Pondo the Great Story Teller

Pondo

The Longest Day

The Longest Day
by Kathleen M. Brosius

       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

Summer was in full blown mode, as all our flowers were looking good and our strawberry experiment was on track. But, I was experiencing fatigue and a bit of short breath when working in the back yard. A little complaint to Cardiologist and an Echo Cardiogram was done. It showed that I was experiencing severe Aortic Valve Stenosis and the valve was leaking much more than usual. I was told I could be a candidate for a valve replacement via catheter placement rather than open heart. The prep was begun and on Aug. 12th, 2024 I had the procedure done by Cardiologist Dr. Saidi, at St. Michaels, in Bremerton. Overnight in hospital and I went home to recover. During this TAVR procedure Dr. Saidi was not able to access my Aorta/Heart area via a catheter insertion up the Right Femoral Artery ( avenue of choice ). He did get the procedure done by other routes and before withdrawing the catheter decided to have a look below using a contrast media he filmed the blockage in my right femoral artery which showed a 99% block. A Vascular Surgeon, Dr. Kira Long was consulted and plans to have that artery cleaned out was set in motion. On October 7th 2024, the endarterectomy was performed. Again an overnight in the hospital, and then home to recover which is what I am doing at the moment. This recovery has been a bitch. At age of 79 this is the first time my body has been ‘cut’. The discomfort from this incision has been painful, taking the pain meds perscribed has caused extreme constipation and I have been feeling lousy.

Update:

In Summary, the TAVR procedure I would do again as I guess my new aortic valve is functioning as it should. Have I seen any improvement in my fatigue issue or short of breath. A little perhaps, but very little. Have I seen any improvement in circulation to my right leg after the endarterectomy, I am not sure. Once I get to feeling better I can better access my progress. Time will tell.

Update:

It has been several weeks now and my incision is healing and allowing me to be a little more comfortable with movement. My increased stamina on the treadmill is impressive. I still feel as though I have not improved as I should with my getting winded and needing the rest often. We will see how that progresses going forward. For now I am over all satisfied.

Update: Several months now and my over-all outcome from the TAVR procedure seems to me that I show very little if any improvement from the valve replacement when it comes to my breathing. I still seem a little short of breath on exercised. The cleaning out the junk in my Femoral Artery however has been a total success and I am extremely pleased. I can walk some distance now and not feel the fatigue that I had prior to the procedure. Improving every day.

It is not secret that my spring, summer, and fall are all about flowers. I seem to come up with new ways to enjoy the flowers, growing them to just plain enjoying them as they blossom and spill out over the edge of the container.

20 specialty cans planted with various flowers that can cascade out of the planter have been fun to have hanging on the fence and on deck posts as well. They do require frequent watering but have been so pretty. Looks like a could use a new chair soon.

These two repurposed hose reels and an added cedar planter box to make it look like a covered wagon has been part of my annual look for quite some time. I always enjoy seeing what each years planting will bring.

I am 77 yrs old and soon to hit 78 and reflecting on the past becomes increasingly important to me. As I sit here typing my thoughts today I am well aware at this very moment

my youngest son and his wife are flying off to Washington D C on both a business and pleasure trip.

I visited Washington D C once but for the life of me I can’t remember when or how. All I remembered of the trip, and it is very vivid in my memory bank, I visited the Vietnam Memorial, and I do believe it was the only site I did visit or at least remember.

Back in my latter high school days as a member of 43 in my graduating class we had a basketball team that was pretty good. Iowa did not have a class system ( A, B, or C ) for ranking so a school representing a town of about 600 and surrounding farming area progressed through year end tournaments to eventually compete against bigger and bigger and bigger school systems. Our pride was that we made it to State Tournament having won District, then Regional, and finally on to State. My bride and partner of today was Kathleen, one of three cheer leaders. I was part of the five starters and our bench was not very deep. Those from our followers who didn’t make the trip to Des Moins were glued to the radio as we advanced through State Tournament play only to be let down just a little as we lost in the finals both our junior and senior years. I remember the welcome home when our bus load of players and a bus load of fans were led down main street by the town fire truck and town police car with sirens blaring and lights flashing. Pride in the eyes of those lining the street for us who had gone so far.

Now back to Washington D C. I remember walking up to that Vietnam Memorial and seeing that sad but awesome display of names by the thousands of deceased soldiers, all in alphabetic order, chiseled out in that one contiguous black slab of stone. As I carried my piece of paper and pencil I found the name I was looking for.

David Mueller, was our point guard from that Iowa Basketball Team. He was the shortest player of any of us standing only about 5′ 6″ but he made up for his height by amazing skills as a leader of the team. He could feed the ball to any of us who got open for a shot like non other. David lost his life after being drafted for Vietnam shortly after we graduated High School. It was reported that he drowned while crossing a river in the Mecong Delta of the Vietnam Jungle

I placed my paper over his name, and rubbed with the pencil so as to record it on the paper, I remember tears streaming down my cheeks. It was probably one of the most emotional memories that I have from my past.

Funny how events of today trigger thoughts and memories from ones past, both happy and sad. Travel Safe Bill and Heidi. I am thinking of you today.

The hardest thing I have had to do lately is to say good-by to the rig/boat that has given me so many memories, especially in Texas. So many people have complemented me on my boat. Its ability to get me to the fish and then safely see me back home again, will never be forgotten.

I knew from the minute I spotted this boat in Iowa and learned its history before purchasing it, that it was going to be the boat for me. Every Guide on Falcon Lake in Texas knew who was sitting in the front seat of this little ‘Mini Pontoon’ jerking fish, and they all became my friends. I will never forget the conversations and waves we shared over the years in Texas.

Pulling this little boat from Texas to Washington with the hopes of getting in years of fishing at its new home, proved lacking. After all, how can one go from catching monster Bass and limits of 2 lb crappie in Texas, to striking out time after time here in Washington, and ever hope to be enthused. It was time.

Good-by, My Friend.

I often just sit in my lounger in the ‘Backyard’, surrounded by the flowers that I have planted and the ones that I talk to, water, weed, and mostly wonder, ‘Why did/do I bother’. Frequently I am visited by the momma squirrel and sometimes by the male squirrel. Rarely by both at the same time cause momma is still trying to figure out how did those little squirrels end up in the nest. Until she figures it out I suspect she will continue to chase him off, well, at least until the next time she gets to feeling amorous. Then the cycle will start all over again.

I am reminded of the time many yrs back when while camped for three days in an RV park high in the Cascade Mountains I was being scolded by a little Pine Squirrel, I suspect because I had invaded his territory. As a piece offering I threw him a peanut, which he promptly picked up and scampered off to either eat it or hide it. I, while sitting at the picnic table soon learned that his scolding now sounded a bit more like “give me another one”. Long story short in just a few tries I had him jumping up on the picnic table, and picking his next peanut out of my breast pocket. He had diligently watched each time I had previously pulled one from that pocket.

On the fourth day after helping this little Pine Squirrel out with more peanuts than he could possibly need for the whole winter, I was preparing the RV to travel on to our next destination and with much loud scolding and foot stomping on the picnic table from my new friend I was aware that he was not happy with my leaving. I bid him a fond farewell and thanked him for the friendship as we drove away.

Now today in the ‘Backyard’ I am slowly working with this momma squirrel on the little feeding station to accept my offerings of peanuts and perhaps one day I will make a new friend.

I have been thinking a lot lately about if I could do it all again would I do it the same or would I have perhaps been better off following a different dream?

I wanted early retirement after stumbling through a couple different careers, so at age of 60 I decided to act upon the dream of buying an RV, selling all assets, including out beloved river home, and becoming a traveling nomad in the RV. It took a lot to convince my life partner that we should do it.

Our two boys, now settled in their own lives and families, had took up residence many miles from the old home stomping grounds, and therefore the decision was somewhat easy.

Off we went, wheeling that beautiful Motor Home all over the North American Continent, Canada, and Mexico. A different backyard on any day that we decided to move, as for the most part we followed that perfect temperature of 72 degree’s.

I couldn’t even conceive of recanting all the beautiful adventures we had. It would take up someone’s entire computer memory if I were to post every back yard we were so lucky to witness. The friends we made and then catalogued while hoping that our paths one day would cross again.

Now with all that behind us. The RV sitting on the second of consignment lots, still unsold, and we seemingly in limbo residing in a place that keeps us comfortable, warm, dry and very bored, and wondering === should we have followed a different dream?

I am hoping that second guessing myself at this stage of my life is normal and that trying to figure out what a different dream would have looked like is OK. Thinking it through, I do believe the choice of dream to follow was correct, as I have only, through memory breached the very beginning. As each past chapter tip toes through my brain, I sometimes see myself sitting in that beach chair, with margarita in hand, on some south sea island, watching my life partner frolicking in the wash of the sea.

Dreams are worth having, aren’t they?

Kathleen here,

The plan, always, is to drag our chairs, our books, our sunscreen, and our bottles of water down to the beach and enjoy a lovely afternoon of relaxation. And this we do. The blue sea, endless and beckoning, its waves crashing to shore, each with a different style, a different sound, a different purpose. But the many times we have been to the beach, I have yet to pick up a book. I have not closed my eyes for a quick siesta.

I cannot pull my eyes away from the surf, as it is mesmerizing. The last time we were there, my attention was given to a couple of coconuts that had found their way to the shore. They were bouncing and rolling with the waves, as if they had together planned a day of fun in the sun.

I imagined them being lovers frolicking in the surf. One was caught by a wave and rode it high until it was dumped onto the incoming rush. He then rolled until the wave deposited him onto dry sand far up onto the beach. His mate bobbed in the surf and caught a wave as she called for her lover to join her. She rolled and bounced, attempting to reach him, but the surf only pulled her back again into the sea. Soon a crashing wave rolled in far enough to catch him; he grabbed it and was washed out to her. They again played together enjoying the cool sea. Another roll of the sea and she found herself on the sand. She watched him as he was tossed about and calling to her. Occasionally they both were together either in the waves or on the sand. But they were never close enough for an embrace.

This continued for the duration of our visit to the beach. As the afternoon passed, the waves grew stronger and fiercer. One of the lovers got a little too far out. Her mate rolled and twisted on the sand trying to catch an out-going wave, only to be pushed higher onto the beach. I could imagine his calls to her as he watched in horror. She continued to bounce and with futile attempts, she was pulled further and further away. A wave finally caught him, and he pushed to reach its peak. He threw himself out to her with a frantic heart and sickening fear. But she was nowhere to be seen. The under tow had swept her beyond the protection of the small cove and had sent her tumbling onto the rocks. His attempts to join her beyond the barrier of those rocks, was in vain.  He was sent rolling, as the waves spit him out onto the sand.

As we prepared to leave, a wave rushed ashore and he soon was on it gaining speed and heading out to catch a climbing roll to the sea. I turned and watched him, as we climbed the steps to our car. He was bouncing and turning, calling, and crying for his beloved.  At last, I saw her. She had made it to the safety of the beach away from the fierce waves and the rocks. But jagged rocks now separated them. She was calling to her love, trying to be heard above the crashing sound. She was safe. Did he hear her? Was he trying to catch the wave that would carry him to her? My hope is that they would find one another and the sun would set as they finally shared an embrace.

George, who has not the imagination that I have, had one remark after reading my story.

“I wonder if one of them could have been Wilson?” Copyright Kathleen M. Brosius – December, 2007