Fishing season ends, self-pity season begins

It had been maybe a month since I'd last been out in the boat, so I'm not sure why I expected it to fire right up or why I actually took the can of starter fluid out before hooking up the trailer. Anyway, I left work a couple hours early on Monday, intending to spend a few quiet hours on the lake. I've been working too much lately, coming in on Saturdays and such, so I was anxious to get out on one of the few cool days we've had around here.

Of course, the motor wouldn't start. I think I might know why, but I'm feeling less like fixing the situation and more like pouting about it for a while. After spending ten minutes cranking the starter (electric, thank god) and fiddling with the gas line, the mixture, the choke, I had to haul myself up on the dock and stumble back to the car and get the boat back on the trailer. Which usually isn't a problem, but somehow becomes another 15 minutes fighting with the boat, shoving, tugging, cranking, while a woman and her son skip rocks on the lake from the dock. By the time the boat is finally on the trailer, I'm fully discombobulated, and steady myself against the car as I try to get from the trailer to the driver's seat, and the woman and her son are looking at me, probably trying to decide what particular chemical I've been abusing.

In truth, I don't think I'm quite ready to give up on one of the few activities that still provides me with some transcendent moments of bliss. I'll probably get the boat running when the weather starts to cool off a bit and, in a few years when my wife's new career as a nurse is well underway, maybe we'll have enough scratch to replace the leaky piece of shit with something newer and nicer. For now, though, I choose to stay a little bitter about this small indignity.

A craptacular weekend

TGIM. The weekend began nicely enough. Friday was beautiful, and I took the day off. My in-laws had come to town to help us with the demolition of our old, rotten 3-season porch. I had promised myself not to pick up a crowbar, but intended to see that those wielding crowbars were properly fed, etc.

The dumpster arrived late Friday morning, and God bless 'em, my sixtyish in-laws went right out and started taking out the window, pulling off the siding, and so forth. I made lunch, did the dishes, and looked after the dogs, and that was fine.

On Saturday, we'd asked a couple friends to come over to help, but before they arrived, my wife and her dad were out wrestling with the deck. It was sunny and warm, and I thought I'd go out and help for a bit before the heat of midday. Bad idea: after 20 minutes trying to convince some decking screws to come out, I was bushed and barely able to stand or walk. That pretty much set the tone for the rest of the weekend, which I spent wobbling around trying to get a few things off my to-do list, at the same time being frustrated that everyone but me was steadily moving the old porch and deck from the back yard to the dumpster in the driveway. Even my mother-in-law was outside swinging a sledgehammer around.

The culmination of my weekend was my unsuccessful effort to get out in the boat on Sunday to do some fishing and sulking. I spent a half hour at the landing trying to get the motor running, then had to get the boat back on the trailer. Later efforts at home to get the thing started also failed, leaving me feeling like I had burned up an entire sunny spring 3-day weekend without managing to accomplish either work or recreation. I am now relieved to be in my office at my computer, at least getting a bit of blogging done.

My in-laws are just about the nicest people on Earth, but I can't help but wonder what they think of their increasingly disabled son-in-law. While they were no doubt pleased to see their son-in-law graduate from law school and find gainful employment, I imagine they must worry about what the future holds for him, and for their daughter, who must increasingly take on the role of caregiver.