Blog Post by: Karl Seckinger
- September 5, 2012 - 1:01 PM
Classical music is far removed from many forms of what is commonly heard on the radio today. For a change, I am glad I don’t hear as well as I could with AM or FM singers screaming and yelling across all segments of the air waves.
Again, when classical music, was traditionally done in a western liturgical frame of mind, something I understand, I don’t know where music is headed today, and I think its way outside any northern Minnesota oompa pa polka frame I’m aware of.
The classics, as it were, were written with the absence of words, to incite or arouse a wide array of human emotions. Beautiful, simple music, albeit highly composed of pitch, meter, and speed, yet no words, then, as now, music that has stood the test of time.
I give you the hook, line, and sinker. You add a worm or minnow of your choosing, and you can pretty much get the job done.
It’s so simple and we did it by just sitting on the bank. We had some worms, a sunny warm afternoon with cans of lemonade and we fished.
No boat to unload, no electronics, anchor, motor or gas can and I’m not against any of that I assure you, but maybe in some small way, leaving it all behind for a day made me relish it all the more like camping outside, makes me appreciate being indoors.
Now there are those that prefer quality fishing, over quantity, I am one of those folks. There are people who fish every chance they get, it’s a type of mania, and I am certainly one of these.
I am also not the guy who goes home without any fish and says, “oh well, it was a nice day”. If I go fishing, I want fish. So, from a green little sloped bank alongside one long stretch of water, we filled a pail with panfish.
I watched leaves flip over. Felt and smelt the breezes. Watched clouds float along. Talked to my two companions just like if we were on some giant fishing adventure, only we weren’t, and it was fine. I remembered long ago days. Thought of how this is almost like when I started fishing.
Three of us sat on a rock of our choosing, not a bobber to be seen, and dappled thick fat, fresh from an aromatic manure pile, red worms, and plucked the pannies as they swam past or around our baits.
It was quality, it was quantity, it was all fishing can and could be for me, and it was simple. The trout whisperer