Debit Card

Debit Card: (n) a plastic card that resembles a credit card but functions like a check 

No one should have a debit card if they don’t know the value of money.

And if they use their debit card poorly, they will soon have a nasty lesson on the danger of money.

I think a debit card is an absolutely marvelous invention—as long as you have money in the bank and you’re just swiping it away.

Yes—how apropos. “Look at me! I’m swiping my own money. I am stealing from myself. Don’t tell anyone.”

Of course, someone is told.

Whoever is in charge of keeping the tally on your balance—well, that individual knows fully well how much money can still be swiped before you are not only a thief, but a criminal.

Money is serious business that should never be taken too seriously.

But when money is not taken seriously, you can get into serious trouble.

I am happiest when I am not dealing with money or debit cards or credit or paying for anything.

I’ve never gone fishing in a lake and had a crab crawl up to me and charge me for the fish I just caught. (That may be because crabs don’t live near lakes.)

But there’s something beautiful about entertaining oneself, or even feeding your face, without spending a dime. But it is not interesting enough that I will actually pursue it.

It does, however, make great verbiage for an article, where you’re trying to be just a little bit cutie—and bitchy—about debit cards.

Crappie

Crappie: (n) a sunfish of central U.S. rivers

 I am not an expert at fishing.

I do not know what qualifies one for being considered an expert, but I think it has something to do with the size of your tackle box. I understand worms, minnows, bread dough and a few other simple forms of bait. Yet I know people who have huge containers, with all sorts of different spinners, bobs and plugs.funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

I don’t know anything about those.

I was always the kind of person who went fishing because I was escaping from some task, some person or some event which was less than desirable. I discovered that once you established you were going fishing, then people usually left you alone to your hook, line and sinker.

But one of the things I did learn about fishing, since I was a Midwest boy, was that if you didn’t cast your line very deep into the pond or lake, a whole bunch of busy, hungry crappies would make their way to bite on your hook, and you would pull them in. They were about the size of the egg on a McMuffin. I realized I could have caught maybe a hundred of these little fellas—and one time I decided to bring back a batch.

When I presented them to my dad and older brothers and said I was going to clean them for dinner, they laughed at me. It was a mocking to scorn.

But once I got out in the garage and started working on them, I saw that when the crappies lost their fins, gills and scales, the crappies only produced enough meat to put on a Ritz cracker.

I cleaned twenty-five or thirty of them and didn’t get enough for me to eat.

So I guess the lesson of my story—if there is one—would be that if you like to catch fish, the crappie is your good friend. Not only are they willing, but downright sacrificial to the cause.

But if you want to eat fish, cast your line a whole lot deeper—or just go to Captain D’s.


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Blueberry

Blueberry: (n) the small, sweet edible berry of the blueberry plant.

Dictionary B

If you ever wonder how important childhood is to our well-being as grown humans, just consider how many everyday items we view that we associate with some activity or some emotion.

For me, it’s an old metal bucket–and blueberries.

When I was a kid, my dad went fishing in Canada at least once a year, and he always came back with this huge metal pail, full of freshly picked blueberries. I don’t know how he picked so many or how he was able to keep them free from harm on the drive home.

But he would come walking into the house carrying this treasure, and to me it communicated one great potential: pies.

I think I was twenty years old before I realized that blueberries could be eaten without being sugared, jellied and stuffed in a crust. For about two weeks we would experience a glut of blueberry pies made by my mother, which promoted a gluttony which still threatens to infest me to this day.

I don’t know if there’s anything in life better than a blueberry pie.

Even though I am a grown male of our species and now eat blueberries separate from pies, when I get anywhere near them, I flash back to that huge tin container … filled to the brim with the little blue champions.

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Alcove

Words from Dic(tionary)

dictionary with letter A

Alcove: (n) a recess typically in the wall of a room or garden.

What an interesting definition. I always thought an alcove was more like a little chunk out of the mainland, where water creeps its way in, creating a still, calm environment.

Far be it from me to disagree with Mr. Webster–but since you have his definition, let me talk about mine.

I thought it was magical. Out on Hoover Lake, near Columbus, Ohio, there was this place. Maybe I’d better call it a spot. It was just an area of water near the shoreline, indented–about the size of two swimming pools–where we used to go fishing. We found it every time. After all, we thought it was magical.

There was a tree sticking up out of the lake, rocks along the shoreline, and the water was not terribly deep, so it was perfect for catching fish. I always believed it was kind of like a “resort area” for the little swimmers to go to–not suspecting there would be wise fishing souls like myself, to catch them on a hook.

I don’t really know if the fishing was better in that particular alcove. But I convinced myself it was. Matter of fact, I learned that the true magic in life is often in convincing yourself of something pretty good, so you can bring your heart and soul to the mission.

Catfish were in that alcove. I loved to catch ’em. I was a little squeamish about taking the hook out of their mouths because they have those barbs that can stick you. Often we used bread dough or a corn muffin as bait, because the catfish weren’t picky.

And it was easy to row over to the shoreline, get out of the boat, stretch your legs, take a good pee, and in just a minute, be back to the business of fishing.

I do remember being disappointed one afternoon when another boat came into our sacred turf. It felt defiling. How could it be special if other people discovered it?

But fortunately, they didn’t stay long. Completely missed out on the magic.

Isn’t that like life? One man’s alcove is another man’s disappointment.

So I apologize to Mr. Webster if I have misused the definition. But I’m afraid, considering my age, that I will continue to believe that my magical alcove on Hoover Lake is the vacation home of many a fishy possibility.