Born On A Friday

Dad was born on a Friday in a Colusa hospital and was raised an only child.

His was a very close-knit family with relatives scattered throughout gold country.

Lived in Livermore at a time when he helped Holdener’s Dairy deliver milk to people’s door steps.

Was lucky enough to board his horse off College Avenue and ride with his buddy Dick to the Famaris Ranch near Coral Hollow.

He was a gifted athlete in high school and was recruited to play football and baseball by several California colleges.

Graduated with the Livermore High School class of 1940.

Entered the Marine Corps in 1942 and qualified to land a Corsair on a carrier.

Celebrated VJ Day with his buddies including Ted Williams as they awaited transport to the South Pacific.

Married Betty Sills in June of 1947.

Had sons born in 1949 and 1951.

Was activated back to duty in Korea after being re-trained to fly helicopters, later carrying out nighttime  medi-vac operations.

Returned home and continued to raise his family while starting two separate and successful businesses.

In his senior years he and mom traveled the world and enjoyed contentment.

He now lives at Heritage Estates in Livermore where he goes about his daily life as a unintentional mentor for many.

He’s too modest to boast of any of his achievements.

Tell Nelson Fletcher that Friday the thirteenth is unlucky.

Happy 95th birthday Dad.

 

Monday on the Bay

Got an early start fishing out of Berkley. Picked up bait in SF and ran back past Treasure Island to the Alameda Rock Wall.

Hooked up on quite a few shakers, which reduced our boredom. Then we caught two keeper stripers.

IMG_4843 undersize halibut ARW 4-9-18

Almost legal, but not quite. I posed for a picture anyway. Captain Bob laughed at me.

Looked like the highlight of the day might be the baseball we netted about mid day.

Unfortunately it was a little league model and not one that came the way of AT&T Park.

Then we boated a halibut over the minimum. It was almost a day worthy of remembering.

About 2:00 PM, we decided to shift from the Alameda Rock Wall over to the Berkley flats. On our way we passed a party boat.

“California Dawn,” said Captain Bob. “They’ve been doing well in this area lately.”

Time to pull over and give it a try. Ten minutes later my rod dipped and my reel began to  pay out line.

“This is a real fish,” I said, as a maneuvered my rod over the engine to face the fish.

We soon had a couple good looks at it and we knew it was special. I let it play out a ways from the boat, not wanting it to get close until it was worn down a bit.

When it was time to net the fish, Captain Bob was ready and did a great job of making sure we didn’t have one of those “at-the-boat” events.

The fish was 38.5 inches long and weighed in at 20 pounds. Long and not fat, but a great fish. Suddenly the fishing had gone from good to great.

Had our best success at the end of the low slack tide.

IMG_4846 38 in striper ARW 4-9-18

Biggest striper I’ve caught. And, I’ve logged in a lot of hours fishing for them.

Now he’s shrink-wrapped.

 

 

 

Fish-out 2018

This was the weekend of the annual fish-out, an event created and fostered by my brother, Rob. Despite significant rain, the event went off without a hitch and we had a great time.

The libations were liberal and masculinity was evident.

IMG_2931 Fryd's striper 2018

Nice striper.

When I departed yesterday, the largest fish honor was held by John Frydendahl – a striped bass of about 15 pounds.

John also told us that he’d been “spooled” by another fish before the rest of us arrived. We could only wonder about the size of that one.

The white-front geese appeared to be staging for a flight north. They will leave any time now.

Pheasants and mallards were displaying and chasing each other around. Managed to photograph one rooster in full bloom.

DSC_0327[1] rooster

 

 

 

 

Trash Night

5 PM, time to feed Lola. Linda is all over it.

“OK, I’ll do it,” I say as she stares from across the kitchen.

Lola is ready and waiting, staring hard at the bowl I have in my hand.

Half a cup of dry dog food and half a cup of wet, along with a couple of so-called lubricants.

Sitting across from my bow-killed Impala ram, I’m sipping on a glass of red wine as I watch Tucker Carlson argue with a gun control fanatic. Doesn’t get much better than this at my house.

Then Linda begins her Monday night theatrics. “Trash night!

“Ugh,” I respond as I turn up the volume on the TV set.

“I’m tired of Tucker, is there anything else we can watch?” she adds.

How about “American Pickers,” say I.

“OK,” she responds, “But don’t forget it’s, it’s TRASH NIGHT!”

“Ugh,” says I.

The pickers are kicking butt on some great unusual stuff and Linda announces she’s ready for a shower.

“Don’t forget. Trash night!” says Linda as she heads down the hall.

“I won’t forget,” I respond wondering why she makes such a big deal about trash. It’s not like they won’t be here to pick it up again next week.

The National Championship game is on and soon Michigan takes a significant lead. I’m thinking this could be a big-time up-set.

Both teams are playing great, but Michigan is maintaining. Then some white guy comes out of nowhere and scores about nine points in a row for Villanova. Then he throws one in from about 30 feet.

“Trash night!’ I say to myself at the half. Time to go break down some cardboard boxes and rip them to shreds.

American Idol is recording.