Chapter 2 How a Wife Can Learn to Fish Part 6 Untiring Endurance

Now that you are on your way, have passed the kindergarten stage and reached the first grade, unquestionably you will want to see what you can do with your fine new pole. The following weekend is a holiday, and for your benefit a trip to a nearby lake may be planned. He will ask a couple from down the street, to make the excursion less boring. Begin your real education by digging worms for yourself and buying crickets for him and loading all the equipment into the trunk of the car. Heretofore, you may have been forbidden to open the trunk lest a broken spring let the door fall and damage the car. The small matter of damaging your head is merely incidental. After hours of minute instructions and doitthisway’s and don’tdoitthatway’s, the car is loaded with tackle, friends, bait and you, your pole tied on the side, with no visible strains on the domestic relations, you will be on your way to higher education and the test of your luck will have begun.

After an uneventful few miles, the latest neighborhood news exchanged, the conversation drifts to speculating how the fishing will be. Hubby is reminded – perhaps he should examine the worms and crickets to see that they are the right kind and will you hold the car on the road, dear?

Of course you know they are the right kind, and may be on the point of asking him does he think you are some kind of a nut. On the second thought, be reasonably sure not only of an affirmative reply, but also what kind. So, keep quiet and hold the car in the road while he opens the worms and pronounces them wiggly enough. When he opens the container of crickets all bedlam will break loose. Crickets here, crickets there, crickets everywhere – hopping, flying, crawling, running, with all four occupants of the car doing the same. With crickets in your hair, your eyes, and crawling down your back, you have to hold the car on the road. Finally between the two of you, the car will be brought to a stop, the friends in the back let out, the car doors closed and as many crickets as possible retrieved. You will ask the senseless question why did you leave them in the car anyway; you KNEW they were supposed to be in the trunk with the tackle. You must meekly reply I-forgot-dear, and your lessons be resumed.

Reaching the lakeshore, the boat will probably be half full of water, dead fish, snails and pollywogs, not to mention a smelly scum over the top of it all. A friend (?) must have borrowed the boat a few days before; You will be told to take hold of one end of the boat and help empty the putrid mess. Can you help it if the handle on his end is broken and the boat lands on his foot? You should have watched what you were doing. You will get the worst of it, at that, and you won’t get one word of sympathy when the rotten fishiness splats all over you. Just patiently wipe yourself off, sigh as deeply as you can with that smell on you and in the air and help bring the equipment to the boat. The friends will be marvels of efficiency: they will manage to stand far enough back not to be the least bit in the way.

Chapter 2 How a Wife Can Learn to Fish Part 5 Intuition

If you all try to fish from the boat, soon you will find four in one boat is too many. The friends might volunteer to try their luck from the bank. The wife possibly will fish an old pier nearby. The male half of the team will see a wonderful spot on the other side of the lake. Then supposing you and your better half re-embark; he spots a place that should be loaded with bass. As you are being taught to use the boat, you will do the paddling. It will be beyond his comprehension how anyone can be so dense they can’t keep a boat headed straight instead of going around in circles. With flies, gnats, mosquitoes and everything except vultures swarming around the fish odor that is you, your painful endeavors, after eternities of time, can bring you to the spot. While you try to fish, you are supposed to keep the boat straight while he casts for bass. Now drop your hook, with two wigglers on, into the water, then feel your teeth to see if they are ground down to the gums after baiting your first hook. Meanwhile, THE MAN will be busily placing his fly at the proper place to pick up a big bass. So intent is he to show his prowess he will not see the log just under the surface. As something that feels like a whale pulls on your line, his best fly hits the log and hangs! Too bad – take us over to get it; it cost too much to lose. Conceal your disappointment, lay down your pole, paddle over and help loose his cherished fly. Go back and try for your big one again, but it will be gone. Your first one got away, but don’t be too disappointed.

There is a spot further out where you can do better, he will think. With all your flying insects still in your eyes and ears, make a start, but stop as quickly as you can, because your intuition will tell you that right where you are is the best place. With much grace, he may yield – this is YOUR trip, you know. Hurriedly attach two more icky worms to the hook and drop it into the water. This time the fish may swallow it, what a thtill if you miraculously yank a two-pounder into the boat. Hubby will cover it with the net and take ten minutes instructing you how to take it off the hook. Well, don’t learn too fast. You don’t want to be finned. Sticking hooks into worms is bad enough but getting them out of fish – ugh! The light of your life will go back to his casting. Try, try again and you may get a small one. Seems your intuition was right, as they keep on biting. Do not catch more than four, or the still, warm atmosphere will blow his fly into a clump of snaky-looking bushes. You will have to lay down your pole to go and get it. The fourth time this happens, your suspicions are aroused, but it is too late to say anything. The wind did it, anyway, though there has not been the slightest breeze.

Your hands almost blistered from rowing the boat, eventually you will reach the landing where the friends are waiting. The wife may proudly hold up a string of bass and carp. The husband, grouchy and irritable stands off to himself, mumbling about a group of yakkety women who moved in on him; those big-mouthed, britches-wearing cigarette-smoking females doing nothing but talking about what the other members of the bridge club are doing. Why didn’t they go to the bridge club, too, and stay off bridges where people want to fish? The men will agree with each other, but you women can exchange secret glances. You know where the trouble lies.

Chapter 2 How a Wife Can Learn to Fish Part 4 Unshakeable Sense of Humor

Suppose that, some weeks later, the owner of a sporting goods shop opens sale on fishing equipment. A contest for all fishermen and their wives is to be held at a local lake. Experts in the art of casting will be present to demonstrate how to use the different pieces of tackle. You will doubt that you should go, but at his insistence, graciously give in.

Dressed in your most becoming slacks and shirt, arrive with your spouse at the lake where the water is calm and beautiful. Already several couples will be there, some of them seasoned veterans of the rod and reel. Handsome young men will display all kinds of fishing tackle – you never knew it took so many different things to catch fish. Out in the water at spaced intervals you will see targets; some red, some white, others blue, each target counting different numbers of points. Not much enthusiasm will be shown by the girls, but the men are in their glory. The contest for the gentlemen will be held first because the ladies will without doubt knock all the targets out of the water.

Some of the girls will need a bit of persuasion to enter, but you must not hesitate even a fraction of a second. One of the young casting experts approaches with a long flexible rod equipped with a handsome reel and a practice plug. Glance over to your Dreamboat and see, as he rocks back and forth on this feet,m the smug look on his face that says he knows what a perfect idiot you are going to make of yourself. The quiet assurance with which the nice fellow hands you the equipment will give you that old I’ll-show-you feeling. Flex the pliable rod, feel an unexpected new thrill, and be glad you came.

The instructor, talking to you, shows you how to test the plug for weight, and how to adjust the tensions. That should be easy; you’ve done that many times on your sewing machine. Next he shows how to make the cast. Hold the rod at exactly the right angle; here – with the wrist perfectly flexible. Use the wrist – not the whole arm. Cast from the wrist and hit the center of the red target. Using the wrist will come naturally; high school typing and piano lessons taught that. Make several imaginary casts, then close your eyes, turn the plug loose and thumb the reel when you think the timing is right. Oops, the wrist must have been a bit stiff; the practice plug is floating serenely in the center of the white target. A quick glance over to the right will reveal the smug look to have changed to a self-satisfied grin. But there is no time to glare at him.

The instructor smilingly congratulates you on hitting the second-high target. With that grin still burning into your back, a fiendish thought comes to you. With a helpless gesture and what you hope is a sweet innocent smile, look up to the instructor with a please-show-me-again appeal. It is against the rules, but – well, ok, if you want to lose the points you gained on the first cast. Watch closely while he executes a perfect cast into the high target.

Tell him you still don’t quite understand it. Ask him to stand back of you, please and show you just how to hold the rod.

Be assured he will catch on. Stepping back of you and obligingly placing both arms around you, he bends your arm to the right angle to show you the precise flick of the wrist to make the most points. With a melting thank-you, step out of the circle of his arms and the first trial can land squarely in the middle of the high target. By all means, do not at this time look in the direction of your Master Mind. All your scheming and work will go to naught if he so much as suspects your purpose. You know the disbelief and chagrin that has replaced the smirk of a few seconds ago.

From here on out, the show will be yours. You may end the contest at second place, being defeated by only a woman of wide fishing experience. THAT you won’t mind. Your first casting is another step toward victory, and your success and prizes of fishing tackle were brought about by the sense of humor that all wives who are learning the art – from hubby-must have.

Chapter 2 How a Wife Can Learn to Fish Part 3 Turning Of The Worm

Pickle in the Jelly, Chapter 2

How a Wife Can Learn to Fish

Part 3

Turning Of The Worm

There may be many various ways of getting along with one’s lord and master when pursuing the vagaries of Isaak Walton. With no qualms of conscience, a husband will leave wife and family and wend his merry way to pools and lakes where all kinds of fish swim lazily around just waiting for him to catch them.

Over a period of years, with a combination of luck, and unshakeable sense of humor, diplomacy, and untiring endurance, a wife who is tired of remaining at home may find it possible to be endured, tolerate, or enjoyed as the case may be.  That is if friend husband is the generous, kindly fisherman who never gets provoked or irritated even when she with her cane pole and worms land the big ones that happily fin their noses at this expensive rod-and-reel sets and handsome lures and flies.

Though innumerable methods have been tried in efforts to persuade him to teach her to fish, there seems to be only one tried and true method, winnowed from years spent in agonies of physical and mental struggles. Armed with four aids and her intuition, working all the while to develop them, and keeping an open mind for any other helpful hints that may come her way, eventually she can wear down his resistance. If she is a master of patience, she can also keep him believing he is the best fisherman on the seven seas, and the best teacher of HOW TO FISH.

The reigning factor in the case is luck, pure and simple. And luck will be with you, poor ignorant wife who undertakes to get the hang of fish-catching. Husbands are really the most magnanimous beings anywhere once their minds are set to the task of teaching the denizens of the deep who is smartest. He will purchase for you the longest straightest cand pole he can find. He will, with a true fisherman’s know that will never slip, tie the best hook obtainable on the end of the strongest six feet of line he can find in his tackle box. However this particular line is not strong enough for the big ones he brings in. To show his heart is in the right place, you may use it, but he is careful of it because fishline does not grow on trees, even though plenty of it lands there. Do not forget to exhibit in an humble manner the proper gratefulness.

Pickle in the Jelly, Chapter 2 How a Wife Can Learn to Fish Part 2 A Big Fisherman

Is your husband one? Mine is. Yesterday, cold as it was, he said, “let’s go down to the lake for a couple of hours; we won’t stay long.”

I bit – again.

We reached the lake at one-thirty and I fished with worms long enough to catch a few small ones for him to use to catch big ones. When I had caught as many as he thought he would need, he called out that the boat was ready, which was a short way of telling me who was to row. With the one short oar, I guided the boat half a mile to where he had smelled a bream bed two days before. We fished the two hours with nary a bream, nor a bite of any kind. I washed my hands in the frigid water, broke the icicles off the ends of my fingers, wiped my hands and prepared to go home and try to thaw out. In spite of my “But-you-promiseds,” he said, “Let’s make a few casts for bass and carp. If they don’t start biting soon, we’ll go.”

I absolutely refuse to wear his long underwear under my slacks, and I was freezing, but had no choice. We went out again.

“Row on your right,” he said. “Take in your pole. Put this ABU on your line. Cast right over there where those bubbles are. Keep the BOAT STRAIGHT! Hand me the water jug. Try casting on your left. Put the lid on the worms and put them under the seat. I’VE GOT A BIG ONE! GET THE NET!! Keep still – you’re shaking the boat! Here he comes!” But he got away; I shook the boat too hard.

“Okay, we lost that one; now let’s get in the main channel. Lift your anchor. Row on the right. Now the left. Now right. Keep on till I tell you to stop. Change your lure. Hand me some gum, the pliers and a srink of water. You might pour us a cup of coffee, too.”

I sneaked in a cast while he was catching his breath and caught one!! A fish, that is.

“See – if you do what I tell you, you’ll catch some fish.”

I cast again. You’re just wasting your time over there. Why don’t you cast where I tell you to?”

I reeled in another.

“My lure is hung on a log. Row us over there so I can get it. Wait here while I check on this line I put out before. My bait’s gone. Take us to the cam – it’s deeper there. Cast to your right. WATCH IT – you nearly hooked me. Hand me my pipe. CAN’T YOU TELL RIGHT FROM LEFT? I need my tobacco, too. Pull up anchor and turn the boat,. Drop anchor. Cast to your left. NOW YOU’VE DONE IT – YOU HOOKED ME! Get my knife out of the tackle box and cut the hook out of my pants. Lucky you don’t have to cut it out of ME. Now be more careful. Hold everything till I get this backlash untangled. Cast AHEAD of you; you know better than to cast where you’ve already been –“ So on and on and on for hours.

When he finally got ready to quit and go in, it was so dark. I wouldn’t have known a fish from the darkest African – or cared. Five minutes and thirty-three joint cracks later I succeeded in reaching a standing position. Many times I have heard the expression ‘the bottom fell out.’ Now I knew what it meant. I felt as mine had. That portion of me was totally numb. I couldn’t feel it, and in the darkness I couldn’t SEE it. All I could do was hope.

Reaching home at nine-thirty, I made a physical check-up after making and eating a sandwich. No broken bones, but six broken fingernails, no polish and worm-ick, some of it still alive, buried under the remains. Yesterday’s painfully pedicured toenails in ruins. Two blisters on each hand; both hands numb, one sore wrist, one creaky elbow and a dis-jointed shoulder. A worse soreness between my shoulders that had already been there and we had broken an appointment with the chiropractor to stay and fish. S sacroiliac I didn’t know I had possessed. A $4.75 hairdo as low and droopy as my spirits, as it had rained just enough to ruin both. Four bruises on my legs. Several deep scratches because I would not wear longhandles under my slacks. Numerous insect bites despite the intense cold. Feeling returned to my seat, a hundred times more painful than the feeling returning to my cold-numed body. And a knowledge that tomorrow I’d have to stand all day. And carry a box of Kleenex for developing sniffles.

And all the thanks I got was, “But you caught fish, didn’t you?”

Pickle In The Jelly, Chapter2 How A Wife Can Learn To Fish, Part 1 Fish Out Of Water

Is your husband one? Mine is. Yesterday, cold as it was, he said, “let’s go down to the lake for a couple of hours; we won’t stay long.”

I bit – again.

We reached the lake at one-thirty and I fished with worms long enough to catch a few small ones for him to use to catch big ones. When I had caught as many as he thought he would need, he called out that the boat was ready, which was a short way of telling me who was to row. With the one short oar, I guided the boat half a mile to where he had smelled a bream bed two days before. We fished the two hours with nary a bream, nor a bite of any kind. I washed my hands in the frigid water, broke the icicles off the ends of my fingers, wiped my hands and prepared to go home and try to thaw out. In spite of my “But-you-promiseds,” he said,

“Let’s make a few casts for bass and carp. If they don’t start biting soon, we’ll go.”

I absolutely refuse to wear his long underwear under my slacks, and I was freezing, but had no choice. We went out again.

“Row on your right,” he said. “Take in your pole. Put this ABU on your line. Cast right over there where those bubbles are. Keep the BOAT STRAIGHT! Hand me the water jug. Try casting on your left. Put the lid on the worms and put them under the seat. I’VE GOT A BIG ONE! GET THE NET!! Keep still – you’re shaking the boat! Here he comes!” But he got away; I shook the boat too hard.

“Okay, we lost that one; now let’s get in the main channel. Lift your anchor. Row on the right. Now the left. Now right. Keep on till I tell you to stop. Change your lure. Hand me some gum, the pliers and a srink of water. You might pour us a cup of coffee, too.”

I sneaked in a cast while he was catching his breath and caught one!! A fish, that is.

“See – if you do what I tell you, you’ll catch some fish.”

I cast again. You’re just wasting your time over there. Why don’t you cast where I tell you to?”

I reeled in another.

“My lure is hung on a log. Row us over there so I can get it. Wait here while I check on this line I put out before. My bait’s gone. Take us to the cam – it’s deeper there. Cast to your right. WATCH IT – you nearly hooked me. Hand me my pipe. CAN’T YOU TELL RIGHT FROM LEFT? I need my tobacco, too. Pull up anchor and turn the boat,. Drop anchor. Cast to your left. NOW YOU’VE DONE IT – YOU HOOKED ME! Get my knife out of the tackle box and cut the hook out of my pants. Lucky you don’t have to cut it out of ME. Now be more careful. Hold everything till I get this backlash untangled. Cast AHEAD of you; you know better than to cast where you’ve already been –“ So on and on and on for hours.

When he finally got ready to quit and go in, it was so dark. I wouldn’t have known a fish from the darkest African – or cared. Five minutes and thirty-three joint cracks later I succeeded in reaching a standing position. Many times I have heard the expression ‘the bottom fell out.’ Now I knew what it meant. I felt as mine had. That portion of me was totally numb. I couldn’t feel it, and in the darkness I couldn’t SEE it. All I could do was hope.

Reaching home at nine-thirty, I made a physical check-up after making and eating a sandwich. No broken bones, but six broken fingernails, no polish and worm-ick, some of it still alive, buried under the remains. Yesterday’s painfully pedicured toenails in ruins. Two blisters on each hand; both hands numb, one sore wrist, one creaky elbow and a dis-jointed shoulder. A worse soreness between my shoulders that had already been there and we had broken an appointment with the chiropractor to stay and fish. S sacroiliac I didn’t know I had possessed. A $4.75 hairdo as low and droopy as my spirits, as it had rained just enough to ruin both. Four bruises on my legs. Several deep scratches because I would not wear longhandles under my slacks. Numerous insect bites despite the intense cold. Feeling returned to my seat, a hundred times more painful than the feeling returning to my cold-numed body. And a knowledge that tomorrow I’d have to stand all day. And carry a box of Kleenex for developing sniffles.

And all the thanks I got was, “But you caught fish, didn’t you?”

Pickle In The Jelly-Oh!

Val Willis is my grandmother who passed away in 1997. She lived her life in Manchester, GA with my grandfather J.W. Willis. They jointly owned Willis Furniture there. Grandma Val had a great sense of humor and was very wise. She had a knack for writing good stories and eventually had a book called “Pickle In The Jelly” published in approximately 1973. I have recently uncovered the last known copy of this book and will be sharing it here with you at Redgage through consecutive blogs. This is the introduction, which Grandma Val used to explain the characters in the book as well as the background and tone of the book. Please enjoy! It’s all great fun and be sure to keep coming back as I put up more chapters as documents as time passes! Please let me know what you think!

Pickle In The Jelly - Introduction

By Val Willis September 23, 1909 – January 27, 1997

Dedicated to the descendants of “Pickle In The Jelly” without whom the jelly jar would be minus participating pickles and jam-up jellies:

Barry & Babs – the Crystallizing Crooners

Scott – the Whole Hamburger Dill

Hardy – the Artful Arti-Joke (formerly Lee, the Li’l Pickle

Krista – the Jelly Beanie

Jubal – the Big Briny Barker

Lamar & Twila – Lam and Twi, the Cucumber Cools

Stacia – the Peachy Preserve

Gaye Anne – the Sally Delite

Jana – the Dilly Dolly

Spot – the Chow-Chow Bow-Wow

Floyd & Bev – the Krispy Kandied Kukes

Cindy – the Sweet- Apple Ring-a-Ding

Bill – William, the Bill Pickle

Diane – the Fig-ure Preserve

Joni – the Jelly Roller

Pickle In Your Jelly?

If there’s a PICKLE in your jar of JELLY,

You don’t just stand there

Staring at – holding it tight in your hand.

Pick the PICKLE from your jar of JELLY

Your life will be free

To hold all the happiness

At your command.

Don’t ever expect all the good things of life

To seek you and find you;

Don’t ever sit back, hoping all hopes fulfilled.

Break out of the bonds that hold you away

From the sweetness around you –

Break ‘way from defeats that keep

True Life from being instilled.

The JELLY is your life in all its wondrous

Fulfillment and glory!

The PICKLES, despairs barring you from your

Own wonderland.

Pick the PICKLE from your jar of JELLY –

There’ll be more love and

Contentment than your life

Ever could plan.

P.I.T.J

PICKLE IN THE JELLY – OH!

PICKLE IN THE JELLY – those few who still may not be familiar with the phrase get an odd look on their faces when they hear it; like, “Are you SURE?” That’s after they ask, I BEG your pardon?”

A word of explanation might be in order as to what PICKLE IN THE JELLY is and what it means. A newspaper column, it appeared in three or more newspapers for three or more years. The column had no name. Then at breakfast one morning we innocently opened a new jar of jelly and there on top of the jelly rested a whole cucumber pickle. Yes, a whole cucumber pickle. The gang around the breakfast table looked at me in open-mouthed astonishment as I yelled, “THAT’S IT! THAT’S IT!” “What’s it? What’s what?” they asked in alarm. “MY TITLE! MY TITLE! The colum- the col-, the ti-ti-ti-title for my col= col= column! PICKLE IN THE JELLY! THAT’S IT! THAT’S IT!” And I did handsprings, cartwheels and somersaults all over the kitchen.

Forthwith a letter was dispatched to our editor requesting that henceforth he place at the heading of our column the title, PICKLE IN THE JELLY.” The phrase describes exactly what the columns are; a study in contrasts, a mass of organized confusion or a group of conflicting paradoxes. Each column is both sour and sweet, ridiculous and serious, consistent and unstable, nonsensical yet intelligent, absurd but wise, uncertain and explicit, perplexing yet clear. Sad and whimsical they are, nonchalant and cautious, incongruous and harmonious, normal but unconventional, intellectual and scatterbrained, both positive and negative, angelic and/or devilish. We’re conformist and reformist, conservative and radical, and if the need arises, Democrat and Republican. You name it – synonym or antonym.  As a fan stated “PICKLE IN THE JELLY always makes me laugh, yet there is always a lesson to be learned.” That is the sole aim and purpose of the column – long may it rave.

Now we have graduated to a few column inches in most all the newspapers in the corporation. We had our own radio program, written and performed by The Pickle. We have made several guest appearances on television and social events.

Our theme song was composed by the Sweet Dills, Nina Valk and Mildred Edge of Miami. Piano and vocal on tapes are done by Lam and Twi, the Cucumber Cools. Their name originated from the fact they are as cool as ‘cumbercubes’ when they sing. Solo piano was taped by the Beat Pickle. There are other assorted Pickles ranging in age from one to forty-four years including Joni the Jellyroll, Lee, the Li’l Pickle, The Sally Delites, William the Bill Pickle and the Chip Mon-kees who have their own version of the theme song. Week before last,m the column was prepared by fourteen-year-old Georgia Peach Pickle, who seems to be a slice from the Sour Cuke. Another paradox.

PICKLE AND THE JELLY and I have stayed up nights, bored our family, kept our jelly jar with the pickle in it in the fridge – we have spoken at dinners and conventions. According to some people we speak too often and too much. For example, when we get going on reforms such as school reforms, tax reforms or government reforms, many who have to hear us wish we had chloroform.

All in all, we have a wonderful time. There are those in sympathy with us, for when the Man of the House acted like one and yelled, “WHO SPILLED THIS STICKY STUFF ALL OVER THE KITCHEN FLOOR?” we were told, “It’s too bad there has to be a pickle in your jar of jelly.”

We are convinced our mission in life is to help create a few smiles and laughs here and there. That is not too hard to do, for even when we come out of the beauty shop looking as if we didn’t get our money’s worth, there are smiles on every face we see, all the way home. When view ourself in the mirror, we wonder, too, how they could help smiling……