We’re about a month into the endless days of summer. I love summer! I love the long days, the heat, Puffy White Cloud Days! The lack of routine and freedom that comes along with it. No homework, no schedule. Catching fireflies, roasting marshmallows, trips to the library and no bedtime. This is my best season. (Well, this and Christmas.)
In summers past, we’ve allowed the days to unfold and see what adventures would arise with them. But this year we thought it best to try to provide a little more structure. (At least Daddy-O thought it best for all involved if there were a little more structure.) 🙂
So we registered the boyz for a few camps. Camps today are not what I remember camps being in my childhood. Back in my day, you went away to summer camp. My variety was Girl Scout Camp where I did horseback riding and stayed in tents for two weeks each summer. Today, many camps are really glorified day care. Every small business out there is clamoring for the “Summer Camp” dollar and suburbanites are flocking. We tried to be selective in the camps we chose so that they weren’t all day so we would still have a half day of free time to have unprogrammed playtime, but also so they weren’t stuck with a bunch of kids feeling like they were in day care. I mean, I’m a stay at home mom. I don’t need full day camps to entertain my kids. That’s my job! 🙂
Week one, we were invited to Aunt Susie’s cabin for “Grandma Camp” and then we spent a few days at the lake making for a great first week of summer. Week two, we had a golf camp and our extended family was in town for a week of non-stop summer fun. Week three we had registered them for a “Worship Arts Camp” at our church.
According to the brochure, it was to be a week long camp where each camper would have the option of set design, costuming, lighting, tech crew, cast, dance team or chorus and at the end of the week they would put on a production of all their collective talents. This sounded appealing – especially the set design part, so we signed the older boys up. It was a bit long – starting at 9 a.m. and going until 3:30 p.m. (I learned pick up was at 3:30p.m. after racing across town peeling into the parking lot at 3:03 p.m. out of breath thinking pick up was at 3:00 p.m.!) (WHEW! for me but Whew! For them…. long day!)
I could tell by their faces at pick up that it had been a long day. Even the way they had them all corralled into separate classrooms seemed a bit too “structured” for my thoughts of camp, but we’re trying something new here.
The boys informed me they were in the “rhythm” class and it was all about keeping the beat. But really, they had their hearts set on set design and the camp had skipped a beat.
It ends up they were already pre-assigned to “rhythm” – which I guess means percussion? for the whole week. The schedule they followed for the first day was to be the schedule for the remainder of the week.
The boys were underwhelmed.
And the thing I love about my husband is that although we had paid a registration fee to attend the camp, upon hearing how underwhelmed they were with day one, we truly LISTENED to our children.
We decided to opt out for the remainder of the week and I took all the boyz to the lake for the rest of the week!
The camp director was confused when I kindly and as gently as possible told her that the boyz woudn’t be returning. And she was completely dumbfounded when I said “I think they would just rather be outside.”
But that’s the advantage we have. We’re a little bit country – a little bit rock and roll. And having a place in the country gives us the best of both worlds.
I wish I could say that first thing the next morning we were packed and headed to the lake. But packing for five while they play (read: fight) and undo what I’m doing is an aggravating undertaking. Many hours and several threats later, we were loaded and heading south.
Papa TJ was quite surprised when we showed up. He was planning to have a productive few days and enjoy the peace and quiet. Boy did we spoil those plans! But he joyfully embraced our rambunctious crew and helped me corral and entertain them for the next three days. He sings silly songs and baits hooks and calls them “rabble rousers” and “whippersnappers” while he drives them on the tractor and teaches them how to use the log splitter.
Yea, the lake was a much better plan than Worship Arts Camp.
I couldn’t help but think of the old fashioned signs you would see hanging on store front windows “Gone Fishin’” Cause that’s what we’d done.
In fact, Papa had to run to the bait store on the third day to get another container of worms we’d fished through two tubs-o-worms already!
Then he had an errand to run with tractor-loving Carter and he took him with him to go pick out a new trailer. This was mecca for Carter! It was no surprise when they returned three hours later that they picked out a John Deere green colored trailer!
But in his absence, I was left to bait hooks and manage the fishermen. Let me just say that although I’ve grown up around a lake my whole life, I strongly dislike fishing. In fact, I detest it.
Growing up my Grandfather, Papa Russell, who built the lake and after whom the lake is named, used to love to fish. In fact, that was what got him into the whole lake building endeavor. I can remember a few times as a little girl that he would take me and my sister and our two cousins out in his old fishing boat to take us fishing with him.
He was a skillful fisherman and would yank them out one after the other. His famous saying was “Oh, how they tug and pull!” (Said with much emphasis while hauling in the big one.)
I, on the other hand, would get restless sitting and waiting for something to take even a nibble on my hook. In fact, most the time, I think my line would end up tangled in a tree. But he would teach all of us Lamb grandkids that the secret to fishing was a little Lamb spit. You had to hack a luggey on the end of your fishing line and spit on the worm. This too, I was no good at and spit would dribble down my chin. I was hopeless as a fisherwoman.
But somehow, the fishing gene has skipped a generation and is avid among the Lamb great-grandkids. My nephew, Jackson has had great success and has hooked “The Big’on” more than once! Catching other fishing enthusiasts in his wake.
Kiefer, especially.
Honestly, before having Kiefer, I never realized there is actual skill in fishing. In my own experience, I saw fishing as more a sport of luck. Bait, cast, wait… maybe get lucky. But most the time, in my case, those elusive fish would mysteriously snatch my worm and hours later I’d reel in an empty hook.
Not Kiefer. He stands on the side of the dock and yanks one out after the other. He watches, like a hunting dog, for just the right moment and then seizes the opportunity and reels in with gusto at just the right moment usually nabbing a good sized sunfish, croppy or bass on the line.
He rightfully has worked his way up to using an open reel fishing pole, much to the dislike of his younger brothers still confined to their closed reels. He also “inherited” Papa Russell’s tackle box. Not sure how he was so fortunate, but Kiefer’s an opportunistic 8 year old and he saw a vacancy so he moved his tackle into a larger space. Where most tackle boxes have one pull out shelf and a few slots for a variety of hooks, worms, bobbers and weights, his is an industrial sized multi-tiered hard cased tackle box that holds nearly 1000 different baits and would make even the professional fishermen jealous.
It certainly is the envy of his two younger brothers who have caught the fishing bug, too. They spend their evenings and rainy days re-organizing their tackle boxes and I didn’t realize until this trip that they actually NAME their baits. Or at least Griffin does.
His red and white torpedo shaped bait with two deathly looking hooks he calls “IU” because it’s half red, half white and it has two eyes. Kiefer calls his green frog bait “Squishy, Foamy Frog” and Fletcher likes anything with glitter and feathers.
Occasionally they have success with the fake bait, but the typical preferred fish fare are worms. Live worms. Live, dirty, squirmy worms. Live, dirty, squirmy worms that Mommy has to help them bait. YUCK!
Kiefer is all over it and has baited his own hook for a few years now. Atta’ boy! Griffin? Not so much. He won’t even touch the worms. He’s never liked to get his hands dirty and I’ve caught him eating a sandwich off his plate so he didn’t have to touch it so you can imagine how unsuccessful the prospects of his self-sufficiency with baiting his own hook.
But I was taught if you want to ski, you’ve got to carry your own skis. So this mom of four boys believes that if you want to fish, you can bait your own hook.
After about a half hour of him trying to flick the worm out of the tub and have it fly onto the hook on it’s own, I finally succumbed and helped him impail the slimy critter on there.
Before we had kids, I would occasionally go “golfing” with Jim. A perfect day of golf for me was riding in the cart with him and reading a book while he golfed.
Likewise, I was enjoying a perfect morning of fishing with the boyz while they fished and I was engrossed in a good book. It was such a page turner I hardly cared to take my eyes away while I hooked another worm.
I could tell I wasn’t paying enough attention when Griffin caught the roof of the pontoon boat. But hey, it happens. At least it wasn’t his brother’s eyelid. Then I looked down and noticed that all the worms were making a run for it while the boyz had left the lid off the container. The night crawlers were literally crawling out of the tub and escaping! Kiefer solved that problem by putting the lid to the pretzels on top of the worms. Great problem-solving skills, that one.
All said, they had a successful day of fishing. Somehow Fletcher even caught two fish at once. Or he hadn’t released the other one by the time he yanked the next one out of the water. Either way, we called it a twofer.
Yea, I can see why people would escape their workplaces for a spell to be “gone fishin’… sometimes it’s all the worship arts you need.
