The Garden is History

Measuring the success of a garden isn’t simple.  If it was a farm, it might be.  You’d go by the output: the size of the crop, bushels per acre, or money made.  Those are objective large-scale indicators.  I don’t think that’s what gardeners are after when they buy seeds and plants in the spring and imagine what can be eaten fresh and preserved to be eaten later after frost finally brings growing to an end.  Gardens are smaller in size and scope and more complex.  They’re valued by gardeners in a different way, I think.

If I was simply measuring output, what remains to be enjoyed during the winter, I’d just count the number of jars that came out of the pressure cooker and the bags of vegetables in the freezer.  Here’s what that looks like for this year:

              Jars of Jerk Marinade                                  25         

              Jars of Irish Asian Chili Paste                     13

              Jars of Chilla Sauce                                    12

              Jars of Pickled Peppers                                 6

              Amount of Sriracha Sauce                          TBD

The jerk marinade is a Jamaican sauce whose main ingredient is habanero peppers.  I’ve jiggered the recipes so that amount of ingredients in one batch fill my food processor.   A triple batch filled that number of jars.  Here’s the recipe for a single batch. 

              1 5/8 cup Sunflower oil

              40 Habaneros unseeded

              40 scallions

              30 garlic cloves peeled and smashed

              1 cup thyme leaves (no stalks)

              1 cup fresh ginger peeled and grated

              1/2 cup brown sugar

              4 cups Allspice berries

              3 1/3 T kosher salt

              2.5 tsp black pepper

              Churn till smooth in processor.  Remove to a large bowl, add

              1 cup white vinegar

              2.5 cups freshly squeezed lime juice

The classic way to use this marinade is slathered on chicken wings etc. overnight.  They’re great when grilled over charcoal.  You can also use it as a table sauce by thinning it with soy sauce.  The first time you use it, wash off all the marinade before grilling. Next time, if you think you can handle it, leave the marinade on while grilling.  Either way, it will clear your sinuses.

The chili paste recipe has evolved.  It’s roughly based on a Thai-style paste called Nam Prik or Bird Chili paste. When making it the first time, I didn’t have all the ingredients, so I winged it.  And liked the result a lot.  So, as it stands it’s an Asian chili paste modified by an Irishman.  Thus, Irish Asian Chili paste.  Here’s the recipe for one batch.

              Shallots                                           8 halves

              Lemongrass                                   6 pieces of the white part, 4-5 inches long

              Lime juice                                     1/2 cup.  Fresh squeezed is best.

              Garlic                                            1/2 cup peeled then smashed, or vice versa

              Ginger Root                                   1/4 cup grated

              Worcestershire Sauce                    2 T

              Kosher salt                                    3 T

              Hot Peppers                                  Enough to fill processor.  Use the kind you like. Mix it up.

 Notes on the lemongrass.  I used to grow it in the garden, and the stalks were skinny without a lot of white.  The stuff you buy in any Asian grocery is far superior.  I’ve concluded lemongrass grows better and bigger in South Asia than Illinois. 

You can use this paste conventionally, mixing a hockey puck-sized, 4-ounce lump of paste with coconut milk or broth to make the base for spicy meat and/or vegetable dish.  But my family uses it mostly as a spicy condiment.  It’s versatile.  But you must like heat and spicy flavor to enjoy it.  Irish Asian chili paste has a big kick.

The Chilla sauce is a sweet and sour sauce from my mother’s side of the family, probably of Dutch origin.  We used Chilla sauce on the farm specifically for roast beef.  I never saw the word for this sauce written down so that’s a phonetic spelling.  We had dinners centered around roast beef almost every Sunday of the year on the farm.  Big meals, nice days.  Those meals and the companionship drew my older married siblings and their kids, my nephews and nieces, back home after they moved out.  I make this sauce for us.  It’s McClure/Staubus/Deal comfort food.

Thankfully, Mom finally wrote down an ingredient list and rudimentary instructions.  She had to think about it, as she carried most of her recipes around in her head.  She had a hard time figuring what to write as a cook time, as she claimed to go by the color. She cryptically told me the sauce must turn from bright red to brownish.  I’ve since determined that’s about two hours.  Here’s that recipe.

              1 quart tomatoes

              1 cup vinegar

              1 pepper cut fine (type undetermined.  Mom no doubt used a green bell.  I use a Jalapeno.)

              ½ cup sugar

              1 tsp cinnamon

              1.2 tsp cloves (ground I’ve found out)

              2 medium onions cut fine

              1 tsp salt

              Cook two hours

The quick-pickled peppers came about this year simply due to a bumper crop of peppers.  My daughter’s partner, June’s Dad, has been bringing around various “quick pickled” vegetables; kohlrabi, cucumbers, onions, peppers.  I tried it with hot peppers.  Here’s the brine recipe.  It’s amazingly simple.

              1 ½ cup distilled white vinegar

              3/4 cup water

              2 T Honey

              4 T Kosher Salt

              1 clove of smashed garlic per jar

              3 peppercorns per jar

              Fresh peppers/vegetables of your choice

              Thinly slice peppers and vegetables.  Place in jars with garlic and peppercorns.  Heat liquid to               near-boiling.  Remove, pour over peppers and veggies.  Cool.  Place lid on the jar and                          refrigerate. 

Quick pickled veggies last up to three months refrigerated, which is plenty of time because they are always eaten before that.  I think you can pickle damned near anything in that little brine brew, but I’ve chosen to thinly slice up hot peppers with onion and carrot.  I put a variety in the jar for color, along with other herbs and spices of your choice.  Get creative.  Orange Habaneros, green Serranos, red Jalapenos, and a few sweet Jimmy Nardellos or Sheep Nose peppers for balance.  It’s up to you.  I love that mix especially on hot dogs and sausages, but you can add it to anything.   Great in an omelet too.  

The Sriracha is a work in progress.  It’s my first try.  So far, I have a double batch of thin sauce that could be put in a shaker bottle.  What I’m after is a sauce the consistency of ketchup I can put in a squeeze bottle.  The distinctive thing about this sauce is that it's fermented.  Makes me wonder what   the Irish Asian would be like fermented.   In any case, I have a quadruple batch still bubbling away in a big glass jar in the basement.   Thanks to Konni Rodighier for sharing the recipe below.

              1 lb. unseeded stemmed red Jalapenos (aka Fresnos)      (16 big ones)

              ½ pound unseeded stemmed red Serranos                        (20 more or less)

              4 cloves of garlic peeled

              3 T brown sugar

              1 T kosher salt

              1/3 cup water

              ½ cup distilled white vinegar

Step 1

Chop peppers, retain seeds and membranes and place them into a food processor or blender with garlic, brown sugar, salt, and water.  Pulse several times to start.  Blend until smooth.

Step 2

Transfer puree into a large glass container(pitcher or big jar0.  Cover container with plastic wrap and place in a cool dark location (think basement) for 3-5 days, stirring once a day.  The mixture will bubble and ferment.  Scrape down the sides during each stirring.  Rewrap after every stirring.

Step 3

Pour fermented mixture into blender or food processor with vinegar.  Blend until smooth. Strain mixture through a fine-mesh strainer into a saucepan, pushing as much of the pulp as possible through the strainer into the sauce.  Discard remaining pulp, seeds, and skin left in the strainer. 

Step 4

Heat sauce to a boil, stirring often until reduced to desire thickness, 5-10 minutes.  Skim foam if desired.

Step 5

Remove saucepan from heat and let the sauce cool to room temperature.  The sauce will thicken a little when cooled.  Transfer sauce to jars or bottles and refrigerate.

Cook’s note: I flipped the amount of Serranos and Jalapenos looking for a spicier blend.  It’s a bit hotter than the squeeze bottle you buy in the store.  I call it Wallace Township Rooster Sauce.

In addition to those jars, I have 5 quarts of simple tomato sauce from the San Marzanos.  In the freezer are 10-quart bags of peeled plum tomatoes and 10 bags of a specific mix of frozen peppers good in chili; Poblanos, Serranos, Jimmy Nardellos, and Sheep Nose pimiento.  They’re ready for winter cooking. 

So that’s the output as defined by jars in the cupboard and bags in the freezer.  But the garden gave my family and me so much more than that.  How many BLT’s did we have when the tomatoes came ripe?  Too many to count.  And tomatoes and peppers for salads over and over.  And fresh-picked tomatoes peeled and blended with peppers, olive oil, garlic, and salt for a same-day pasta sauce that you can’t beat. That’s what a garden can give you. 

My long row was six miles from my house in full sun with water nearby.  It gave me, sometimes my wife and kids, an excuse to get out of the house and drive into the country.  We saw sunsets, approaching storms, an unobscured horizon, every type of cloud.  It brought us closer to something big that you don’t get in town.   That itself made the garden worthwhile. 

Last summer, during a full-blown pandemic with no vaccine, those garden trips were more solitary and even more essential.  This year was more relaxed and social.  But these two years convinced me I need that garden even if I don’t bring a single vegetable home. 

But that won’t happen.  There is always that wonderful straight from the garden summer eating. 

I planted two kinds of Kale, broad-leafed Red Russian and Dino with the long spear-like dark green leaves.  I planted four of each.  It’s too much.  I couldn’t keep up with it all.  How many Kale salads can one small family eat?  I found I liked the Dino Kale much more.  Next year I’ll skip the Red Russian.

The broccoli never made the kind of heads you expect from the produce counter at your grocer.  It was good but there wasn’t a lot of it for such a big plant.  My Brussels Sprouts are still out there.  I’ll cut them next week for Thanksgiving.  For most of the summer, I thought they were failing, and then they came on strong in the fall.  They like cold weather, even frost.  Heads not quite as big as retail grocery sprouts but they’re very tasty. 

The peppers were prolific.  I don’t exactly know what makes a good year for peppers, but this summer appeared to be perfect.  I picked peppers all summer and they just kept coming.  I planted nine types: Serrano, Habanero, Cayenne, Jalapeno, Poblano, Sheep Nose Pimiento, Lunchbox, Shishito, and Jimmy Nardello.  Of those nine, I’ll plant seven again.  The Shishitos grew like crazy but they’re bland.  I knew they wouldn’t have a lot of heat, but I didn’t expect the lack of flavor. The Cayenne grew far fewer peppers than the Serrano and are not markedly different in taste.   I’ll skip both the Shishito and Cayenne.    

By far my best tomatoes were the plum tomatoes, which were nearly half the total tomatoes planted.  I went with a single variety, the two-chambered San Marzano, and wasn’t disappointed.  They grew like crazy and were plump and sweet.  But surprisingly, the slicers-Early Girls, Beefsteaks, Jet Stars, and the tomato cousin tomatillos never got to the size I expected.  I have no idea why one type of tomato would thrive while others were sub-par.  I have to figure that out before next year.  But I’ll be planting San Marzanos again.  Maybe more. 

The onions were, by and large, a bust.  We ate some as scallions, but the mature onions were small and unremarkable in taste.  Perhaps I’m not cut out to raise onions.  Why should they be so different than garlic?  Maybe I’ll give it another try. 

What was lost in onions was made up by potatoes.  We have never harvested such a big crop.  Every variety, reds, cobblers, fingerlings, even the quirky purple potatoes, were plentiful and tasty.  Some question the value of growing potatoes when they are so cheap in the store.  To them, I say taste a fresh homegrown potato and talk to me again.  I have a bunch in the basement waiting, with the dirt still on them, to be eaten.  Gives me a sense of security

Back home in my small house garden the Asparagus came in quickly and didn’t last long enough.  I need to plant more roots.  I haven’t dug the Horseradish, but you know Horseradish.  You can’t kill it.  It will be fine down there underground whenever I get around to using it.  The herbs had a good year in pots on the back steps.  I had enough flat-leafed Italian parsley and Basil to choke a horse.  Still need to grow more Thyme for the jerk marinade but it takes so much I doubt I will.  The rosemary had a great year.  I’m wintering a pot of it over in the house, so it gets a head start next spring. 

And that’s the garden report for 2021.   

Problems with the Buick

 I had a small problem with the Buick while filling it up at Thorntons the other day.

I always use my credit card to pay outside.  Doing so forces me to interact with the gas pump.  Feels a little silly.  Black print on a small gray screen asks for my zip code, which I provide, and asks me three questions every damn time, to which I always respond by pushing the NO arrow.

              Are you a Refreshing Rewards Club Member?        NO - I belong to too many things now.

              Would you like to join and save $.03 blah blah        NO – I don’t care

              Would you like a receipt?                                          NO – I got them for years. Never wrong. 

I just want the gas.  Maybe a hot dog.  I’m always aware, standing out there between the Buick and the gas pump, how close I am to the jumbo wieners turning slowly on the roller grill inside the station, shiny with fat, with soft warm buns in the drawer beneath them, and the fresh condiments next to the grill.

It was quite a blow, during the pandemic, when Thorntons went to foil packets only for condiments.  Mustard and ketchup in packets, pitiful dehydrated onions in some chemical soup in a packet, and sludgy packets of relish.  Want a hot dog with the works?  Here you go, take it or leave it.  I declined.  I understood their health concerns, but it was a huge loss.

To their credit, Thortons is slowly bringing fresh condiments back. They sell a lot of hot dogs at their Ottawa store by I-80, which means the dogs and condiments move fast and stay fresh.  Currently they have four little bins with spoons and clear plastic covers containing chopped white onions, sauerkraut, jalapeno peppers, and sweet pickle relish.  Yet to make an appearance are sport peppers, dill pickle spears, and celery salt.  Added to their current condiment buffet is an array of squeeze bottle condiments: yellow mustard, spicy brown mustard, Sriracha, ketchup, and mayo.  The wieners may cook on a roller grill, but Thorntons is the hot dog condiment king.

I skipped the hot dog that day.  I was nearly empty and would no doubt spend plenty on the gas alone.  After getting the gas pumping, I checked the Buick’s oil.  I don’t check it every time because the Buick has never used oil.  It’s a 2006 Lucerne with a 3.8-liter engine and 156,000 miles.  It still runs like a top.  I probably check the oil every other time I fill up.   

I popped the release, pushed up the hood, and put a wooden stick between the hood and the grill.  The pneumatic arm that keeps the hood up wore out.  Happened sometime last winter.  I found a stick the perfect length.  It fits neatly hidden in a tray up by the windshield.  I always planned to get that fixed.

That V-6 Buick engine sits sideways under the hood.  The dipstick is right in front, bright yellow plastic that’s easy to see and grab.

When I pulled the circle handle the dipstick came out hard like it was stuck.  I wiped it off with a blue paper towel I keep tucked under a metal strap towards the headlight.  But when I went to put it back in, it wouldn’t go.  It was stopped by something.  I’ve been driving cars and tractors for sixty years and that’s never happened.  Couldn’t check the oil.  Dipstick wouldn’t go in.  I stuck the point of my pocketknife in the tube that receives the dipstick and found nothing. I used the flashlight on my phone to try to see down into the hole but didn’t see anything.

“I’ll be damned,” I said.

Don’t know if I said it out loud or to myself.  When you’re by yourself a lot you lose track.  I threw the dipstick into the Buick on the passenger side, held up the hood, removed the stick, tucked it into its place, and let the hood slam shut.  My tank was full ($43.00 and some change).  When I started up the Buick its check engine light came on.  I drove away perplexed. 

I called Jim Boe’s independent gas station downtown.  They feature non-descript gas and Firestone Tires.  Jim is gone now you know, but family is carrying on.  They know the Buick pretty well.  A woman answered the phone.

“Hey, I have a funny problem with my 2006 Buick.  I can’t get the dipstick to go back in.  Is that something the guys in the shop can help me with?”

“I don’t know.  Let me check.”

It was an old landline phone.  I heard it clunk as she put it on the counter and while she was gone the murmur of people talking.  You don’t hear that much anymore.

“Yeah, they say come in anytime.”

I had things to do.  Believe it or not, retired people do get busy.  I went in the next day.  That same woman was behind the counter.

“I’m the guy that called the other day with the dipstick problem.”

She laughed. 

“We have just the guy to help you.”

A young guy, big with a full red beard came out and smiled.  He was holding something like a long ice pic with a crook on the end.

“I think I know what’s wrong with that dipstick.”

We walked out to the drive.  I popped the hood release and propped open the hood with the stick.  He didn’t say a word.

‘You got it still?  The old dipstick?”

I pulled it out from the passenger side.  He took one look at it and knew what was wrong.

“There’s a little collar on these now with an O ring.  Started putting them in when they came out with Check Engine lights.  Even a little drop in oil pressure makes the light come on.  See this?  Your collar is gone.  It’s probably down in that tube blocking your dipstick from going in.”’

“I’ll be damned.  I’ve been driving all these years and never heard of that.”

“It happens.  I had one yesterday.  Dipstick handles are plastic after all, and right next to that hot engine block.  Guess it only lasts so long.  This Buick’s a 2006 right?  I’d say 15 years is maybe the limit.  With any luck I can fish it out and get you going again.”

He went down into the Buick’s dipstick hole, I guess you’d call it, with the tool he had in his hand.  It looked homemade.  He pulled it out.

“There’s your O ring.”

Little black circle on the end of his finger. He handed it t me and went back in.  After some shifting and prying around, he appeared to get an angle on something, and drug it back up. Handed me a small yellow plastic crescent.

“There’s half that collar.  Let me see if I can get the other half.  If not, it will more than likely just fall into your oil pan and come out at your next oil change.  Better if I can grab it though.”

In a minute or so he came out with the other half.

“There you go.  Your dipstick technically would still work, but your Check Engine light would always be on, and you’d just figure it was that bad dipstick.  You ought to get a good one.  We keep a few in the back off wrecks and stuff.  Let me see if I can fix you up.”

He was gone a few minutes and then returned.

“No luck.  But they got them at NAPA.  Probably in stock.  Won’t cost you much.”

“Wow.  Thanks very much.  What do I owe you?”

“Nothin’.  Think of us when you need tires.”

“That’s very nice of you.  Thanks again.”

He smiled.

“Say, what do you know about this arm with the cylinder supposed to keep the hood up?”

“Same deal.  They wear out too.  When we work on old cars with bad cylinders like that, we just use vise grips.  Clamp ‘em right here.”

He showed me the spot.

“Works fine.  You can buy those at NAPA too if you want.  Cost you a little more than the dipstick though.  Easy to replace. You can do it yourself.”

He showed me how.  Two screws.  Easy peasy.

“Sure you don’t want anything for this?  You‘re giving me not only free labor but free advice too.”

“No.  Really.  That’s why we’re here.”

 

A new dipstick and hood support were $59.00 at NAPA.  I haven’t gotten around to fixing the hood deal, but I will soon.  I considered getting a cheap pair of vise grips and keeping them in the same place as the stick but that’s not right.  I like to keep the Buick in relatively good shape.  That car has been good to me, and I want to be good to it.  I figure the pandemic added at least a year if not more to the useful life of the Buick.  I barely drove it.  And while I know we’re going through a bad time still with COVID and this Delta variant, it’ll get better.  Has to.  We can’t lose hope. 

After I put that new part on the hood, I’m going to do some serious clean-up on the Buick.  The garden has been hard on it.  I got a lot of dirt in the trunk, and more on the floorboards.  A good vacuuming would do a world of good.  All the vinyl, sidewalls of the tires too,  could use a good wipe down with Armor All. 

The Buick and I haven’t been on a solo road trip since 2018.  I can’t believe it’s been that long. Those road trips in retirement take me back to when I traveled in the ’70s.  I was mainly hitchhiking then, and that’s apparently over.  But there is something about being on the road with time on my hands and all my thoughts to myself that pulls on me.  I have some maintenance issues of my own I need to take care of before I head out.  But I’m anxious to get out there again.  It makes me feel free.

I better see how much tread the Buick has on those tires.

Heading North

 COVID has changed even the simplest of things.  Like the annual guys’ fishing trip to Canada.  What’s simpler than going fishing?   Assemble the group, get the deposits, book a cabin on a lake, buy food, check your equipment, pack up and go, right? 

Wrong.  Last summer, pre-vaccine, the border never opened.  Gary Robinson broke a 30-year string of planning and enjoying group trips to Canada.  He thought the same thing might happen this year, but the Canadian government opened the border on August 9^th.  He quickly put a plan together and we crossed on August 27. But that crossing was completely different.

Most of us remember a time when you could cross into Canada by simply showing your American driver’s license.  9/11 changed all that.  Passports have been mandatory for twenty years, but this year brought several new wrinkles.

The ArriveCan computer app for starters.  It’s like pre-registering to enter Canada combined with providing health information.  The guys in the group helped each other figure it out by multi-texting on our smartphones.  We scanned the strip on our passport, provided photos of our vaccine card, a crossing date, emergency contact information, where we would stay, where we would quarantine if necessary.  Not easy but then again not hard if you have rudimentary computer skills.

Key to the process was proof of a negative COVID test within 72 hours of crossing into Canada.  We all took the drive-through test at Walgreens on the same day and crossed our fingers.  All good.  We took off the next day in two vehicles, one towing a trailer with all our gear.

It was a long trip, 15 hours, but shorter than previous years.  We’ve been driving to Red Lake, Ontario, and flying north onto Job Lake in a bush plane equipped with pontoons.  Job Lake is inaccessible by road and has just one cabin on the lake.  For that reason, the fishing is wonderful, and the privacy is exquisite.  No phone or internet capability.  We are connected to our camp owner by a satellite phone only used for emergencies.

Typically, we drive to International Falls, Minnesota the first night and cross the border into Fort Frances, Ontario the next morning.  But sleeping off eight more hours of our ticking 72-hour COVID test clock spooked us.  We booked a room in Fort Frances knowing we’d feel better when we successfully made it into Canada.  We crossed at 6:00 p.m.

The border official was friendly.  We produced actual passports, vaccine cards, and written copies of our COVID tests, all of which she looked at carefully.  I have a hunch all that information was already on her computer screen, but she checked it anyway and passed us through.  As U.S. citizens, we take our ability to travel freely throughout the world so lightly.  It’s a huge privilege, having access to nearly every nation on the planet, and not just our neighbors to the North.

It’s hard to say what was different about Fort Frances, Ontario after two years had passed.  Like all border towns, the community’s economy is based on those crossing back and forth.  There was a new and nifty cannabis shop so close to the border I think I could have hit a golf ball onto U.S. soil using a sand wedge.  It was busy.  But the town, in general, was not.  The local economy looked to be hard hit by the border closure.

At the Super 8 motel, the counter staff seemed to have been waiting for us.  I think they were smiling but we never saw their mouths.  Staff were strictly masked all the time. Canadians take preventative health measures more seriously than us.  The lobby was largely empty to prevent groups from gathering.  In the dining room, chairs were upside down on the tables and there was no breakfast service.  Brown paper bags were promised for the morning.    

We celebrated our escape from the U.S. that night at a beer and pizza joint close to the motel.  We encountered a long wait for service, not due to a crush of hungry diners, but because tables inside were shut down to provide safe distance between diners.  Our server seemed new.  Could be Canada is experiencing the same slow return to full employment as us.

Typically, the next morning before leaving for the trip into the Northwoods we would stop for one last prized provision.  Our group does serious bacon business in Canada.  You can still get butcher shop bacon up there wrapped in that thick brown waxed paper.  We buy ten pounds for the trip, and some guys buy more to bring home on the way out.  We used to buy it in Red Lake but lost that connection.  Thankfully, we found Einar’s, a tiny convenience store in Fort Frances with a butcher and wonderful thick Canadian bacon.   

I don’t know why bacon is better in Canada, but it is.  Einar slices our bacon from a freshly cured pork belly.  We’ve seen him do it in the store.   Oscar Mayer is no match for Einar’s bacon.  One of our first lunches on the lake is BLT’s with homegrown Illinois tomatoes and Einar’s bacon, and it's built into almost every breakfast.

Trouble was, we had crossed late Friday night and Einar is closed on weekends.  Gary phoned Einar prior to leaving and he promised to bring the bacon to the Super 8 so it was there for us Saturday morning.  It was.  I think Einar needed the business.    

The economics of the resort business changed our trip.  At its best, Northern Ontario’s fishing season is short.  It opens in mid-May and closes in early September.  Fly-in fishing is more expensive, and resorts that provide it face greater costs.  Contracting with pilots, gearing up planes, arranging for a season that could start no sooner than August 9^th, which gave them no more than five or six weeks of bookings, just didn’t add up.  We couldn’t find a fly-in option, to our regular lake or any other.  We were grounded.

So we chose big Lake Wabaskang, three hours North of the border and right around the corner from Perrault Falls.   In past years we would meet lots of southbound U.S. vehicles towing boats heading home on Saturday having finished their trips.  This year, traffic in both directions was light.

At Perrault Falls we turned off the road to Red Lake and followed a gravel trail 50 yards to a small parking lot on a lake.  It was the far south shore of Lake Wabaskang.  Dave, the owner of Peffley’s resort, pulled up shortly after we arrived in an old 21’ fiberglass speed boat with a big Yamaha outboard.  Most of the seats had been pulled out.  We loaded our gear into it.    

“I can only take half of you, so we’re going to have to make two trips.  The lake is really low.  If I put on too much weight, I can’t make it over the rocks in the shallows.  Besides that, I’m waiting on two more guys from Indiana.  They got stuck on the border.  The rest of their group got here yesterday.”     

Our group was headed to the north end of Lake Wabaskang, which covers 15,000 acres and has 105 miles of shoreline. We let the younger guys go ahead so they could get a head start unloading the gear.  I was selected for the second trip.  The boat pulled out and left us on the dock.  Occasionally you could hear a vehicle on the road.  Seemed odd to hear traffic on the lake we were going to fish. 

While we waited the guys from Indiana showed up. They carried a few bags and boxes from their car to the dock and we began to talk.

“Heard you had some trouble at the border.”

“I guess you could call it trouble, yeah.  Big damned confusing mess is what it was.  We didn’t think they were going to let us in.”

“What happened?”

“They said the information on that Canadian computer app didn’t match up with our papers.  Made us pull out of line and re-do it.  Gave us a Wi-Fi code and a password.  I don’t know shit about Wi-Fi.  I tried to tell ‘em that.” 

The other guy chimed in.

“A young guy in a car in line saw what was going on and came over to help us.  Started punching stuff into Jerry’s cell phone.   Got to some point and asked us what our email addresses were.  I knew mine but Jerry didn’t know his.”

Jerry threw up his hands and looked defeated.

“My wife does all that internet stuff.  I don’t pay any attention to it.  She told me I was all set.”

The digital age can be cruel to old guys who checked out of it long ago.  Jerry’s friend picked up the story.

“He don’t know his wife’s number.  So anyway, we got back in line and tried to explain our problem, but they weren’t having it and sent us back to the American side until we got it figured out.”

Jerry hung his head and his friend continued. 

“We lost a day.  My COVID test ran more than 72 hours but thankfully they took my temperature and stuff and didn’t make me take another one.  It was a mess.  But we’re here now.”

“Yep.  And it’s a nice day.”

We heard a boat in the distance.  Soon we were on the way to the fishing camp.  Jerry and his friend from Indiana were long-time acquaintances of Dave.  They hadn’t seen each other for two years and caught up during the trip.

At one point, when Dave throttled down and was scraping rocks in a narrow channel, Jerry inquired about one of their friends who had arrived in camp the day before.

“How many times has Bob fallen down?”

Dave laughed.

“None that I know, but he stumbled clear across the kitchen the other night when we came to visit.  He pulled on the door to let us in, it stuck, he let go of the knob, started pedaling backward, and couldn’t catch himself.  And it’s taking him a long time to get to and from the dock.”

The average age of your typical American fisherman in Canada is not going down.

We arrived at the opposite end of the lake where a cluster of a dozen or more buildings was built on a high rock bluff overlooking the lake. Peffley’s Wilderness Camp has a small protected cove with good solid docks.  Parked in the slips are more than a dozen nice 14’ aluminum fishing boats with new Yamaha electric start 20 hp motors.

Dave tied up on the dock and drove a four-wheeler with a two-wheel trailer down to the lake.  We loaded our stuff onto it to haul to the cabin.  Actually two cabins.  One slept six and a tiny one close by slept two.  Gary and his son took the tiny place.  It sat at a strange angle.

So did the bigger cabin.  If you dropped something off the kitchen table, it rolled clear to the door.   We made up for a lack of electrical outlets with extension cords.  The asphalt shingles were curling up on the roof.  The cabins need a lot of work.

Electricity at Peffley’s is powered by two Diesel generators.  Dave has another fiberglass boat equipped with a 100-gallon tank he uses to haul fuel across the lake to keep the lights on.  He takes good care of the place, cleaning the fishing boats and filling the gas tanks each day.  He makes sure minnows are brought in for bait.  He keeps the fish house, where fish are cleaned and filleted, clean and tidy.  We weren’t used to the comforts, running toilets, a fish house, someone to tend to the boats. 

Many operators of remote camps have invested in solar panels and battery systems on their cabins which provide electricity for the fishermen and pump water to the cabin.  Once those systems are in place, the cost to maintain them can be negligible.  I wondered to myself what it cost Dave to fill that big diesel tank and to keep the generators going for a season. 

Dave lives in Indiana in the off-season.  He bought the camp 16 years ago from its previous owner after fishing it summer after summer.  He’s in his mid-60’s I’d say.  He and his wife are going it alone this summer.

“We shortened the week by a day because we just can’t get one set of guests out, another in, and clean the cabins all on a Saturday.”

“So, usually you have help?”

“Yeah.  We bring in a couple in the middle of May and they stay all summer.  We provide housing of course and much of their food.  We’ve had good luck with Newfies.  The last Newfie couple we had worked six summers straight.”

“Newfies?”

“Canadians from Newfoundland.  Don’t ask me why they work in Ontario so far from home, but it works for them.  Nice people, hardworking.  But you can’t attract those kinds of workers for a five-week season.”

Gary’s booking was last minute.  He had brought a group there many years ago and called Dave on the chance he had an opening.  Many fishing camps on lakes in high demand are typically fully booked for years.  Not so during the pandemic.

“We were damned glad to get your call,” Dave told Gary.  “Sort of put the cap on this sliver of a summer’s business.”

Dave’s wife brought dessert over to our cabin twice, and Dave shared some ceviche he made from Walleye.  We reciprocated by mixing them cocktails.  They’re nice people.

“I thought maybe with the Americans unable to cross the border that Canadians would take up the slack and book the weeks the Americans didn’t use.”

“Nope,” Dave replied.  “It’s not like that.  I think upwards of 85% of the camps are run by guys like me, Americans who visited these lakes, dreamed of owning a resort, and found a way.  And our guests, I’d say 95% of all the fishermen, are American.  Canadians can nearly always find good fishing close to home.  They don’t need to rent boats and cabins for a week.  When the Americans couldn’t come, the resort business crashed.  If it wasn’t for some government help, we’d be out of business by now.”

“Used to be it was all word of mouth.  Most of my guests are from Indiana.  They tell people back home about the place and I get a ton of repeat business.  Most have kept their same weeks for years.  But it’s changing.  What we really need is younger fishermen, and we haven’t gotten them yet.”

We were surprised Dave was able to purchase the camp outright. The more remote fly-in lakes allow only long-term leases for outfitters.  Lake Wabaskang had other private parcels of land tucked here and there, though we saw little activity at their docks.  The other boats we encountered on the lake seemed to all be from Dave’s resort.

Despite the differences with our fly-in lake, Lake Wabaskang had plenty of similarities.  The one I yearned for the most was the quiet.

I consider it quiet in the shack but if I listen closely, I hear vehicles on Route 80, the overhead fan, planes from Skydive Chicago, any number of background noises we hear in our communities but typically filter out.  But on the north end of that giant lake, on flat water ringed by trees and away from towns, deep calm silence wraps around you like a blanket. 

 And on clear nights, the absence of ambient light makes the sky come completely alive; the bright highway of stars that makes up the Milky Way, the constellations.  There are smartphone apps now that you can use to point out the sky.  They outline the constellation you are looking at on the little screen, bringing it to life.

That’s another feature of Dave’s camp.  For the entire trip, we were rarely if ever shut out of an internet connection.  I stayed away from my phone as much as possible, using it mainly as a camera, and tried to ignore my friends who were talking about breaking news.  I was looking forward to being off the grid entirely. Different year, different trip. 

But no matter what men build around those big Canadian lakes some things remain constant.  Lake Wabaskang is a great fishery.  It has depth and variety, good flow in at its shallow north end and out the south at Perrault Falls.  It produces primarily Northern and Walleye Pike, many of them big and healthy.  We made the trip to fish, to be in the company of good friends, and experience the beauty of the Canadian Shield.  Mission accomplished.

Thanks to Gary Robinson for making the trip happen again this year under difficult circumstances, and for thirty years before that.  He has provided a great experience for many of us for a long time.  Give that man a fish. 

June Visits the Doctor

 In mid-April my granddaughter June had a two-month check-up with her pediatrician.  At that visit, she received her first vaccinations.  The midwife that helped with June’s delivery and the pediatrician had both briefed June’s parents about these shots, and they were prepared.  June was not.  Here are the vaccines June was given.

·       ACT/HIB by Sanofi Pasteur - an injection to prevent a range of infections caused by haemophilous bacteria including meningitis.

·       Pediatrix by Glaxo - First of three injections given at 2,4, and 6 months.  The first injection prevents Diptheria, Pertussis, and Tetanus (DPT).  Later shots address all known forms of Hepatitis B and Polio.

·       Prevnar by Pfizer - an injection to prevent pneumococcal pneumonia and more.

·       Rotovirus by Merck – an oral vaccine given to prevent severe diarrhea in infants.

Before the procedure, the nurse prepared them thoroughly.  June’s Mom, my daughter Moe, described the conversation this way.

“OK, here’s how we’ve learned to do this.  We know it’s not easy for you or the baby, but it’s over quickly.  We give her the Rotavirus first.  It’s a gel given by mouth.  As she swallows it, we quickly give her three injections in her thighs.  After the first injection, she’ll likely open her eyes wide, inhale deeply, so much that you think she won’t breathe again.  But don’t be scared.  She’s just getting ready to scream.  Maybe louder than you’ve heard her cry ever before.  It’s what happens. While she screams, we give her two more quick shots.”

“When it’s over I pass June to you, Mom.  You hold her, she settles down, and we’re done.  She may have a little redness or hardening at the injection sites tomorrow, but as the doctor told you, these are notoriously safe drugs with few adverse reactions ever.” 

Moe looked at Don.  He looked worried.  Moe was too.  June was content and relaxed, oblivious to what was about to happen.  Three syringes and a little cup were laid out on a table beside her.  

It went exactly as the nurse predicted.  It was not the nurse’s first rodeo.  It was, however, definitely June’s first.  Here is a picture of June on the ride home.

She doesn’t look happy, does she?  Her Mom and Dad told me later they were pretty sure June was, for the first time, mad at them.

“Get used to it,” I said. ”That won’t be the last time.”

Soon after June’s mom became pregnant, she and June, in a prenatal kind of way, became patients of a group of professionals from West Suburban Midwife Associates, a practice based in Oak Park that works closely with West Suburban Medical Center, a hospital with a birthing center attached. 

Moe came to know a team of midwives that provided all her necessary care.  Later she added a doula, something like a birthing coach for parents, and a pediatrician.  That completed her prenatal, birthing, and postnatal care.  Included was a solid health assessment, vitamins, regular checkups, sonograms, and an amniocentesis, lots of education, and preparation-all while June was in the womb.  And although there was a pandemic and the hospital was wary of people going in and out, Don, June’s father, was also involved at key appointments like ultrasounds, in birthing classes via Zoom, and was there when June was born.  It was a family affair, a family of two becoming three.  With two cats thrown in for good measure.

June has so far been extremely healthy and happy.  The goal is to keep her that way.  She’s now seven months old.  Her preventative care continues.  At her four-month check-up, she received more vaccinations. 

We can only wish everyone in our country had access to such care.  It wasn’t easy to find a birthing center and a practice that would accept Moe and June.  She had insurance, but not a great policy.  Moe is co-owner of a small business that cannot afford a group plan.  She was miles ahead of many women in Chicago however, particularly those living on the South and West sides. 

Too many women in Chicago receive no pre-natal care and simply go to Cook County’s Stroger Hospital when labor begins.  We talk about food deserts in America, but how about healthcare deserts?  What happens to uninsured women unable to find an affordable health care provider to save their soul let alone an obstetrician, a doula, a midwife, a pediatrician - professional medical support of any kind.  I’m grateful Moe and Don had the resources to give June a healthy start.  Quality health care is a blessing families of privilege take for granted.

But back to June.  At her four-month checkup, she received the second of her DPT shots, another oral dose of the Rotavirus vaccine, and more.  June is on a schedule, recommended by the CDC, of being protected from 14 potentially serious diseases by age 24 months.  And so are most American babies.

I don’t know how many or what kind of vaccinations I received as a child.  I remember the sugar cube containing the polio vaccine melting on my tongue in the cafeteria of Danvers Grade School when I was 6 or 7.  I remember the smallpox vaccination, a group of needles that scratched the surface of my upper arm and was checked later by the school nurse.  My Mom is no longer here to ask, but I think I know how it worked.  She would have talked it over with Doc Boone, one of two General Practitioners in the town of Danvers in the ’50s and ’60s.  Two doctors and a pharmacy to boot in tiny Danvers, population 800.  Health care has changed greatly. 

Doc Boone was a quiet man who seemed shy and whistled softly while he examined me.  I could never recognize the tune.  He was a big white-haired man that we trusted implicitly.  He lived with his family in a brick ranch house that also served as his office.  I grew up with his kids.  He would never recommend anything that would harm our family, we were sure of that.  If he recommended childhood vaccinations, Mom and Dad would have taken his advice.

That’s what June’s parents are doing, as do most American parents still.   Vaccination rates for the kind of shots June is getting, the standard protocol for American kids ranges from 81% for DPT to 93% for Polio.  Although the number of parents seeking and getting exemptions from vaccines mandated prior to school admission has gone up recently, our confidence in those vaccines and our willingness to comply remains strong. 

So, we’ll vaccinate our babies, but we won’t take a vaccine for a virus that has disrupted our way of life and our economy, promises to shut down our schools again, and has killed 675,000 Americans?  Really?  We won’t get a shot that threatens our very lives, the lives of those we love, and our neighbors?  What happened?

I won’t pretend I know.  But somehow, we let politics come between us and our common sense.  We’ve allowed rumor to replace fact.  Too many have bought into a bogeyman characterization of the American healthcare system as Big Pharma in cahoots with profit-hungry healthcare organizations that care little about us as individuals.    

But what about the person you most trust for advice about your health?  The Doc Boones of today, the persons you go to when you are sick or in pain?  That face that sits across from you in the exam room, now next to a laptop, and listens to your worries about your health.  What do they say about vaccination?

I had an appointment with my trusted medical professional this week about an old person’s problem not related to COVID.  She’s not a doctor, but a Nurse Practitioner.  I like her better than my doctor.  In fact, I have lost track of who my doctor is these days.  My Nurse Practitioner answers my emails promptly and will do virtual appointments.  She’s accessible, smart, and practical.

“What do you tell your patients who won't take a COVID vaccine?”

She paused.

 “Well, what I say has changed as the pandemic has gone on because we learn more all the time.  There is so much research going on, so many studies out, and it all confirms the safety of these vaccines.  They may be the safest and most effective vaccines ever because of how they’re built.  And I tell them that.”

She sighed.

“And that’s usually not enough.  I ask them what, in particular, they are concerned about so I can tell them what I know specifically.  Myocarditis was a real concern for me and lots of us, but the numbers turned out to be so small that it really is not significant.  Then there was that fear of the vaccine affecting reproduction in women that was completely debunked.  I feel the vaccines are medically proven. There really is no scientific reason to fear any of these vaccines.”

She shook her head.

“It’s so frustrating.  Some people don’t have any specific fear but are just uneasy.  I see it in their faces.  I ask them how long it is going to take for them to be comfortable with it.  Some of my unvaccinated patients are in high-risk categories; obese, elderly, underlying conditions.  They’re taking a big chance by not being vaccinated.  Some of those people get flu shots every year, where the formula changes each time, and don’t think anything of it.  They just say they want to wait on this vaccine and I tell them ‘don’t wait till it’s too late.’”   

“Once, while talking to a patient I know very well, the last patient on Friday of a bad week kind of thing, I just sort of let him have it.  I told him I’ve had patients die from COVID.  I have long-haulers who may never get off oxygen or return to work.  I have wives who have lost husbands and kids who have lost parents.  Those families are never going to be the same again.  That’s what you risk when you refuse to be vaccinated.”

She was on a roll.

“Now I am saying something different.  Look at hospitalizations.  If there are 14 people in our hospital with COVID, 12 of them are unvaccinated.   And virtually all those dying of COVID now are unvaccinated.  It’s become very plain that vaccines prevent hospitalization and save lives.  Sure, there are break though cases where vaccinated people still contract the virus.  But their symptoms are usually mild, and they are rarely hospitalized.  And they certainly don’t experience the lingering effects that my poor long haulers do.  It’s a no-brainer.  And, I hate saying that because some of my patients who are unvaccinated are very smart people.  To them, I say if you don’t want to get vaccinated to protect yourself, do it for your family.  I don’t care why just do it.”

All I could do was nod and agree.

“You probably didn’t expect to hear such a long answer.”

“No.  But thanks.  More people need to hear what our local medical professionals think.  Not just talking heads on TV.”

“I wish they could.” 

“Me too.”

 

Vaccines are a vital part of modern healthcare.  Starting with the rabies vaccine in 1885, which thankfully isn’t needed universally but can wait till a real risk of rabies is encountered, we have found safe ways to prevent disease before it occurs.  Vaccines make us healthier and we live longer as a result.  What is the problem?

Whatever the concerns about the negative effects of COVID vaccines, they are far outweighed for me by the very real risks of getting COVID itself.  My next-door neighbor died of COVID.  I don’t need convincing.  Yet people in my extended family refuse to be vaccinated.  Of all the things that can and do divide Americans, we have let a simple and safe medical procedure further alienate us from one another, with deadly results.  It’s amazing to watch.  I wish I had an answer, a plan, to overcome this craziness, but I don’t.

I had two shots of Moderna vaccine in January and February and I feel fine.  I’m anxiously awaiting the opportunity to receive a booster once a plan is worked out.  I want to be as safe from COVID as I possibly can be, and more than that I want to make sure I am not a threat to people I love, like my granddaughter June.

June, at seven months old, is not eligible for a COVID vaccine but as you saw at the beginning of this piece, she has had whopping amounts of preventative medicines.  How does she feel?  You be the judge.  Here she is at her Uncle Dean’s condo a couple weeks after the latest round of shots playing peek-a-boo with her grandma.