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Letters home: Family reunion
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Editor’s note: Steve Alden Nelson is a Caledonia native, the son of
the late Margaret and Alden Nelson. He currently lives in Los Angeles,
and works in the entertainment industry. His column “Letters home”
appears periodically in the Argus.
Dude,
As you probably know, I come from a huge family. So, there’s a good
chance I won’t be able to squeeze in all the news from this summer’s
recent festivities in a single letter.
Anyway, a couple of weeks ago I was back in the Midwest for my annual
summertime family activities. My sister Lori picked me up at the
Minneapolis airport on a Saturday afternoon. We sat on her deck talking
until 4 a.m. The next morning I was picked up by my niece Greta’s
husband Harvey and their two boys Aaron and Ben. They drove me to
Rochester where I was to be handed off to my brother John, then driven
to South Dakota to go fishing with our brother Bill.
We decided to meet in the Menard’s parking lot near the Broadway exit
off of Highway 52. Although everybody was on time, for some reason we
couldn’t find each other. Think of it as the “perfect storm” of people
going in circles in search of each other and managing to keep out of
each other’s sight for more than an hour. Not that I’m placing blame,
but it doesn’t help that John happens to be one of the last people on
earth who doesn’t own a cell phone!
Anyway, once we found each other we headed west, stopping at Don’s
tavern in Howard, South Dakota to pick up a fishing license, then
continued on to Lake Thompson where we met up with our brother Bill.
The next morning was clear and warm with a steady breeze. Lake Thompson
was, as usual, pretty choppy, so we decided to drive 20 miles to Dry
Lake. When we arrived, there were two old fishermen landing their
boat. While Bill and I prepped his Bass Tracker, John went over to talk
to the old guys. They were too far away for us to hear their
conversation. Finally, it occurred to me and Bill that John had been
gone for a long time, especially since the unwritten rule amongst
fisherman is “don’t ask, don’t tell.”
The exchange is usually: “How’d you do?” and the response is: “Pretty
good.” That conversation doesn’t ordinarily take very long. So, when
John finally returned, he pointed west and said: “We’re going straight
out there, where she’s about four to five feet deep around the weed
beds. As soon as we got to the designated spot, we started catching
fish.
We asked John what he’d said to those two old timers. “Well,” he said,
“we made some small talk.” They asked if we were from around here. I
told them I’m from Wisconsin. One brother lives outside of Sioux Falls,
and the other brother came all the way from California! (melancholy
pause) “And I sure would like to put him on some fish.” (There’s
no doubt in my mind that in a past life, John was a Hollywood
producer). That was that. They spilled the beans, and we caught our
limit of walleye within a few hours.
The next morning we headed to the same spot. Our tipsters were there.
We got close enough to thank them for the advice, and they told us they
were already halfway to their limit for the day. So, we drifted south
for a little while until we saw them going to shore. Again, we took
over their spot and caught our limit by 1 p.m.
This was the first time in the history of our annual fishing trip (The
Bullhead Jamboree) that we had back-to-back days of perfect weather and
we caught our limit of walleye on both outings. The only downside was
that I got a couple of mean deer-fly bites, causing my left foot to
swell up to the size of a Nerf football. John got bit as well, but for
some reason, those mean little buggers left Bill alone. He attributed
his immunity to the fact that he smelled like soap. That may well have
been the case, because he was the only one of the three of us who’d
showered in the past 24 hours.
Hey man, three middle-aged married guys going fishing? Shower
schmower, I say. But next year I’m not only going to bathe before
fishing, I’m also going to bring a bar of soap on the boat as a backup.
Well, that pretty much covers the first four days of my summer
vacation. There were 10 more after that! But, I’ve got to get back to
work!
More later.
Peace.
Steve.
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