ISHMAEL
I gathered my fly rod and canvas creel and walked to the water’s edge. Life had left me feeling hollow. Feverish.
Nearby, a young girl dug in the sand. Her parents stood watch from camp chairs near an Airstream trailer.
I caught spawning bluegills and tossed them back. They blooped and swam off, and the little girl giggled and clapped.
Dark clouds gathered, and she raced to the trailer.
I was about to haul gear when I saw a shite swirl in the water. “What the hell?”
I tied on a dragonfly.
The wind met my cast, and the line died on its own. Clouds darkened, and lightning flashed. “One last cast.” The wind inhaled, and my cast of line, leader, and fly fell into the white swirl.
One breath later, the line was jerked under the water. Thunder clapped, and the wind blew; the fight was on.
The hooked fish careened beneath the water’s surface as the cottonwoods danced like hula girls. My fevered mind strained for answers to impossible questions, leaving me taut and frayed. The rainless storm crested and dry lightning streaked across a bedeviled sky. In my mind, a wire snapped as the fight from the white fish faded.
It slid across the sand to me. It was translucent with neon green, blue, and yellow lines. A huge albino bluegill. A state record!
The little girl ran to my side. Her mouth wide, she stared down at the fish. Hands on her knees, she spoke. “What’s his name?”
“His name? I don’t know. I guess I will call him Ishmael,” I said, releasing the hook and fly.
“Ishmael,” she breathed. I like that name. She beamed a smile of the innocent.
I recalled fishing with my daughters and regretted not doing more. I looked to the Airstream as her parents waved.
I looked back to see her frog walking barefoot to the shoreline. She then gently released Ishmael into the water. My state record albino bluegill was gone. She smiled, clapped, and said I go to go. She skipped back to her parents.
The storm passed, and my fever was gone. I went home.
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STRANG & ONG
A Love Story
Once upon a time, a red-haired, stout young lad named Roscoe MacGregor was surveying the plains of Nebraska. It was a lonesome job. One day while standing on the hilly grassland in what would become Fillmore County he shot his bow; and the arrow carried on the soft spring breeze out of sight. A few days later he found the same arrow many miles away. That night Roscoe became very ill. On his deathbed he told a pretty young nurse named Agata, who held his hand, that his final wish before dying was that they would name the location where he last shot his bow, STRANG. And the spot where the arrow landed, ONG. Noting that he had marked each site with a surveyor’s stob. Agata’s warm smile and spirited stories filled Roscoe’s lonely heart for three days. He handed her the special arrow before he passed on. A local land baron liked the Strang and Ong names but did not want the traveling surveyor to receive the credit, so he saw that the real story would stay hidden. The pretty young nurse, with blue eyes and blonde Polish hair braids, passed her sole love story down to her family. And a future relative, a stout young man, with pale red hair, relayed that story to me. And now, I am relaying it to you…
(This story is a work of fiction… most likely.)
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ALIENS IN THE BIBLE
The Bible talks about the sun, moon, stars, animals, oceans, a man, a woman, love, illness, poverty, war, wealth, power, humility, arrogance, food, wine, temples, demons, prejudice, floods, drought, slaves, priests, kings, murder, thieves, shepherds, generosity, fish, donkeys, taxes, gold, plagues, sex, serpents, death, prayer, disciples, martyrs, sin, a tree of the knowledge of good and evil, a burning bush, a Cross, Judas, Joseph, Mary and Jesus.
It is the greatest story ever told…
But it says nothing about an alien species from outer space.
Nothing.
Hence, I have determined that there are no space aliens.
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From the Case Files of Stephen Koenig
A Father’s Day Private Eye True Story
Over 30 years ago, I was a private eye living in Colorado. My wife Carolyn and I had one daughter and lived in a quiet Front Range town. I had an interesting case.
I was hired by an attorney to watch the owner of a radio station. The man had divorced his wife in New Jersey, moved to Colorado, and remarried wife #2. He had taken some of the funds from the previous marriage. and the ex-wife in New Jersey was suing to recover some of those funds. By now, the ex-husband had already divorced wife #2, and they were supposedly no longer living together. Divorce records in Colorado showed this to apparently be true.
The attorney asked that I try to confirm if the ex-husband was still living with wife #2 and see if the divorce to the second wife was a sham paper-divorce in an effort to hide assets from the previous marriage in New Jersey. The man had supposedly, per the attorney, put some of those assets in the second wife’s name.
And so I tried to surveil the house where wife #2 lived. His vehicle was not visible, but wife #2 was clearly living there. The nice country home sat near the shadows of the Rocky Mountains. It was a beautiful scene. The subject’s radio station wasn’t far away, but I never saw his vehicle there or around the house. It was a challenging surveillance, for sure. There was a garage, so you never knew if his vehicle was even there.
One day, I had an idea. It was a Friday afternoon in my downtown second-floor corner office. Its large windows looked over the historic old-town area. My wife and I, along with my right-hand man, were discussing the case and considering having a beer.
I looked at Carolyn, who was now nine months pregnant with our second child. I had the idea of sending my very pregnant wife to the house door to see if our subject would answer. It was assumed the subject’s “ex-wife” should be at work. We would hide in the back of the surveillance van and shoot videotape to prove that he was still living in the house. He might just open the door for a pretty and very pregnant lady driving a minivan. At least that was our simple plan.
And so my pregnant wife drove us to the subject residence. My partner and I huddled in the back of the van – two video cameras rolling. Carolyn asked me, what should I tell him? I said you just gotta get him outside long enough for us to get video of him.
Carolyn went to the door. The fall Colorado breeze was blowing the golden leaves on the trees. Clouds and blue sky hovered over the Rocky Mountains. She knocked, and a short time later, there he was, no doubt the guy we were looking for, standing just inside the door. You could barely see him. She stepped to the side of the porch and pointed her finger towards the mountains. She was talking, and finally the man stepped out so one could clearly see him. Our two video cameras were quietly videotaping the whole scene. She looked around, put a hand on her hip, rubbed her belly, and talked to the guy for a while. She reentered the surveillance van and drove away.
We drove back to our office. And there she said, I told the guy I was looking for my dog, Schatzi, and asked him if he had seen the dog, which was carefully described. She said she stepped back from the door and walked off to the side to make it harder to hear her. Then the man finally stepped out on the porch and said, no, he hadn’t seen the dog. She stood and rubbed her belly for a while to make sure we had ample time to get the shot.
We decided we’d better have that office beer and celebrate. Carolyn could not partake. We sat and drank our beer, and Carolyn soon excused herself. She came back a few minutes later and said, “Honey, I think I need to go to the hospital. My water just broke.” A couple of hours later, our second daughter, Jessie, was born.
The attorney in New Jersey was told the whole story and sent a copy. of the video. He was ecstatic.
Case Closed
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FISHING
A Life Lesson
My father taught me to fish on Nebraska ponds with a cane pole, a red-and-white bobber, a hook, and a garden worm. Like long chariot poles, they were tied by twine to our car’s door handles and rear-view mirror. My father spoke of the importance of patience. To wait until the bobber is under the water before you “set the hook.” It would be a lifelong lesson. I was not a good fisherman. My life moved along…
On my twelfth birthday, I received a Zebco rod and reel and a book about fishing… The book did not help. My father still preached about patience. I caught few fish. I read stories about sleuths and spies. I remained a bad fisherman. My life moved along…
I continued to fish haphazardly. I made no grand catches. I had fishing distress incidents… including sunburn, skunks, poison ivy, tornadoes, hooked body parts, lost boat propellers, and permit issues. I entered a profession where patience was an art. I covertly watched others and documented their activity. My professional skills progressed. But I still made no catches of fish worthy of pictures or mountings. I remained a bad fisherman. My life moved along…
One winter night, I impulsively bought a fly rod and fishing creel at Cabela’s in Sidney, Nebraska. I was there working on a case. I moved to Loveland, Colorado, and excelled at my profession, which seemed part art and part luck, much like fishing. My father’s words on patience still rang in my mind like a phone. I took a fly-fishing class. I bought and read the novella, A River Runs Through It. I waded in and fly fished the swift currents of the Cache La Poudre and Big Thompson Canyon rivers. Their rocky beds were slick as ice. I dreamed of catching trout as long as my arm. I remained a bad fisherman. My life moved along…
I returned home to Nebraska. I vowed to continue fly fishing… I fished the interstate lakes and focused on using popper flies that would attract panfish, like Blue Gill, whose spawning beds I dive-bombed. I kept honing and broadening my skills as a factfinder. I used the patient bobber analogy to carefully “set the hook” during my investigative pursuits. However, I remained a bad fisherman. My life moved along…
One day, a friend stopped by. We went to War Axe on a soft spring evening. The Interstate 80 traffic droned by like insects. My friend had his rod and reel. I had my Cabela’s fly rod. After a while, I tied on a fly I didn’t notice. I cast my line, leader, and fly onto the calm water. Luck took hold, and I got a bite.
I reeled in a type of fish I had never caught before. My friend proclaimed it was a Rock Bass, adding, “I think it’s a good one.” It was just shy of Master Angler size.
My father passed away, but not his words. I sit, hobbled by health as my professional life seeps away. My case files with their carefully worded reports sit stacked like dusty skeletons in my basement, awaiting the burn pile. They are now stories no one cares to hear. That is life for us all.
I remain a bad fisherman to this day. But I am glad for all it taught me. My life moves along…
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HERE I COME
Today, I’m sixty-one
I hope to make sixty-two
The doctor never calls it by its name
But I have an illness known by a bunch of you
It started one day when I died
And people saved me from my death
The malady robs you of your energy
And you strive to catch a breath
I hope my good friend will be there, it will be a dream
We’ll have a nice meal at home
Which may include a nice meal
And a small glass of whiskey
And a big scoop of ice cream
Today I’m sixty-one
I hope to make sixty-two
I hope this year to write a book
And listen to family and friends, and listen to good music too
I think a lot about Jesus and meeting him one day
I’ve confessed my sins and prepared myself
To help clear the way
It’s funny how my heart is what’s sick
As it has never been so true
My heart has never felt so full of love
For my love of all of you
I’ve had time to think about my life
Of things that happened along the way
Regrets, I do have some
But I’m thankful for so many a day
Today I’m sixty-one
The one thing I have to do
Is to keep on going, so stand back
Here I come, sixty-two
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