Between · Adventures

I'm kind of restless this weekend, even though I have tons to do, so here I am posting for the first time in something like six months. I suppose it's time for an update.

The Stock Cars book is in its revisions stage. I am not liking the revisions stage. It pisseth me off and my editor keeps calling me Meghan.

The Tarot Within Sight (hopefully they let us keep this title) book has had its deadline pushed out to November, thank God. I've got a chapter to get done this weekend and hopefully Nance will have more chapters for me when she gets back from camping.

Big, huge, ginormous thank-yous to Uncle Mick and Aunt Rita for letting us use the cabin!

Tomorrow we dance at St. Thomas Aquainus for the anniversary. David Haas will be there.

Still working at van Wagenen.

Hope everybody's well!

-Mel

Forsooth, we have finished. Behold the cover of the mighty book:

This book will be offered as a free gift from the family in the hope you will use the included Hastings Family Service envelope to make a (TAX DEDUCTIBLE) charitable donation to Grandpa's favorite charity. Proceeds from any copies purchased through other means will be donated to Hastings Family Service.

Miss you, Grandpa!

-Mel

I'm told I haven't posted on here in a while, but to be completely honest, I haven't felt up to it until recently. I haven't even wanted to look at the site (except to look at other people's journals, which you can conveniently do here without running into your own). How long is the denial stage, anyhow, and how many times do you come back to it?

But, I've got new news, and I thought this was probably the most effective way of reaching everybody. Nancy and I were offered a contract with Llewellyn for a Psychic Tarot book (tentatively titled: "Psychic Tarot - Shedding Light on a Dark Art"). We met with a lawyer over the contract on Tuesday (to make sure we're not selling the farm when we just meant to sell the milk, so to speak), and she's going to see if Llewellyn is willing to incorporate the changes we wanted to make to the contract. I figure in a week or two, the contract will be signed.

Aimee, our lawyer, said it was remarkable that we got a book contract, being "first-time authors" in this economy, an that we managed to sell the idea on a proposal without a completed manuscript is something Barbara, the editor, said was incredibly rare for first-timers. Me, I'm just nervous as heck. I can hardly believe this is happening, I keep expecting someone to e-mail me and say, "oh, wait, it's you. We made a mistake."

Nancy and I will also be signing a co-author's agreement that will be drafted by Aimee so that, in case of fire, flood, disaster or death, we know each others' responsibilities and rights as far as the work goes. Mostly it's meant to cover the "what if" if something were to happen where you either died or were incapacitated and someone needed to act on your behalf (eg: Estate, Power of Attorney). I'll have to give it a look-over, but as these are all Nancy's ideas (I'm contributing and doing most of the writing, but really, it's her experience and her excercises and basically her way that's being written about), I'd be more comfortable if she had control if something happened to me.

At the same time, Grandpa's book is shaping up (Ooo, I can't wait for people to see the cover, Alan did a MAAAAAHVALOUS job with that picture Uncle Steve found), Suzi's running like a dynamo, and the deadline is still set for March (that is to say we're working, Suzi especially, really, REALLY hard to get it done for the 1-year), but we're not going to just slap it together, either, so if it ends up being more like Good Friday (April 10th), I don't think we should panic. I'm very excited about it. Alan's doing some mock-ups of how the book will be laid out as far as style and the book cover.

In other news, Girl Scout Cookies are coming at the end of this month *yum!* and I'm working on a story I hope to sell to Harlequin (if you get in there, you're set) when I have the time. Overtime at work is crazy now because of winter and the storms (I work in what is basically the Total Loss Unit for GMAC) and we have more accounts than we know what to do with. The ink is now dry on the contracts for Nissan Canada, too, so that'll add a few more accounts to our plate. VanWagenen is working hard at expanding its business and we do a good job, if I do say so myself.

Mom's in Mexico, hopefully having a wonderful time.

Kathryn said her first word (Aspen, the name of Martin's (Kasia's brother) dog). She says it like it has 3 syllables "A-pe-NNNNN." She can also say "Hi, Lilly!" (Lilly is Kasia's dog). It's more like "hililllleee," but it's cute. She also walks, and really likes the book "Little Miss Naughty."

And that's what's new and shakin'.

-Mel

*** Just a reminder, June 1st is the deadline ***

I got a letter from Jim Mullenbach today! I'd thought maybe they'd stopped, but maybe not!

May 14, 2008

Sparkling Lake, Canada. It took all day to get there and all day to get back. A simple to and an overnight in Grand Marais, because we needed a good hot shower and warm bed. Understand that we roughed it in tents including a tent serving as kitchen, a dining tent with tables and chairs for cocktail hour and meals plus our own pup tents.

Mel Humbert, the organizer was so exact & disciplined about the entire excursion and had the patience of Job with some of us. Usually there were six of us, but got to eght on occasions which created the need for more groceries, cooking & other equipment.

Generally, we loaded the trailers, boats & pickup the night before so we could depart before sunrise. It was necessary to have all your personal equipment, clothes, libation products without fail or you thrived without.

The group usually consisted of Mel Humbert, Leonard Bauer, Tom O'Conner, Gerry Gerlack, Andy Anderson, Wallie Bauer, Clint Caturia, Clarence Rotty, Jim Mullenbach and others whose name has slipped my mind. Doc tailored this group to six and it seemed to work very well.

Mel had an unbelievable ability to have a complete grocery inventory for four days. We had one steak night, otherwise our fill of walleyes, potatoes & salad. Breakfast was early consisting of bacon, sausage or ham, pancakes, eggs and toast. Wally Bauer was chief toast maker. While Mel was making breakfast, others, shaved, loaded boats or set around drinking coffee & juice. Mind you, this went on whether, cold, rain, warm, windy or sunshine. You had three days to fish so live with it.

Our crew was quite experienced with setting up and dismantling the camp site. Most times, camp was all up soon enough to allow us to fish and catch enough for our first meal of fish on the arrival date.

We traveled about 60 miles north of Upsala Canada to a landing site on the river leading to Sparkling Lake. This required complete unloading of boats & equipment, then, reloading boats after launching in the river, to include maneuvering th loaded boats up a sixty foot rapids, rising about four feet to Sparkling Lake from where we boated another three miles to camp site. Amazing what six grown men would do to bring hme six walleyes after eating their fill for three consecutive nights.

There are so many great memories of Canada fishing with Mel Humbert at the helm, dating back to the 70's and 80's. Since then several have passed away and we remember them in our prayers. Got Bless Them!

Jim Mullenbach
Battle Lake, Minn

*** Hope you enjoyed!

-Mel

*** Letter 2 is pending permission.

Letter 3:

Some memories of the selfless, energetic Gentleman Doctor Mel.

*** Post-It on top says: "Melanie - A great man! Ben S"

Sometimes '"it" started, for some of us, at the Director's meeting of the Northwestern National Bank. When the agenda was covered and reports closed, a hasty trip found us all in the backroom at Weiderholts. Then the important business started - cocktails, followed by dinner order, more cocktails and some stories.

"It" is Mel's invitation to the summer fishing trips to Sparkling Lake. The next step, we gather to load the boats and drive to 106 6th Street W. At tjat address is a very efficiently designed dental service, but of equal concern is the layout and use of the lower level. It contains facilities for all the gear and food that eight fishermen would require when seventy mile from the nearest store. Some of the fishermen come there to load and go home to dream about the big ones.

The next morning we all show up on time. We are on the way to Grand Marais for the night's stop. Some seemed to find the evenings and night in the downtown pretty enjoyable, but most just retire. Next stop in the moring is for minnows and camp permits.

We left the hightway to the logging trail that many of us had a name for every bump. Then we come to the lake. That's where I lose my ability to back a trailer. Having backed trailers for some forty years by turning around to watch them I am experienced. But as the boats on the trailer blocked the view of the curvy trail one needs to use the mirrors. The unlearning has stuck, so backing either way is a problem.

The boat trip on the water is another real joy. Such beautiful water and wooded area is becoming more and more of a rarity. I can still see the picturesque narrows and the challenging rapids.

Yes we are back in the bush. Some times another party is on the lake. In fact one day some fellows wanted to know who flew us in. Rusty Meyers had flown them into this inaccessible lake so they would be alone.

Unbundling the camp gear and setting up our tents was hurried by the anxious need to catch some fish before dark. Of course that's when I find out that my sparkle tails and jigs were the wrong color. Seems the earlier campers retrain the walleyes each year. I remember one year though when Leonard Bauer was going to fool the fish. He had an electronic color sensor that would show him the right color of the bait to use as well as the proper water color for the best fishing.

I'll never forget Mel and Wally out fishing. Never saw anyone having more enjoyment.

As we progress on the venture, everyone was impressed by the need to be on schedule, and rightly so. This is a trip to maximie fishing with the necessary breaks to enjoy good meals and an adequate social hour. Then too the evening fireside time brings out many stories.

The fishing is also interrupted by fish cleaning. The entrails are all transported to another rock islan to keep the wild folks occupied. Canners and cutters (the smaller and sometimes best eating) are bagged for camp use. The rest are bagged in an attempt to comply with the current, ever changing, game-cop regulations.

One afternoon as the cleaning is progressing a bear comes down the latrine trail toward the cleaning table. About twenty feet away he sniffs the air and decides to make a right turn to the water. When he turns again to size up the situation, one at the table, Dave Holtorf, suggests that all go to the nearest shore and gather a rock or two. When the bear rambles back the pelting changes his mind, so he goes back up the trail.

I'm sorry my fishing story is probably much like yours, but they were a wonderful experience. An experience that Mel provided for the pleasure of many, very typical of his life.

His service to the schools helping the public schools through some testy times, his fund raising for the Catholic schools has give them a solid foundation.

The strength of our medical facilities is a great testament to the efforts of he and many others of the Hastings Community.

He made a real difference for all of us.

Ben Sontag

"Teeth in great shape too!"

Well, darned if someone didn't send me a story today!:

Dear Melanie,

I saw the article in the Star Gazette... it is a wonderful tribute you plan... my memory is from MANY years ago - when he was a young dentist... I came to him at age 22 - having been to ANOTHER dentist 6 months previously... after an evaluation - he said I had 26 cavities and needed 4 GOLD crowns (at that time) I said "Oh, just pull them all out, I go with dentures (mind you... I was only 22 yr. old). He said "It's not as bad as it sounds - these are all SAVEABLE teeth - so I went ahead with HIS PLAN - the 4 gold crown were $35.00 each and I still, at age 70 have a couple of them! He was ONE GREAT DENTIST and ONE very PERSONABLE person! I now sing in the Chapel Choir at S.E.A.S. - which sang for his funeral Mass - I felt honored to be a part of his FAREWELL! After listening to the WORDS OF REMEMBRACE at the funeral Mass - I envied all those who were his "fishing buddies"... what an experience THAT must have been!

Thanks, Melanie, for doing this "memorial book"

Fondly,

Maryann Brummel

***

Yay! A story! A story!

Stephie wrote some FABULOUS ones, too, that maybe other people haven't seen yet, but I'll let her share if she wants to. This is just an easy way to collect those that aren't in a Word doc.

-Mel

We went to the cabin last weekend. And the office. And we still can't find that pole. We've decided to wait until all the Canada gear gets trotted out.

It was strange to be at the cabin without Grandpa there. I never thought too much about it, but I actually haven't ever been there without Grandpa. Even with all the changes in decor, when I turned my head just so and looked at the dining room, out of the corner of my eye, I could see myself sitting cross-legged on the sofa, reading a book while Grandpa rubbed his hands and clapped them together over the football or golf game on TV. I could see a mess of little animal dolls and coloring books next to the end table, left in complete chaos the moment Grandpa wandered in and asked if I'd like to go fishing.

If I focussed on the TV, I could see the sun setting outside, and Grandpa making popcorn in that bowl and skillet contraption I'd never seen anyone else use. I could see him shaking it out on paper toweling and portioning it into University of Minnesota cups that must have been aroung forever. Another day, he might grin and hold out a rootbeer float made with frozen yogurt in that same cup.

There's the fish over the mantel. Beneath that fish, I remember the graceful piece of wood that looked like a fish that Grandpa liked so much. On the wall facing the door is the bass Grandpa caught in Dunn Lake itself. "Bass can get a lot bigger," he said, "but I had that mounted for those people who say there aren't any fish in this lake!"

When we walked down to search the green equipment box by the lake, a foggy memory came to me of stones instead of wood stairs. I remembered Grandpa being so tall, and how I had to stretch my legs so far and still thought I'd never reach that next stone.

I could see Grandpa stringing poles beneath the "My wife said she'd leave me if I didn't give up fishing; God, I'm going to miss her!" poster in the basement. He was muttering at the hot tub in the bathroom when it wouldn't start how it was supposed to.

It was almost as though if I just didn't look right at any one spot, he'd be there. But then I'd turn my head, and he would be gone. Like smoke.

-Mel

Since I started going to Canada, I can probably count on one hand how often I've been to Dunn Lake. But it was not always so. I don't know exactly how often or for how long I went as a child, but I do know I went often enough that every time we drive through the trees, I expect to see something different. My eyes seek the cement slab and Grandpa's fillet house. It's very odd.

When I went often, I think somewhere near where the cabin stands now there were bottlecap bushes. I remember picking them with Grandpa, and Gramma, at different times. Grandpa put them on his oatmeal. If I looked up at him while we were picking, Grandpa would pop one in his mouth with a sparkle in his eye. The ripe bottlecaps always ended up being sticky, maybe I held them too hard. I didn't like the crunchy of the seeds inside, but I liked to pick them. They ended up in a bowl in the trailer.

It was at Dunn Lake that Grandpa started teaching me about nature. We went out looking for wild strawberries and blueberries, and I was young enough to be surprised they didn't come from the carton in the supermarket. Ticks were an unavoidable nuisance, and the only bug I'd ever seen that you couldn't just squish. Gramma would put a match to them on the stove. They'd die with a creepy hiss-pop!

On the lake, Grandpa knew places where turtles would sun themselves. He explained the difference between the minnows in his bucket and the minnows in the water. The lilypads hindered swimming, and Grandpa often went in the water to clear them away from the dock. But Grandpa also explained how sunfish, and probably other fish, nibbled the stems. I learned about bass, and perch, and crappies, and which ones were good eating, and which ones were more fun to fish.

I also learned those things that sometimes it's just important to tell kids, such as worms, and fish, feel little to no pain. Grandpa actually made a good case for the fish, so I believe it to this day. He showed me the inside of a crappie while he was gutting once and pointed out with the knife-tip how the fish had very few nerve endings.

The accomodations inside the trailer would probably seem cramped compared to the two lovely, big lake homes that stand there now, but it didn't seem that small to me. There was a TV where I could watch the Wuzzles. The bed where Grandpa slept in the kitchen became wraparound seating and a table in the daytime. I think there were three or four bunks in the passage. I can't remember if I ever slept on a higher bunk. I think Gramma and I both slept on a lower bunk. I do remember they were nice reading nooks in the daytime, and that everything was upholstered with a really rough fabric with 70s orange flowers on it.

Gramma cooked, we fished, and all was right with the world.

Except dragonflies. I still hate dragonflies, and back then was afraid of them. I didn't like the clacking sound they made when they flew. I didn't like how they hovered and sometimes landed on you. I didn't like their long, skinny bodies and big, ugly eyes.

One landed on the side of the boat while we were fishing, right next to me. I swore it was the biggest, most awful bug I'd ever seen, and started panicking. It was probably one of the little blue ones, but to me it was monstrous.

Grandpa sighed at all my fidgeting, and told me, "Melanie, dragonflies don't bite."

I still couldn't take my eyes off it, so later, he shooed it away.

I've recited "dragonflies don't bite" as a mantra on many fishing excursions since then.

It's funny what sticks with you, I guess. I've eaten popcorn, gone fishing, told scary stories, set out in a paddle boat, and spent a lot of wonderful times with my cousins since the cabin was built at Dunn Lake. But that's never stopped me from expecting to see a white trailer, the fillet house, some bottlecap bushes, and trees as far as the eye can see every time we turn off the dirt road.

-Mel

Grandpa loved to read, and his newest love was epic fantasy. Swords and princes, elves and sorcerers, all wrapped up in plots and places you needed a map in the front of the book to follow. And an appendix at the end.

I myself was only able to slog through the first book of The Wheel of Time, while Grandpa read every one. He said once he had a little trouble figuring out who was who after a while. I look back at the books now and can only recall Rand al'Thor, and it's rare for me to forget a character. Robert Jordan must have had hundreds, and Grandpa only had trouble with a few, which just goes to show the power of that amazing mind.

When Grandpa came home to die with us, I grabbed the two books of poetry I could find and brought them to the house. I thought maybe people would want to read to him, and I thought poetry was meaningful, yet short enough for some of us to get through it. After reading a few, I realized it wasn't the way to go.

I'd gotten a series for Christmas I'd loved from childhood, and I'd intended to loan it to Grandpa for his Arizona trip, but forgot. Compared to his epics, the Prydain Chronicles are short. But I thought he might enjoy them anyway.

So I began reading "The Book of Three," not sure how far we'd get, but knowing it was better than the poetry. Reading it again as an adult, I could see the book was full of easy fantasy cliches and common writers' mistakes. Points of true wisdom were hit harder than a Bible at a Baptist mass. Still, it told an important story that was bigger than the book itself, and in that it hit its mark.

Grandpa died during a break, but after a time, I decided to try to read the rest anyway. We were twenty or thirty pages from the end when the funeral home came for his body. I closed the book.

I looked at Grandpa, and thought as hard as I could, "The boy became a man, and then became King."

-Mel

Of all the rods I saw Grandpa use, he always favored the Scimitar. The first time I saw it, we were at Dunn Lake fishing (so you know he's used it a good, long while), it was brand new. The first rod and under-reel apparatus I'd ever seen.

It was jewel blue with "Scimitar" emblazoned on the rod with a fancy diamond/star logo. The handle was soft foam and black. The under-reel was a thing out of science fiction. I could actually see the string! There was no button for casting! It was the coolest thing I'd ever seen, and I don't know that I've ever stopped being in awe of it, and held it with reverence. I might have been fifteen before I learned to cast one. But that was okay, Grandpa would cast it for me.

When he hooked a fish, Grandpa would often hand me his reel so that I could bring it in. I was always delighted, even though the Scimitar's handle would be wet and grimy with worm dirt and fish slime, with maybe a sprinkling of salted minnow sawdust. It had been in his hands, after all, and fishing is an earthy sport.

In Canada, we walleye fish for food. Northern are fun, but walleye is the bread and butter of the trip, so Grandpa and I would mostly fish that. We fished walleye exclusively with under-reeled rods, me with my Guide and Grandpa with his Scimitar. Grandpa used that rod so much that the blue has faded a bit in the sun, and the handle is no longer deep black, but has taken on the salt and dirt and sweat of his hands. He jigged his bait through the water with that rod in a pattern I've never quite been able to duplicate. It was like a heartbeat. He held the rod like a fencer might hold a sword, with such experience, tip always down, index finger extended along the handle. I had to switch hands often, because I got tired, but he never did.

I never knew why he favored that rod, even though there were new ones, and older ones, that came and went through his collection. But of the three or four rods he usually had in the boat, the Scimitar was always guaranteed to be there. And when I picture him, I always see it in his hands.

My family has been going up to Sparkling a lot longer than I've been alive. This meant that by the time I took that first enchanted trip, everything already had a name, like a map out of The Hobbit.

There's The Gap, which is a straight and a reef between two shorelines that is almost always guaranteed to hold fish. There's The Upper Lake; The North End, that holds one of the most famous landmarks - Bird Shit Rock (use your imagination); Pancake Island, which is mostly a big, flat, cracked rock with some scrub brush on it; The River; The Rapids; The South Campsite (I've only ever camped there once. It's a mosquito's paradise); The Fly-In Camp (only an old shed and some broken glass now), where we pull the boats over the sand bar to The North End; Gut Rock, where we toss the fish guts to the waiting seagull and eagle band; and a handful of other places whose names escape me at the moment. I figured everything worth naming had already been named.

Grandpa would rattle these names off as we toodled around Sparkling, looking for fish. The fish - too - had names. When we caught a big one, or a really, really small one, Grandpa would say, "Look at that green-eyed monster!" When we caught northern of a certain length, he'd say, "Aw, I guess we're just going to catch hammer-handles here." And when a fish flopped around in the bottom of the boat, broke line, swallowed a lure, tore the net, or sank teeth or fin into Grandpa's flesh, that fish was known as, "Dirty, labor-hating REPUBLICAN!"

I don't know where he got the phrase, but I always laughed when he said it. And he'd smile, too, no matter how mad he was at the fish.

Last summer, after our group was finished with evening fishing, two of our number came back mad as all get out at a certain fish they'd caught, or tried to catch, off an island near camp. As the story crescendoed about the hell-sent fish, they asked, "What do you call those, Mel? Hating Republicans?"

"Dirty, labor-hating Republicans," I said before Grandpa. He grinned.

At the end of the tale, one of them drew a map in the dirt, like Grandpa did when giving directions, pointed out the island where the fateful incident had taken place, and asked, "What's this one's name?"

Grandpa pondered the sketch. He knew of the island, but he ultimately had to conclude that that particular one didn't have a name.

It was decided then and there that it needed one. A name worthy of that particular fishing kerfuffle. They tossed around a couple of names, "Mean, Old Northern" might have been a front-runner.

"Dirty, labor-hating Republican?" I suggested. It might be over-long, but I liked it. I was giddy, nothing had ever been named while I'd been up at Sparkling. And here I was, standing at the threshold of what must be an important turning-point in history, like the invention of the wheel.

There was a pause. Then an accord.

So near camp, in Canada, there is an island where a nasty big northern lives, and it is called "Dirty, Labor-Hating Republican Island."

-Mel

At Sparkling, where you either have to fly into the lake or portage in, there's a lot of potential for many things to go wrong. Equipment failure of vehicles and trailers on several trips up are legendary. Overturns in the rapids have happened more than once.

But if you manage to get through all that, the next biggest failures are boat engine or operator. And let's just say Grandpa didn't often blame the engines.

If your engine doesn't fail, then navigation is the problem. Sparkling is full of rocks that hover just under the surface. A good dry summer can turn that lake into a mine field.

Grandpa's always very careful in certain stretches of the lake between the rapids and camp. There's a winding straight of water I'd call a river where the rocks come in four inches of the boat on either side and new-fallen trees are always a hazard. He'll slow down in areas, or hug shorelines in places I can't even see the rocks keeping us from the middle of the lake. And still, he does occasionally run into a rock or two, and the boats have the patches to prove it.

Once, when Celia and I were fishing with him, the water was the lowest Grandpa thought he'd ever seen. Celia was at the front of the boat, I was in the middle, and Grandpa navigated in the back, buzzing us across the water to another fishing hole he wanted to try. We were going at a pretty good clip.

All of a sudden, the boat hit a rock, hard. As we sputtered to a stop, I looked up to see Celia, fishing pole still in hand, staring down at me. I was at the bottom of the boat. I'd almost flown into Celia's lap. We both started laughing.

Unfortunately, in the commotion, Celia's line had come loose, and Grandpa, who was muttering about engines and rocks and low water (evidently not finding the situation quite so funny), noticed the streaming line.

"Don't just sit there, Celia, reel it in!" he said. "Reel it in!"

She did, but despite his blustering, Celia and I couldn't stop laughing. I climbed my soaked bottom back onto my seat. Grandpa finally got the engine re-started and, luckily, Celia's lure hadn't snagged.

I think Grandpa was too aware of the dangers to find our predicament quite so funny. His first concern in Canada was always safety.

Of course, his favorite rock story happened long before I ever went up to Canada. Grandpa often recounted this one with a sparkle in his eye:

Once, after portaging through the rapids, Grandpa and his fishing friends were heading to camp. To his surprise, two buddies of his, I think one might have been Merlin Anderson, went speeding past his boat. Grandpa thought it was a little incautious, but he wasn't going to say anything.

Not too long afterward, Grandpa passed them. At Grandpa's campsite on Sparkling, there is a path that goes down to the water where we fill up basins. A little further out, there's a big rock.

I don't know if it was high water or if they just weren't paying attention, but Grandpa said there they were, stuck up on that rock but good. They couldn't get off of it. Grandpa said they even had the oars out and were rowing, and rowing, but all that happened was that boat spun on that rock like a top.

And he always got a little mischievous smile at that point in the story.

I seem to remember he told that story almost every time anyone but my uncles passed us on their way to camp on the first day of a trip.

-Mel

When Grandpa talks about his time in Japan while he was in the Service, he usually tells this story.

At the base where he was stationed, one of the Japanese secretaries had been at Hiroshima when the bomb went off. As the lady described it, she and her brother had been in the back room of her brother's store, while her brother's wife and child had been in the front.

When the explosion happened, a wall came down, shielding the secretary and her brother. The wife and child in the front of the shop died.

Grandpa always said he was glad for his time in Japan and only wished he had traveled more. He thought it would be a good idea for people to get out like that, in some way. Leave home and experience what it's like in other countries. Meet other people. Grandpa felt that a lot of Americans today lack perspective.

Of course, that time in Japan cost him his Valedictorian status at school in Melrose, since he finished his senior year by correspondence. But I don't know he'd trade what he gained by going to Japan.

-Mel

My Auntie Suzi chose my name, Melanie. It's close to Melvin, which is Grandpa's name, and so in a way, I'm named after him. Both of us are called "Mel."

Usually, it's not a problem because at all our family functions, Grandpa's "Grandpa" or "Dad," and about half my family still call me "Melanie." Even the first years we went fishing in Canada, most of Grandpa's fishing friends called him "Doc." As in Doctor Humbert, of Humbert Dental.

About four years in, though, the crowd in Canada started getting a little younger, and people started calling Grandpa "Mel." The problem was, they also called me "Mel," and it seemed like I was the only one who was confused. It interrupted my reading to have to bound out of my tent every time someone said "Mel," only to have it turn out they wanted Grandpa. So instead of shooting out for every little "Mel," I started listening a little closer to the inflection.

By the end of that first trip, I'd figured out the difference. My name was a question, uncertain, like asking a guy in mechanic school if he can fix your car. My Mel said, "Where's she got to, and how long is it going to take to explain what we need her to do after she's been off in the clouds all this time?"

Grandpa's name was a different question. It was like going to consult the wise man in his ashram on the mountain. It said, "Something has gone wrong, but he will fix it. He knows how everything works." People said it firmly, and the only uncertainty in it was whether or not he'd answer.

This was right and good, because Grandpa did know everything. He'd experienced or researched and gotten enough information on just about any subject to give you an opinion that you knew was at least informed. With the internet and television and all our entertainments today, that sort of person becomes rarer and rarer. I can't say I could tell you what any presidential candidates have ever stood for. But Grandpa could.

It strikes me cold inside that there won't ever be any confusion again. For all the little nuisances of it, I have always been so proud and honored to share even the tiniest part of his name. I feel like I've lost half of me, my namesake, my grandfather, and my friend.

-Mel

There's a very famous fishing story about Grandpa breaking a brand new rod. What's important to remember is that the rod was already broken. Grandpa just helped it along a little bit.

We were out fishing on a sunny day, one of the handful of days where with all the transferring of boats and equipment, we'd forgotten to take a good look at our net. There were six or eight nets in camp at the time, all of them together on the shore, even though one had a great gaping hole in it. Somehow, we ended up with that one.

I think we were near the still bay with the thin grass where we saw the moose and her baby once. We were fishing for walleye. We were also getting northern, which is a kind of mixed blessing. I think they're a whole lot more fun to catch, even though they aren't as good eating. But northern have teeth, which means they can cut your line with one good bite. A walleye can't. To fish for northern, you always put a leader (a strip of metal line) at the end of your line so the northern can't bite through. When you really want walleye, a leader sometimes interferes with the action of the jig, especially when you're fishing light bait and shallow, like we were. At the time, we were fishing very light bait, that is to say with just the jig. The worms had gone soft, and we'd lost so many that Grandpa had just dumped the rest over the side. There were only three or four left in the Eucerine jar, anyhow.

We weren't sure we'd catch anything anyway, so Grandpa decided to try out his new rod. He got a couple of strikes, pulled out a little walleye. Then the rod tip bent and jerked, and the line ran. It was most definitely a northern.

Grandpa managed to get him to the side of the boat. I tried to net him. The northern went straight through. I thought maybe I'd done it wrong, but Grandpa grabbed the net and had the same result. By this time, the line had gotten fouled up in the net. There was nothing for it but to break the line, which was a heavier test than Grandpa anticipated. In all the commotion, the fish went free, Grandpa lost a good lure, and the line was threaded in, around, and through the holey net.

Grandpa sat back, shaking his head. He slapped his gray baseball cap on his knee. Then he grabbed the rod and net to try to make sense of the situation. Right then, we both noticed two inches of the rod tip dangling on the line like some weird sinker. Grandpa looked at it, looked at me, and said, "Do you see that? Do you SEE that? A brand new rod!"

And then he smacked it on the side of the boat. And another chunk came off. Grandpa swore more fluently and loudly than I'd ever heard, and then he made sure that rod knew just how mad he was. By the time he was done, he'd banged that thing into at least six or seven pieces.

Gramma asked me later if I wasn't scared when he got in those moods. Scared? I was never scared. I thought the whole comedy of errors was hilarious. That's the thing about Grandpa. He might lose his temper, but he'd be over it in a minute. It's not like you can repair a broken rod anyhow.

In Canada, when a reel didn't work quite right, Grandpa called it a "Mickey-Mouse Reel" as he futzed and putzed and ultimately jerked it around and swore at it. The funny thing was, he didn't pull that out of the air. There really is, to this day, a Mickey Mouse Reel.

When we were little, one year Santa brought my brother and I fishing gear. I got a two foot, reinforced plastic Fisher Price red-and-black fishing rod and matching teensy tackle box. I couldn't have been happier. Except that Michael got a two-foot fishing rod and reel with Micky Mouse on it. He was ecstatic, and even though Grandpa wasn't really sure if it was supposed to be used as anything but a toy, when Michael trotted it up to the cabin, Grandpa faithfully put bait and tackle on it for him.

But the darned thing wouldn't cast. And when it finally casted, it was like pulling teeth to get the thing to reel in. Michael couldn't manage it, and when Grandpa took it, neither could he. To make matters worse, the line back-lashed every time you tried to cast, which meant Grandpa ultimate had to take the reel apart. Inside, there was a birds' nest of line you could roost a robin on. Shortly after that discovery, the Mickey Mouse Reel went in the big wooden equipment box down by the Dunn Lake, and I don't know if it's ever left.

Of all the equipment failures on all the trips in all the places I've ever fished with him, I have never seen Grandpa more frustrated with anything than he was with that Mickey Mouse Reel. And right up to last summer, when one of the fancy, open-faced, braided-line reels he liked so well did a hummer of a backlash, he was still calling it "stupid Mickey Mouse Reel."

-Mel

One of my favorite things to do in Canada is to contemplate the water. It's the one thing I've ever seen that I can't rightly tell what color it is. So for twelve summers, I've sat in a boat, jigged a line, and tried to decide about the water.

Part of the problem is that it sometimes changes colors. It'll go from flat blue-black with a silver sheen with undulating ribbons of muted blue to green-black when the wind picks up. I hadn't ever heard the word "whitecaps," much less seen any until I went to Sparkling, where the lake is big enough for the wind to make them daily. The very moment the first fingers of froth appear, the water takes that black edge of green. Like a warning of danger to come.

When a boat cuts the water, there are suddenly shades of yellow before and behind, and what sprays up from the depths is crystal clear. It's ice-cold on the hands, even in a summer heat-wave.

But of all the colors, there are only two instances when the water is silver. Just silver. It is silver on a windless morning, when mist comes off it to above your neck and rocks suddenly float as though suspended in space, reflected perfectly in a mirror surface. A forest of deep green evergreens is suddenly above and below you. It is unreal, and magical, and the very thing that convinced me God lives in Canada.

The other time the water is silver is at the height of a storm, when the waves roll higher than the boat. We aren't out fishing then usually, as a rule it's too dangerous. With hidden rocks and high hills of water, the danger of capsizing increases exponentially in a twelve-foot fishing boat. But there was one day, in the evening, when the wind picked up and turned the drizzle to a storm, the walleye started biting for the first time that whole trip.

Of course there was no way in hell we were going in then. We had limits to fill, and fishing had been the poorest Grandpa had ever seen it. So we fished, then just I fished so Grandpa could keep the boat steady. After a short while, when he thought the walleye might keep on in this spot, Grandpa looked out over the water and decided we needed to find Uncle Mick.

Uncle Mick was fishing with a new friend he'd brought, and fishing hadn't been that great. Grandpa was determined to find them and bring them to our walleye spot so they could get some action, too. Grandpa talked on and on about it while we went out looking, how he felt bad the new guy wasn't getting some good fishing on his first trip. I nodded a lot. I liked the idea, I just didn't like the water. That boat pitched and rocked, and I don't know that I'd ever fully appreciated Grandpa's finesse with a fishing boat until we were out in those waves, the highest I'd ever seen while being out on them. We didn't hit anything. I didn't get splashed one tenth of the times I should have, even though I was still bailing out the boat with the empty oil container. In the bottom of the boat, the water is slimy with the fish, and grimy with worm dirt falling off the bait. A few lost lures and a soda can will also float by, then disappear back under one of the seats. You have to be careful not to bail out the fishing lures.

We found one boat of our party, but it wasn't Uncle Mick. Grandpa pointed the boat out to where we'd been and told them to fish it. Then we made our way to every spot Grandpa could think of to find him. We didn't know it then, but Uncle Mick and his friend had gone back to camp.

When Grandpa finally gave up and we went back to where we'd been fishing, where the other boat still was, the fish had stopped biting. But I knew that wasn't why Grandpa was so disappointed and swearing to himself under his breath.

You see, when we had portaged into the lake, Grandpa had been a little short with Uncle Mick and his friend. And from all the talking around me the previous year, I'd managed to glean that Grandpa and Uncle Mick had hit a rough spot within recent memory. It's not something Grandpa ever talked about, and I'd have never asked. But there are some things you just know by the quality of silence and what goes unsaid. He wanted to mend fences, and would make a peace offering of his very favorite thing, a good fishing frenzy. And we'd been unable to find Uncle Mick. I don't know that I've ever seen him so crestfallen before or since.

Later on, when the wind died down and the lake was calmer, and a new day dawned sunny and warm, I decided to take a bath. When you're in the water, you can only go so far as to your waste before you can't see your feet anymore. Afterward, the water becomes dark and inscrutable. It reminds me a lot of people. You only get to see a small fraction of the reality of them, and the rest you have to guess at.
-Mel

I haven't fished at Dunn Lake in nearly ten years. Before that, I only got up to the cabin sporadically. I wasn't fond of all the changes. I missed the trailer. I hated the tourists. But I loved my grandpa, and was glad I could go up and spend some time with him.

We went out fishing for crappie, even though a couple of years before they'd nearly been fished out. Grandpa said it was some ice fishermen that found their hidey-hole and took them out by the bucket load. I hadn't bobber-fished in forever. Grandpa ended up casting some for me because I couldn't quite get the hang of the bobber and hook and feet of line. I was a little busy looking for loons or muskrat or maybe a fish that would break water anyhow.

We didn't find just too much fishing, but I finally found a beaver and was so excited I could burst. We followed him a little bit, and he slapped his tail on the water. That meant Mr. Beaver wasn't just too happy about having a fishing boat on his tail, and that he wanted to warn his family of the danger. He dove after a while, and reappeared a lot further away. Then he disappeared altogether.

Grandpa stared after him a little while. Then he said, "I've always wanted to share my love of nature with you grandkids. I get a lot of joy out of coming up here. I'm glad some of you have come to share my enjoyment."

I think I said something equally eloquent, such as, "Oh yeah, Grandpa, nature's COOL!" Looking at the shoreline, I couldn't see all the other cabins that had sprung up, making the place look crowded. I couldn't see the garish resorts. I just saw the lilypads and some meandering dragonflies. And it was just the way I remembered it.

Not ten minutes later, a big speedboat with a water-skier came within capsizing distance of Grandpa's little blue-gray fishing boat. Grandpa swore a blue streak, muttered something about "labor-hating Republicans," and fired up the engine so we could ride out the rolling waves. I smiled inside. The lake had changed a lot, but I didn't think Grandpa ever would. And there was comfort in that.

It's been five years or more now, but once upon a time, I was in Canada with the waterproof orange bag we can never seem to find until three days before I need it, and the pink denim bag I made with Gramma. One of them had my clothes. The other one had my books.

I was excited, but also well-stocked in the book department, because these year, I'd get to stay up for TWO trips instead of just one. In the time in between trips, when fishing wasn't so good, Grandpa and I stayed in camp most of the afternoon. On one such day, Grandpa got bored with napping and puttering around camp, and had finished his Mary Higgins Clark. He asked me if I had anything I thought he'd like.

I hardly thought I was up to the task. The wisest, most educated man I knew was asking ME if I'd brought anything he'd find worth reading. And darned if I'd packed my bag chuck full of the books I liked - fantasy. Not one "Hunchback of Notre Dame" or even "Robinson Crusoe" to do me proud. But I did have one book I thought had enough plot, subplot, excitement, and moments of deep pondering to at least keep him entertained. Feeling a little silly about my current taste in books, I handed Grandpa the first book of "The Wheel of Time," by Robert Jordan.

I think I about fell out of my cot when he returned it to me, read through cover to cover, in two days' time. And he told me he liked it. Wondered if there were more.

At the time, I think I also had with me the second book of the series. By the time we left Canada, Grandpa was hooked. I can't even say now, besides the Wheel of Time, Tolkien, and Harry Potter, what all he might have read. I gave him the Dark Elf Trilogy, a favorite of mine. It was so nice to share that passion with him. I can't think why I was surprised he liked them. They're smart, and complicated. Kind of like him.

Robert Jordan died last September without finishing his very long, convoluted series. I kind of wonder if Grandpa didn't just march up to Heaven and demand that man tell him how it ends.

-Mel

The last time I was with Grandpa, I needed a little direction, in more ways than one. I got a GPS navigator for my car to replace the old, tired compass on my dashboard. I think everyone, including me, was sort of hoping it would keep me from getting lost in the "P" towns over and over again (three times in Prescott and counting!).

Unfortunately, the GPS I got for Christmas could turn on, but not off. So, we needed to bring it back to Cabella's. Grandpa offered to go with me. I was excited because I'd get to have a long car ride with him. Maybe I'd learn something new. Maybe he'd tell a fishing story.

In the car, the conversation was on and off. The really nice thing about Grandpa is that he's someone you could just be quiet with, and you didn't feel pressed to fill the silence. Eventually, the topic meandered around to me and my job. At the time, I really hated it, and wasn't feeling good about where I'd ended up. Especially since my novel was with agent number ten, and I was losing hope of ever selling it. I told Grandpa I might have screwed it up but good by going into English, and that having lawyers and therapists and dentists coming up behind me made me feel like I'd slacked off or something. And of course there was the school I went to. And of course there was the fact I'd had a job at school. And of course there were a dozen, thousand reasons why I'd ended up in English and it just hadn't worked out the way I planned.

He could have said, 'I told you so' or 'Maybe you just need to find a different job.' I was expecting something like, 'Well, have you thought of going back to school?'

Instead, he said, "You know, I'm glad all my grandchildren inherited my stubbornness in pursuing what they want to do."

I was surprised. Then I thought about it for a while, and I decided he had a point. All of us cousins are pretty stubborn. And I thought that was probably a gift.

But this conversation became an even greater gift to me. At the time, I had no idea this would be the last time we talked together. I can't describe the joy I feel now knowing he was proud of me, of all of us. For me, he was True North, the guidepost that kept me from getting lost on the road of life. Of all the gifts he could have left me with, telling me I was doing an okay job of navigating on my own was the most profound. I will never cease to be grateful for it.

-Mel