shoulda been a good night: full moon, rising tides. 'Twas a touch breezy, but nothing out of the ordinary for the Year of the Wind. But I went fishing with Glen. A solitary bluefish frolicked gleefully in one hole, easily avoiding my expert casts. Flounder tied my lines to string algae and chuckled on their way. Glen got bored and frustrated and decided to go home a few minutes early, which was fine by me. He hadn't been gone 5 minutes when I heard a tremendous splash , and turn and cast immediately to the school of puppy drum I'd been searching for all night. By the time my line hit the water, the drum had transmogrified onto a pack of cow-nosed rays, one of whom was more than happy to swallow my bait. For his trouble, he got to pull 300 pounds around for a solid 5 minutes before my 12lb monofil snapped. Knowing the wife would be getting worried and that I was cursed because I went fishing with Glen, I decided to call it an evening myself, without ever boating a fish.

I think I'm going to see if I left my special place at the bottom of a Yuengling....

I'm not a Hokie.

Normally, I can't stand the Hokies. I can't stand the way they dominate the sports pages despite being five hours away, while my beloved 'Heels (closer by a solid hour) have to fight for page space with three-legged hamster races. I can't stand the Hokies in the same manner I can't stand the Cowboys and the Yankees. These are the teams people say they are "their" teams when, in fact, they have no team. I can't stand the Hokies from August until November, and now, most importantly, from November until March.

Last Monday changed that for me. Some of it anyway. When I heard of the days events, to say I was shocked would be an understatement. I stopped working to call my sister in PA, a stay-at-home mom, to get the latest. Thirty-two dead. Another eighteen wounded. That was me once. Different school, but still the same. Who the hell expects 9mm rounds to be flying at nine o'clock on a Monday morning? Intially, I had heard that Cho had lined them up in a lab and shot them one by one, execution-style. I felt only marginally better to find out this was false.

My wife is a Hokie ('98). She's taking this hard. I can't imagine having all my college memories coated by all this. She called me at lunch the rest of the week in order to give me updates. We had continuous coverage at home until our oldest had nightmares. Thankfully, none of the casualties were folks she knew or she'd have been a right mess. She did ask me to go with her to the Memorial Service at Mt. Trashmore Friday night, and being the supportive husband I am, I agreed. I had a maroon t-shirt under my work shirt that day, but she thought I needed more. She ran to the closet, and returned with a Hokiebird hat which she nestled upon my thinning locks. My Carolina Blue blood rankled at the headgear, but no, I said, for tonight, to remember those killed and to support my wife, I'd wear the hat, and like it. We stood with some folks my wife knew and listened to the half-dozen or so speakers, and as the names of the deceased were read before a moment of silence. Afterwards,when the bagpipe started in with Amazing Grace, you could here people losing it all around you, my wife and her friends included. And there, in that crowd, with those people, I was a Hokie, too.

Jesus buys me a pizza

The implausible happened. I agreed to work on a Sunday. There's a garden tour in Alanton next week and naturally, we're behind schedule. The client is nice as can be. She waved as she left for church this morning. She returned just after I brought the second load of mulch, and called me over to the side. "We had a party after Church today," she whispered, "and we ordered too much food. I have five pizzas in my refrigerator. Would you or your guys like to take some home?"

Yes. Yes we would. Of course I couldn't figure out why this was a state secret and she needed to whisper, but what the hay. I sent four to the hacienda with my crew, and took one home for dinner for Jenn and the boys. This should rack up a few more brownie points.

Jesus knew I liked Italian sausage.

Occasionally, I do some good...

So I was talking to Andy last week. Cancer Andy. He's actually had some decently good news. The tumor is contained in his pancreas. The radiation seems to be having some effect. His new doc has told him the statistics don't apply, as he's young and strong. He still has his hair. We're talking about how he found out and how he felt--shocked, hopeless, etc...

Andy:"...until I talked to you."
Me: "Me? Why?"
Andy: "'Cause everyone else treated me like I'm already gone. Telling me they're sorry and that's rough and all that. You--you walk up and say, 'F-U-C-K, Andy. Someone told me you were a horse, a machine. Go kick this S-H-I-T in the A-S-S.' That made me think I had a chance. I nearly cried like a girl. But don't you tell anyone! "

Note: Andy doesn't curse, so he spells it out...?