When I read poetry, often times, the
words have a way of whispering cohesively. But when I write poetry I fail to whisper
back. I feel like this is because I don’t understand rhythm or meter. Everyone
has some sort of rhythm, right? Once while my family was in Thailand we went
and visited some Buddhist monks. The monks told my uncle he would marry a girl
that lived close by. He married Lori, who was living less than a block away.
Those same monks told my dad that he had no luck. Not good or bad. I am like my
dad, except I have luck; I just don’t have rhythm. If I do, I don’t know it.
In
turn, this lack of rhythm has hindered my comprehension of meter. I once had a
class in which we were assigned a passage of Milton’s Il Penseroso. We were asked to separate each foot, mark the
stresses, and look at how the stresses emphasized particular aspects. I worked
for hours trying to comprehend my passage. Eventually I took my frustrations to
my professor. He explained that iambs are like speaking. They should flow
naturally. And if I was having trouble finding stresses, I just had to look for
syllables. So I read, “[Thee] [chant][ress] [oft]
[the] [woods] [am][ong]/ [I] [woo] [to] [hear] [thy] [ev][en][song;]/ [And] [miss][ing]
[thee], [I] [walk] [un][seen].” I had never been so close to understanding
meter. And I was not close at all.
In A River Runs Through It Norman
Mclean’s father taught his two boys how to fly-fish using meter. To the ticking
of a metronome he had them cast using a four-count technique. “The one count takes the line, leader, and fly
off the water; the two count tosses them seemingly straight into the sky; the
three count was my father’s way of saying that at the top the leader and fly
have to be given a little beat of time to get behind the line as it is starting
forward; the four count means put on the power and throw the line into the rod
until you reach ten o’clock–then check-cast, let the fly and leader get ahead
of the line, and coast to a soft and perfect landing.” No matter how hard I
try, when I fly-fish I can’t seem to get this four-count technique to work. I pull
the line out of the water, counting one. By the time I get to two the line is
above and behind my head. Before I can say three my line hits something unseen.
And at four I have a tangle in my reel. So you see, even when I fish I can’t
find a rhythm.
My
lack of rhythm doesn’t keep me from fishing. I might be a terrible fisherman,
but when I fish I hear the same whispering that I hear when I read poetry.
Everything around me, the water, the trees, the sky, it all whispers of an
innate, coherent rhythm. I don’t fully comprehend it, but I enjoy listening to
it.
When I first began to court my wife,
Elise, I found out that she was sick with the flu. And having been planning to go fly-fishing I conspired
a way to fish and still sound caring. My plan was to send Elise a text asking
if I could do anything for her: like bringing by chicken noodle soup, or maybe…
a fresh trout. I expected her to respond with a “thanks, but no thanks.” To my
surprise she responded by saying she would like some fresh trout. In retrospect
I’d like to say this was a strange form of flirting–on both our parts–but
having been married to Elise for over a year now I’ve realized she really just
wanted to eat fish; and I really just wanted to go fishing.
Most
experienced anglers know better than to make promises. I forgot this unspoken
rule and promised Elise I’d bring her a trout. I’d like to say that it was
because of my promise that I didn’t catch anything, but I can’t. You see I am
woefully inexperienced. Most of my fly-fishing experience has been derived from
the movie A River Runs Through It. And
we know how much good that’s done me.
After
seven hours of untying knots I gave up fishing and drove home; wet, cold, and
empty handed. I was ashamed. Norman Maclean also said, “If our Father had had
his say, nobody who did not know how to fish would be allowed to disgrace a
fish by catching him.” Besides the fact that in the eyes of Maclean’s dad I
clearly did not qualify as a fisherman and therefore didn’t deserve to catch a
fish; I also promised a beautiful, ailing girl that I’d bring her fresh trout. In
an attempt to save face I considered stopping by the grocery store to buy a
fish, but I didn’t want to kill Elise. The saddest thing I’ve ever seen are the
trout stuck in the display case at grocery stores. Instead I swallowed my
pride, wrote an apologetic note that said something like, “they made a fish out
of me,” and dropped it by her house.
A few days later Elise had mended. She
continued to ask me when I’d bring her a fish, so I decided to take her fishing.
She had never been fishing before and I figured she wouldn’t know the
difference between an experienced fisherman and me. It wasn’t until later that
I’d found out my dad had warned Elise that I’m a terrible fisherman. Emphasizing
the fact that I had no idea why she still came. All I really know is that I was
happy for the excuse to spend time with her.
After a few hours of not catching
anything I noticed a fishing hole on the far side of the river. I decided to
risk the high-water of spring run-off and try for the hole. When I got about
halfway across the river I lost my footing. Luckily I was wearing neoprene waders,
which acted like a life jacket. So there I was bobbing up and down with the
current as Elise stood watching from the shore. She yelled out asking if I was
okay. I gurgled back, “I’m fine. Stay there. Be back soon.” It was strange, but
as I floated away, I couldn’t help but think that Elise’s blue eyes, with
flecks of gold–much like a lapis lazuli–reminded me of the rushing water. Eventually
I caught my footing and waded back to the river’s edge. Thankfully Elise pretended
that nothing strange had happened. Deciding this kind of tact wouldn’t last
much longer I cut my losses and called it a day.
With
Elise sitting patiently in the passenger seat, I changed out of my waders. After
I deposited them onto the back seat–and before I got into the drivers seat–I
found myself wondering how on earth I was supposed to catch this freckle faced,
auburn haired, lazuli eyed, girl, when I couldn’t even catch a slimy trout?
That’s when Elise pulled a pie out of her bag. It was a slightly smashed,
strawberry-rhubarb pie, and in that moment I realized that it was me that had
been caught.
You
see I have a weakness for pies. If I had to choose one kind of food to eat
every day for the rest of my life, I would choose pie. I love pie so much that
sometimes I even dream of pie. For example: one night–a few years before I met
Elise–I woke up with a craving for strawberry-mango pie. That was a problem. I
don’t bake, and I had never heard of strawberry-mango pie.
When I bake I am more out of sync
with rhythms than when I try to fish. Every time I’ve tried to bake, something
has gone wrong. My brother Josh say’s this is because baking takes patience and
precise measuring. Neither of which I am I very good at. So instead of trying
to make a pie on my own, I called my sister Jenny. She is one of those blessed few
people that can bake anything into a delicious treat. Her Molten Lava cakes are
rich gooey wonders, and her chocolate dipped cake bites are moist on the inside
and rich on the outside. And in my opinion the best thing she makes is apple
pie. After ringing a few times Jenny answered her phone and I said, “Hi Jenny.
You know you are the best sister a guy could ask for. I’m sorry that I keep
telling people that when I was two and you were five you pushed me into the
wall that split my head open. I probably just tripped. Anyways I was wondering
if you would help me make a pie?”
I heard a deep sigh through the
phone line, then, “what kind of pie?”
“Have
you ever heard of strawberry-mango pie?”
“No.”
“Well
I was hoping you’d come help me make it?”
“I guess so.” She really is a great sister.
I
had never heard of strawberry-mango pie. This is the part that came to me in a
dream. I can’t remember if I searched for–or found anything on the Internet–but
now if you were to google strawberry-mango pie hoards of information pops up. Jenny,
like me, was unaware of any pre-existing recipes so she altered her apple pie
recipe to work for strawberries and mangoes. We added less sugar than normal
and she did a few other things that I didn’t understand. I basically stirred,
cut, measured, and poured. She also let me turn on the oven. When that pie came
out of the oven it looked like it belonged on the windowsill of a small,
secluded cottage nestled in some far off hills. It tasted even better than it
looked.
Not
long after we were married Elise decided that she was tired of waiting for me
to catch her a fish. So we bought her a fishing license. Then one evening,
along with my family, we drove to some lakes in the Manti-Lasal National. The two of us grabbed a rod, and paddled out
onto the lake in a canoe. Elise was determined to catch a fish for herself.
However, I was confident that I’d catch a fish for her before she could catch a
fish on her own. You see I had a secret and a strategy.
The secret: A few years back, while
in New Zealand, my family went trout fishing. We hired a guide that took us out
onto Lake Rotorua. The guide used variations of a lure called a Tasmanian Devil. That day on Lake
Rotorua we made a killing. Before leaving we bought a bunch of Tasmanian Devils to try back in Utah.
They were a big success. There hadn’t been a single time in which we used them
that we hadn’t caught a fish. I had a handful of these lures with us in the
canoe.
My strategy: I had decided that even
though fly-fishing is the most aesthetically pleasing fishing technique, my
skills were inadequate. And being desperate to clear my conscience of my
promise, I decided to forget about aesthetics and use a foolproof Tasmanian Devil. The other part of my
strategy was even less complicated. We had one rod between the two of us. If I
fished first, I would catch a fish first.
The only problem with my strategy was
that I didn’t catch anything. I had forgone fly-fishing so that I could clear
my conscience of a slippery promise, and yet again I failed to procure a fish.
I was also pretty sure that this time, Elise hadn’t baked a pie to ease my pain.
Eventually
I gave up trying and let Elise fish. The Tasmanian
Devils didn’t work for her either. And with the sun setting our time was
running out. I looked across the shimmering lake, past the waving groves of
aspen trees, beyond the rolling mountaintops, and knew two things: first I
needed to swallow my pride and help Elise catch a fish. Second, I needed to
switch from a lure to a fly. So I had Elise reel in her line. First I tied on a
bobber, then three feet of leader, and then the fly. The purpose of the bobber
was to give the line enough weight for casting. I gave the rod back to Elise
and instructed her that after she casts she should slowly reel it in.
Shortly
after Elise started using this technique I had a fisherman’s urge; and being
far enough away from shore not to be seen, I stood up in the canoe and started
to relieve myself over the side. About that same time a fish struck Elise’s
fly. As I tried to hurry and finish peeing, the canoe began to rock, Elise
wanted to know what to do, I couldn’t get my zipper up, and then the fish shot
out of the water in a beautiful arc. When it splashed back into the lake I
thought it was over. I was sure the fish had bucked the line and was safely
swimming home. I was wrong again. Somehow Elise had managed to keep just the
right amount of tension on the line so that the fish was still hooked. She kept
reeling and pretty soon had a beautiful 13-inch rainbow trout next to the
canoe. By this time I had my pants zipped up and I was looking around for my
net. It dawned on me that I left my fishing net in the back of my dad’s truck. So
I reached down with my hand, grabbed the slippery fish and pulled it out; before
I got it into the boat it twisted, I lost my grip, the hook came out, and the
fish splashed back into the water and swam away.
Lets
forget about fishing and get back to pie. Pie is good. I like pie. I think a
lot about pie. Not long ago I asked Elise’s grandfather who is a mathematician,
about the relevance of the numerical term Pi. Specifically why it is referred
to as Pi and if it had any connection to pies. Sadly he said that it had no
connection to pie. And the term Pi was nothing more than a random Greek letter
used to represent those numbers. He then went on to explain the numerical relevance.
“If you have a circle in the plane with radius 1, the area of the circle is Pi.
And the circumference of the circle is 2 Pi.” This piqued my interest. I wasn’t
completely sure what he meant (no fault of his) but I didn’t think it was a
coincidence that the most common shape for pie is a circle.
However,
not all pies are circles. The first kind of pie that comes to mind when I think
about non-circular pies, are meat pies. My mom is an ethnobotanist, and when I
was eight years old my family went and lived in Tonga while she did research on
seaweed. In Tonga’s capital city of Nuku’alofa there is a small bakery. There
were only two things that made this bakery different from all the others: donuts
and meat pies. This was the only place in all of Tonga you could get a fresh
donut. And it was the first place I ever tried a meat pie. Their pies were
rectangular shaped pies, and they were filled with warm gravy and meat. As an
eight-year-old, it was like taking a little bite of heaven.
Sadly
not all pie is heavenly. Have you ever had fish pie? Recently Elise and I were
reading about different kinds of pies. Elise found a pie called Stargazy pie.
The story behind this pie goes like this: In 16th century England
there was a small fishing village just outside of Cornwall. One Christmas the
sea had been so rough that nobody was able to go out fishing. Because of their
dependence on fish, and their lack thereof, the village was starving. Finally
Tom Bawcock braved the rough seas and caught a motley collection of fish. He
brought them back to the village and they baked those fish in a pie. And the
heads of those fish stuck out of the top of the pie and looked towards the
stars in gratitude. Hence the name “Stargazy pie.” Well I’ve never actually
tried Stargazy pie, so it isn’t my place to say if it is nasty or nice. But I
have had a different kind of fish pie in England. And it wasn’t so nice.
Again
I was travelling with my family. This time my dad was one of three professors
for a BYU study abroad. We were lucky enough to stay in the BYU London center.
And I say lucky because the London center was amazing. Not only was it situated
in a great location–just kitty-corner to Kensington Gardens–it was also run by a
British couple. Their names were Tony and Tina. Tony did most of the
maintenance work, while Tina planned and helped cook the meals. She was a wonderful
cook. One week Tina had to go out of town so the cooking responsibilities fell
to Tony. Tony decided to cook one of his favorite foods, fish pie. His pie was
a conglomerate of fish, vegetables and what Tony considered a crust, but I
would refer to as mush. That night, after eating, my stomach rebelled and that fish
pie went swimming.
This
last summer Elise and I decided to escape the city and go camping. Our chosen
destination was Calf Creek. This is a small, first-come-first-serve campsite
situated on the valley floor of a red rock canyon. For as long as I can
remember my family has gone camping at Calf Creek. One of the best parts about
this campground is that a small stream goes right through the middle of it.
This stream flows over a bed of sandstone; and if you follow it upstream, it
leads to a beautiful waterfall. The biggest fish live right underneath the
falls, but all along the stream there are pockets of trout. For this reason I
brought my fly rod.
In
the evening, not long after we arrived, Elise and I slipped away from our
campsite and went fishing. Not far from where we were camped there was a small pool
of water. During the heat of the day it was a swimming hole; but as evening
came on and the waters cooled, all the swimmers left. With Elise watching from
the nearby bank I began to cast. Forward. Backward. I pulled my line through
the air. I tried to count. Something was off. I fought to find a rhythm. I had
no rhythm. I looked to the side where Elise was watching. She smiled and I
relaxed: I felt the stream pull at my feet. I looked up at the sky–blue against
the harsh reds of the cliff. Then I closed my eyes and listened for a whisper.
I’ve
read about an idea, a philosophy, and theology that states we, as in people,
free our spirits when we have boundaries. I know that seems contradictory and
slightly ambiguous. It seems that boundaries are made to keep us in, or to keep
us out. For a moment I considered pies. The beauty of a pie comes not from what
is on the outside; the beauty comes from what we put into it. In an attempt to
define poetry, I once had a professor claim, “Poetry is working within a
peculiar set of arbitrary rules to achieve a particular objective.” If this is
true, pie is poetry. And so is fly-fishing.
I
opened my eyes, looked back at Elise, tested the weight of the rod in my hand,
and began to cast. This time, as the line moved forward, I envisioned the fly
sweeping across the water. I pulled it back, feeling the line weave above my
head. I moved it forward again. Then back. And as I moved it forward for the
third time I heard a whisper and I landed my fly. For the very first time since
my promise to Elise, I caught a fish. And just for a moment… I felt myself whisper
back.
