An expression one conveys, when a story is told, tells a lot about a man. As I sit here at my computer, and if I close my eyes, I can see him— my father sitting in his chair. Someone may have just congratulated him on a small accomplishment. He would have sluffed it off, his reply, “Oh, somebody would have done the same thing sooner or later.” This gentle man rarely took credit; instead, he most likely would turn the conversation to a “little story,” as he put it. The one story he told, that did give him and his partner credit, was the evening the two attended the wake of one of their fishing cohorts. After a lengthy day of checking box-traps, Pondo and his buddy, John Crowley, decided it was getting too late to go home and clean up, so they trudged up to the back door of their fallen friend’s home. As the widow met them at the door, they apologized for not changing their clothes. Their clothing was wet, wrinkled and smelled of fish. The only thing on them that was of any order was their hip boots, which were neatly gathered and strapped just below their knees. The young widow grabbed the two men and hugged them, tears spilling from her eyes. “You old rascals,” she cried. “I wouldn’t want you to come see my husband off any other way.” She pulled them into the parlor and showed them off to relatives and friends. Another story frequently told was the day Pondo—my father, his brother Pede, and their dad were working at Minipark, a spot of land along the Minnesota Slough, where a few old buildings housed all the fishing gear. Pede and Grandpa spotted a bull snake. Grandpa May hated snakes. Pede picked the snake up by the tail and began swinging it around in the air, hoping to snap off the snakes head. The tail snapped off instead, sending the rest of the snake flying. Grandpa, in horror, watched as the snake sailed right toward him. With a twinkle in his eye, Daddy continued his story of how he’ll never forget the look of terror in his father’s eyes when that old snake wrapped itself around his neck. When my dad was about to tell a story, I could always tell if it was going to be a sad story, when tears would form; or a funny story, when a gleam would radiate from his eyes and his face would beam with joy. Either way, the emotion always chocked him up. Every time a wedding would come around, Daddy told the story of someone whose wedding was on December 21, the shortest day of the year, which would be followed by the longest night. And then with a chuckle and that twinkle, Daddy would say something sly and just off-color enough to cause our mother to sharply say, “Oh Pondo,” and shake her head. I can’ t remember whose wedding or what year, but I remember that chuckle and that twinkle. Daddy had quite a following. Pals from up and down the Mississippi River, would bring a six-pack and spend hours with him sitting out back surrounded by piles of fish nets. Whether he got some of his stories from other story-tellers or whether he actually experienced at least part of his stories, he knew how to tell them. One story, beloved by his children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren, was about an old alligator that lived in a hole in the basement. We never did see Oscar, but if the story was true, he’d be a giant of a reptile today. *The two longest days of my life were the days that our parents died. By the time, the day of each of their passing ended, I had lost my voice because there were so many people who I needed to call. Copyright 2016
About Kathleen Brosius
About Kathleen
Kathleen grew up in the small northeast Iowa
town of New Albin, located along the sloughs of the
Mississippi River. Living in New Albin, she and her
brothers played in the streets, roamed the hills, and
explored the river bottoms behind town. Their
mother was a school teacher, having taught in
several one room schools that dotted the country
side of Allamakee County. Kathleen, with her
brothers, had the privilege of attending one of these
schools for two years, during the 1950s.
Their dad was a commercial fisherman and
owned a plot of land along the Minnesota Slough,
just north of New Albin. The family spent most of
the summer months enjoying the wilderness of the
river bottoms. There was no electricity, or
plumbing. The only entertainment were the sights
and sounds of Mother Nature, books, and their
imagination. While nestled in a fluffy feather tic
mattress, the children listened to their mother read,
by lamplight, from popular children’s books of the
time. They loved listening to the many stories that
their dad loved to tell. All of this led to Kathleen’s
vivid imagination and her love of writing stories.
Through the years, she has published many short
stories and poems.
Kathleen met her husband, George, while in
high school. They were married in 1965 and moved
to Minneapolis. After a few years they found
themselves missing the Mississippi River and moved
to Stoddard, WI, where they raised their two sons,
Scott and Billy. They enjoyed the river until their
retirement. They then moved into a motor home,
where they traveled the highways and byways of
America. Washington State, where their children
live, became their summer home, visiting various
RV parks throughout the Pacific Northwest.
Kathleen and George now live in Zapata, TX
along Falcon Lake on the Rio Grande River. George
is an avid fisherman. Kathleen often accompanies
him on his fishing ventures, where she reads,
photographs the fish that her husband catches, plus
wildlife and the wilderness surrounding the lake.
She enjoys staying at home, as well, where she
writes short stories and has recently finished an
historic novel. View all posts by Kathleen Brosius →
About Kathleen
Kathleen grew up in the small northeast Iowa
town of New Albin, located along the sloughs of the
Mississippi River. Living in New Albin, she and her
brothers played in the streets, roamed the hills, and
explored the river bottoms behind town. Their
mother was a school teacher, having taught in
several one room schools that dotted the country
side of Allamakee County. Kathleen, with her
brothers, had the privilege of attending one of these
schools for two years, during the 1950s.
Their dad was a commercial fisherman and
owned a plot of land along the Minnesota Slough,
just north of New Albin. The family spent most of
the summer months enjoying the wilderness of the
river bottoms. There was no electricity, or
plumbing. The only entertainment were the sights
and sounds of Mother Nature, books, and their
imagination. While nestled in a fluffy feather tic
mattress, the children listened to their mother read,
by lamplight, from popular children’s books of the
time. They loved listening to the many stories that
their dad loved to tell. All of this led to Kathleen’s
vivid imagination and her love of writing stories.
Through the years, she has published many short
stories and poems.
Kathleen met her husband, George, while in
high school. They were married in 1965 and moved
to Minneapolis. After a few years they found
themselves missing the Mississippi River and moved
to Stoddard, WI, where they raised their two sons,
Scott and Billy. They enjoyed the river until their
retirement. They then moved into a motor home,
where they traveled the highways and byways of
America. Washington State, where their children
live, became their summer home, visiting various
RV parks throughout the Pacific Northwest.
Kathleen and George now live in Zapata, TX
along Falcon Lake on the Rio Grande River. George
is an avid fisherman. Kathleen often accompanies
him on his fishing ventures, where she reads,
photographs the fish that her husband catches, plus
wildlife and the wilderness surrounding the lake.
She enjoys staying at home, as well, where she
writes short stories and has recently finished an
historic novel.