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This website is an informal communication forum for staff members of the University of Oregon Library Staff Association. Contents and opinions expressed herein or on linked personal or external pages are those of individual authors and do not represent official statements, policies, or positions of the Library, the University of Oregon, Oregon University System, or State of Oregon.

The One that Got Away

Days after I passed my driver's license exam, in a stick 1960 Chevy Brookwood station wagon the length of a football field, I asked Dad if I might borrow the wagon to go fishing for a few days. Surprisingly, this Depression-era, dour, penny-watching, ultracautious man agreed; perhaps it was the mention of fishing, a manly activity. He always encouraged manly activities: baseball (I was horrible), shop (worse), farming (it was gardening, but for him it was farming, and my part was to hoe for hours on end). Such a disappointment! His feeling was that his only son would not put out effort. Said, "That boy is like a turtle on a log." Said, "What he has got is lead-itis." What I tended to put effort into was reading, which did not bode well for the family's prospects in the next great depression.

But getting out of the house, yes, I would put effort into that. I had spent countless hours in the creek and woods behind the house, and once ran away from home for three days at the height of winter, surviving in a self-made wigwam in a frozen swamp. That swamp bit was not far behind us, and I thought it might figure into car-key denial, but, no, in keeping with his restraint at the time of my earlier disappearance, he softly replied, "That's nice, son, where to?" "I thought Rock Eagle." "Some good bass in there, catch one for me." Handed 'em over. Wow.

Filled the wagon with camping gear: tent, couple of moth-repellent-wafting olive green blankets, change of clothes, cans of beans, Boy Scout knife, canteen, and the always-obligatory Snakebite Kit, which years later we learned would do more harm than good if actually used. I did put in a spinning rod and a small tackle box, but that was just for camouflage. I was after some other kind of fish; not sure what, but I felt it was something I couldn't explain to the old man.

Rock Eagle, a 4H campground and forest preserve near the Oconee National Forest in central Georgia, centers around two things: a mysterious pile of rocks in the shape of a giant eagle, dating back to Creek and Cherokee times, perhaps beyond, and a 110 acre lake bordered on most sides by oak thickets and pine openings. Throughout my childhood, most of our vacations were spent here, two hours' drive from the suburbs of Atlanta. We'd always stop first at the Eagle, climbing the five steep flights of stone steps in the observation tower, and look down to see if the mound had changed. It never did. A high fence had been built around it to keep shiftless hoodlums from shifting the grapefruit-sized quartzite rocks around.

I stopped here, in deference to family tradition, easing into a shaded parking place with self-conscious attention to the yellow lines, hoping no one was watching that might shout, "New driver! New driver! Lookit that!" The tower, gray and a bit forbidding, was sometimes locked, but I found it open and wandered up through the darkness to the open windows. Yep. Eagle's still there. Nope. Not changed much.

A stranger once found me looking down on the Eagle and told me this: Back in the forties, a fella had come in here on a rainy night and stayed over, and along about two in the morning a big bobcat got in, worked its way to the top floor, panicked, bounced around the walls a few times, then jumped the man and killed him. "So that's why they put in that door at the bottom, and lock it up at night."

The room, which is entirely of stone, has only the glassless windows on the viewing side, and rides five floors up, just above a seamless canopy of of oak and poplar trees. Seemed to me a particularly sad place to die on a November night. I didn't stay long.

At the lake, the road, in 1965, came down from the hot Georgia piedmont to the north and curved along the lakeshore to a small boathouse. The building was just big enough to hold a retired gentleman and a cash box; outside this stood a soft drink machine, a pay phone, and a mercury vapor lamp. Thousands of white moths lay beneath the lamp, testimony to its lone night vigils. Alongside the building, at water's edge, stood a long-legged shed, under which lay lay about fifteen wooden jon boats, green with yellow numbers, the objects of the gentleman's care. A sign on the shed read:

I pulled up beside the dead moths. The old gentleman, of impressive girth and gruff appearance, seemed to intimidate newcomers but was kind to his regulars. He huffed up from his chair, took one and a half steps, and leaned in the doorway. I hailed him, hoping he'd remember me.

"Hey, Mr. Johnson. How have you been, sir?"

"Oh, hey, kid. Where's your old man? He all right?"

"Yes, sir, he's well. I'm here on my lonesome this time." I didn't want to dwell on my newness in this adult world, but he sensed both my reticence and my pride: a first-timer out of the parental eye. An occasion to be marked by not commenting.

"You here for a boat?"

"Yessir, and may I ask, I'd like to take Number Eleven, here, over to the point, camp out there for a few days? Won't cut up any trees or nothin'."

He looked across the water. "Your dad knows you're here, right?"

"Yessir, and here's our phone number."

"Okay, son, you can do that. Things are slow, that's a fact. Y'kin leave y'car here. There's this fire ring over there, use that, n'a good flat spot, but don't wander off. Bad swamp back there. Check in with me inna mornings."

"Yessir."

"Six bucks."

"Yessir."

"Here's yer paddles."

"Yessir, thank you, sir."

Under the eye of the ancient Lord of the Boats, I was careful to be seen carrying the spinning rod and the tacklebox, but I felt the lack of bait might be a giveaway. At the time, in those parts, true fishermen carried a cricket cage or a minnow bucket, and a large stringer, made of clanking steel rings, to carry their catch of bass and bream. If he suspected I was was a sham, he had the grace not to say.

Number Eleven was a high-sided three-seater, sixteen feet long, square on each end, with a chunk of cinder block for an anchor. It was the one not much favored by the fishermen, because it tended to catch too much wind when still-fishing, but I liked it for that; I could get onto the lee end of the lake and sail downwind, putting one paddle in the water behind me to steer by. It had oarlocks, and could be rowed as well as paddled, and I liked that because I would not wet my camping gear.

I rowed over to the point, on the east end of the lake, good for camping because it was to windward and would not have a lot of mosquitoes, and good for me because there was no road access. I could put up the tent, stretch out, nap, eat, read, go off and paddle around, eat some more, sleep, build a fire, stare into the fire, hum, chase snakes. read, sleep. Thoroughly explore the forbidden swamp. None of that "get this, do that, what are you sitting around for?" My own schedule. For, hmm, only the second time in my life. And this time with permission. I lay in the sun like a turtle on a log, soaking up the future.

The last night, I put my kerosene lantern on the landing, so as to find my way home, and rowed out to the middle of the lake under a stunningly red sky. Blankets, dinner. Prepared to stay as long as the stars wanted company. Dropped anchor in thirty-three feet of dark green water.

Ate beans, read till it was dark, which was quite late out away from the trees, looked about, made my bed in the bottom of Number Eleven, put my feet up on the seat, watched stars and things come out. Vega, overhead. Jupiter to the south there. Bats flying low over the water, a moment of wings thrumming by in search of whatever moths had been missed by the mercury vapor lamp. Fell asleep.

Along about two in the morning, I came to. Felt distinctly Not Alone. Had a brief moment of remembrance about the bobcat, but it wouldn't be one of those. They hate water. I lay still, wondering if maybe a cottonmouth had got in with me, but those have a distinctive smell, a bit like watermelon. And rattlesnakes waft a bit of cucumber. There was a smell, all right, but it was like a wet rug. Something mammal, then.

I eased up in the dark and peered over the gunnel. A beaver, looking for all the world as long as the boat, lay on the still surface, ten percent showing, like with icebergs. Eyes closed. Legs sticking out a bit, tail. Shiny in the starlight. Dead? I reached out a finger, poked the wet fur.

There was an explosion. Water geysered up and descended on Number Eleven, the blankets, and me, as the startled beaver slapped water and sounded. I'm sure I screamed. Maybe twice, for good measure. My heart raced for a good while, and I was fairly cold from the drenching by the time I got round to raising the anchor. Could it have been sleeping out there, hundreds of yards from the shore? Never heard of a beaver doing that. Then again, the beaver had never heard of a boy doing that, either. We had both had a pretty rough moment there. I set the paddle/oars in the oarlocks, looked over my shoulder, and rowed toward the lantern.

In the morning, I packed up, paddled around for three more hours, then pulled into the boathouse. Mr. Johnson took possession of Number Eleven. He spotted me sneaking to the wagon with the rod and tackle box, and couldn't resist. "So, didya catch anything?" With my Baptist upbringing I felt compelled not to lie outright. I explained that there had been a really big one, but it had gotten away.

Back home, my dad helped my bring in my stuff. If the fishing gear looked like it hadn't been used, he didn't say. He fingered the rod a bit, as if to muse to himself, where I could hear him thinking. Just. Whatever that boy was up to, he could only hope it was Not a Bad Thing. The silence hung between us like a sleeping beaver.

For another harrowing true life adventure (I couldn't help myself, but I also didn't want to make this newsletter as long as it would be with another whole long story...), see Lara's falling out of the tub story.

The arts!

Have you painted a masterpiece recently? Bred a new variety of plant? Built a sleigh bed out of mahagony? Well, even if you haven't, we know plenty of you out there are involved in art or enjoy creating craft items, and LSA wants to hear from you!

That's right, it's the LIBRARY STAFF ARTS AND CRAFTS SHOW, a fundraiser for you and for LSA! This year the sale is scheduled for Wednesday, April 3, in the Browsing Room from 11 am to 3 pm, and will be open to the public. LSA will take only 10% commission -- 90% of the purchase price will go to the artist. You can't find a deal like that at any gallery!

Because we will be in the Browsing Room, our emphasis this year will be mainly on arts and crafts. Plants to be sold should be potted nicely or otherwise packaged so as to keep our carpet clean! For the same reason, we won't be selling snack foods, such as individual cookies. Canned jams and salsas, or other items packaged in boxes or sealed containers would be fine, though.

LSA would love to have live "background" music during the sale, at least around the lunch hour. Contact Lisa Sieracki at sieracki@oregon or 6-1834 if you might be interested.

If you are interested in selling your art, craft, garden, or food item at the sale, please contact Susan Mincks at sminkcks@oregon or 6-1937.

If you're not feeling creative this spring, never fear! We can use help with setup, staffing, and breakdown. Contact Lisa at sieracki@oregon or 6-1834 to be a "supporter of the arts"!

And of course, if you just have 10 minutes to browse on the day of the sale -- come in! Enjoy the talents of your co-workers, take home a painting or a pot, buy a new plant for the garden or some jam to go with your morning toast. And celebrate! It's Spring!

FROM THE FACT FILE: ANNOUNCING THE WINNER

To review the clues, visit January's Fact File. The answers are given below: