In praise of coffee

Coffee might be one of the more contentious mundane items in our everyday life. Everyone has an opinion on coffee. Some love their Starbucks, others swear by Dunkins. Some spend thousands just to get the perfect espresso. So, when I tell people that my favorite coffee has almost always came from gas stations, I get a lot of weird looks. 

Full clarity, one gas station I go to has a Dippin’ Donuts, which is probably one of the best coffee experiences I’ve ever had. Smooth hazelnut notes in what I think is a medium roast pairs great with an early morning of whatever I do. Over the summer, I went bass fishing with a friend. Those days in my head I have the smell and taste of coffee and apple fritters nailed into them. When I remember those days, I remember the tastes just as much as the fish we caught, maybe even more. 

Cold mornings fishing the Quabbin with my dad were accented by the taste of drip coffee. We would set up the machine the night before, and as we headed out in the morning, into the cold foggy dawn, the warm coffee kept our core and hands warm. He loads it up with creamer, however I usually take mine black, and that coffee isn’t exactly that tasty.  

Gas station coffee is often just the same. It’s not usually noteworthy, and if it is, usually not in a positive way. There’s something about this unassuming cup of coffee, a certain quality, that I just can’t put into words. 

The first time taking my friend to a local tailwater, we had stopped at a small Cumberland Farms. We stepped out of my car, and into the faint light of dawn. A chill hit the back of our throats, and we stepped inside this unassuming gas station. I remember I got some knock off Chips Ahoy (which I later gave to my friend) and this caramel coffee. For whatever reason, every other Cumberland Farms around me doesn’t have this coffee, and I connect it heavily to that day specifically. Rigging our rods at the tailwater, we sipped this otherwise unnoteworthy coffee. I tied on a chubby Chernobyl I had tied in a size 16 and had given my friend one of my dry fly leaders.  

It was a slow day, an unusually cold day in August. I had managed to put a good rainbow in the net, but nothing that was mind blowing. That day, however, felt perfect, and the fishing being a bit poorer didn’t matter. 

Zen And The Art Of Fly Fishing: Cold Days

My Honda pulls up to the access, it’s noise breaking the silence that is the early morning woods on a cold day. The sun hasn’t come up yet, and I’m dreading getting out of my car. Without the sun, the day feels just that much colder. It wraps around you, it feels almost claustrophobic. There’s no escape, there's no wind chill, there’s no warmth. There’s no respite from the crushing ambience that surrounds you. 

But I got out of the car anyways. At this point, my routine is well established; in the summer, I get out, set up my rod, and get into my waders last, but today the extra layers of fabric call to me. I slip into the waders seamlessly, noting to myself how cool the outside fabric feels after sitting in my trunk. I pull out the rod, tying on a streamer. Something to keep me moving, keep my legs going.  

Before I go, I sit back in the driver's seat.  

It would be so easy to go home right now. I want to sleep. The sun isn’t even out yet. 

The door pops open again, and out comes me.  

I have a plan in my head of where I want to fish, and how I want to fish. The cold bites at my fingertips. I carry my rod in one hand, burying the other in my jacket pocket. Then I swapped. I swap again. I decided that it’s pointless, and that my hands are just going to be cold. 

The pool in front of me has a steep gradient from its sandy banks to an inky black void. It’s 6:45, and I’m here. It’s time to start fishing. 

Starting at the back end of the pool, I work my way up. Casting a heavy streamer on a long leader is an interesting feeling, somewhere between conventional angling and fly fishing. The weight of your streamer drives itself out there, but the crisp stops refined by your time dry fly fishing allow it to carry itself with as much accuracy as you can muster. You don’t false cast, in fact, you’re usually shooting line.  

Short distance, within 30 feet, you aim for the bank. 

The depth of this pool makes it impossible to do a strictly upstream presentation, and I cast like a fan.  

Short distance, within 30 feet, I land near the bank. 

Slow strips keep my fly moving consistently, and from behind the barred marabou falls into the void. 

I set sharply to my left, and the fish is quickly within feet of me. I realize somehow, I’m on my knees, as the fish violently launches itself, jumping over and over in about a foot of water. I don’t remember grabbing my net, but I watch as my hand scoops the fish swiftly into the net. With a numb index finger, I pop my half pint out of the fish's mouth, and stare at it. I stupidly took a couple photos, and tried to get a video of its release, failing incredibly. 

For a couple minutes I sat on the bank, my fingers both wet and numb. I watch a leaf float slowly down stream, before being caught in a ripple. I feel the air bite at my lungs, and I watch that same breath exit my mouth as a warm cloud of steam. 

I’m glad I didn’t stay home. 

Passing of time

I originally wrote this for a publication which didn’t publish it. I decided, while this page collects cobwebs, maybe I should post it here.

When I was young, I remember my dad bought me my first “real,” fishing combo. It was a Pflueger arbor, which I had spooled at the time with 20lb braid and caught everything from panfish to trout on. I cherished it, using it more than any other rod I had. Then, after a while, I wanted something better. 

I was infected with GAS at a young age. GAS when you’re younger is so much worse. Your time on the water is limited to your parents and access to water itself, so you spend way too much time online. Everyone has the best lures, the newest reels. And my mind quickly equated better reels with success. 

Spinning reels turned to bait casters, and those bait casters eventually became conventional reels I would use to troll for whatever I thought might have been in the lake I fish in. Those round reels were loaded with lead core line, and I was filled with dreams of catching a monster pike like I had saw Babe Winkleman pull out of the water up in Canada. Unfortunately, my lake harbored no pike and my efforts to catch them were thus, futile. 

Eventually I fell in love with fly fishing, if not for the tactile feeling of a limber 4wt loading and unloading with a single false cast, then for the aesthetic character associated with the sport. After a while, I dug the old arbor out of my basement. Now 22, the reel which once felt huge has now shrunk dramatically in my hand. 

The cork held up well, succumbing to no rot. The only problem with the rod is the slight expansion of the handle over the years making the reel seat so tight a quick smack with a hammer is needed to separate the reel from the rod. 

The reel works well, smooth, some dirt here and there, but nothing reel oil and slight cleaning couldn’t fix. Sure, there was some rust, and the aluminum has started to oxidize, but hey, nothing too bad.  

 I spooled it up with 12 pound flouro, as I planned on this medium heavy becoming a lake trout rod. To date I’ve gone fishing for lakers once with this rod. 

Part of me almost doesn’t wish to use it, keep those memories alive, don’t put the contradictions in my head. Don’t make the reel grow, the color of the line change, don’t risk breaking something that’s both beautiful and worthless. But I know this isn’t the way. 

I imagine myself, looking into the future, seeing what I’m doing now. The bluegill and bass turn into trout and salmon. The ultra-light spinning gear was replaced with spry dry fly setups and bobbers for indicators. I can only imagine that past me would love to know I still use that same rod, in addition to the others we’ve collected. 

A couple weeks ago, I let my friend use the arbor. His combo was a dreadful Walmart spinning reel, with awful old line on it. Within minutes, he somehow put a wind knot into the reel, and continued to cast until I took the poor thing from his hands. He expected me to be annoyed, to be mad, but I only laughed. It reminded me of my origins with this same combo. All the knots I’ve gotten, all the drops it’s taken, rainy days with no cleaning, days it’s taken a beating, and more than any of the fish it’s caught, the people I’ve been with while holding this unassuming piece hunk of aluminum. 

At the end of the day, the reel is only an object, and as much as you want to cherish it, maybe the correct way is to put it to use. I thought putting it to use would kill those memories with friends lost, family members gone away, but those memories are still there. In fact, I think it’s really nice to have a reminder of those memories and when the reel finally gives up the ghost, I’ll have a memory of that too. 

Dealing with Burnout

Burnout is something that gets a decent bit of airtime in creative spaces. I’m not the first person to talk about burnout, and I’ll be far from the last. However, I do think that getting my own thoughts, feelings, and experiences with burnout out in a tangible way will help me, in some selfish way. Maybe you, whoever is reading this at whatever time, can relate and hopefully take some coping skills. I’m not perfect, and I think the way that I cope is probably, to say the least, probably wrong, but I still want to talk about it because why not.  

As you probably know if you’re reading this, I major in fashion. Fashion is a wide term, and just as a bio student probably studies a lot they aren’t interested in, I do too. My last few semesters have been stressful. I’ve had major life events. I’ve dealt with many challenges not related to school in any way, and burnout comes much quicker with these events in the background. Burnout feels unescapable. It feels absolute. It feels like you’ll never make anything ever again. It feels like there is no solution. Like you might as well switch majors, or at the very least consider your life in some practical sense.  

My solution is quite dumb.  

When I am burned out, towards the end of my fuse, I do whatever is the opposite of what I’m burned out from. I find that hiking and fly fishing scratches that itch fairly well. 

If you live in the northeast United States, you most likely have access to fairly nice trout streams within an hour of your house. It doesn’t mean you have to blue line, but it might take a little digging. Hell, they might not even hold that many trout. This is fine. The trout are not exactly the main point. Actually, quite the opposite. 

If I was a bio major, maybe instead of fishing I’d go stare at brutalist architecture or go suit shopping. Maybe I’d go to the MFA. I don’t really know, but a refresh is nice. 

“Trout live in beautiful places.” 

You hear that a lot in fly fishing circles and it rings true. Fish are finicky and there will be days where you’ll blank unless you use your 20,000 dollar side scan Euro nymph extreme mono rig to find a trout and land a size 34 fly on its head. It’s nice to know that where ever I chase trout, there will be some pretty nice stuff to look at. 

I often wonder what I must look like to hikers who walk past me while fishing. I’d like to think the image of me in their head is like a painting, something by Winslow Homer. The heroic fly fisherman. Rain or shine, he’s out there. I like to think I become part of the scene in their heads. Just a small little guy painted into a massive landscape. He throws an elegant snake roll cast, and a bird watcher stops to stare. 

I don’t think they look at me like that. More than likely they stop, watch me get snagged in a tree, and probably mutter something like “asshole,” before turning around and forgetting all about me. 

A Story about Grief

(Completely random short story I wrote for class. It will most likely be completely unlike anything else on here, but if you really want to kill 5-10 minutes and read it, be my guest!)

I look out the window of my kitchen, staring absently out at the trees behind the house. I turn my dejected gaze to my left. The chair next to me is empty, its leather worn and cracked, worn from thousands of days of use. The back of the chair is covered in a fine layer of dust, I never feel like cleaning that chair. Next to the chair lies a handful of magazines on a small table, mostly about high end clothing, on top is a copy of Vogue from two years ago.

They say that grief is something that everyone handles differently, but I think most people feel it in similar ways. The sudden shock will eventually mellow into a dull feeling of yearning, a yearning which will never be settled. Life goes on, the tides go in and out, and you’re supposed to feel as though nothing happened. The only issue is, something did happen. Something that was like my heart being pulled out, and the fact I have to pretend it didn’t makes me feel like my heart will come out of my mouth and end up on the ground. 

I take a sip of my coffee as I listen to the mail truck pull up down the road. I always like to chat with the mailman, as it keeps me social at the very least. I put on his jacket. It’s a heavy mackinaw, red buffalo check, with a worn tag on the back that reads Filson. You can feel the weight of the fabric pressing down on you, a comforting sort of weight. It’s covered in a thin coating of dried mud from the garden. In its breast pocket is a pack of cigarettes, even though I had never smoked one in my entire life. He smoked golds, he would always say that one day it would kill him. It didn’t kill him, some teenager in his dads pickup did.

As I slid on the jacket, I picked up the scent of tobacco. I should wash the jacket, but you don’t get reminders as good as this often. He would want me to forget, to move on, I’m not going to though, as I like the thought of him more than the presence of anyone else.

“Hello, Mr.Marchand, I don’t have anything for you today, but, I got something for Jerry.”

A lump jumps to the back of my throat, tears start to fill my eyes.

“That’s strange,” I exclaimed in a casual tone “I don’t think he’s around anymore.”

I try to keep the mood light, not everyone knows that Me and Jerry were together, and we liked to keep it that way. I don’t know if our neighbors were exactly the most accepting towards our kind.

“Yeah, well I’ll give you it anyways, that is if you want it.”

“Yeah,” my pain comes through in my shaky voice, “hand it over.”

I close the door softly, grasping the crisp envelope in my hand. The tears that were once at the back of my eyes come to the front, and soon the pain jumps out of my throat. I’m on the floor of my kitchen crying, and it can’t stop. I wipe the tears away with the jacket, a bit of dirt gets in my eyes. Doesn’t matter, I’ll cry it right out.

I look down at the envelope, “From Jen Kennedy, to Jerry Marchand.” He took my last name, it was cute I think. Jen kept her last name, though, she felt if he lost Kennedy, she had to keep it.

I hang my head in my hands, fuck, I don’t want to read this. I put it on top of the Vogue magazine, put the jacket on my coat rack, and sat back down in the kitchen. 

I look at the watch on my wrist. A Tudor Black Bay 36, a gift from a few years back. I would never pay so much for a watch. I was never one for vanity, but sometimes vanity is what you hang onto when you grasp at straws.

The seconds hand makes 12 rotations before I snap out of my trance, and build up enough courage to read the letter.

I look at the small envelope on the table, and sip my coffee. I try to imagine myself as one of the cool movie stars from the 60’s, the kind that didn’t care about any of this trivial shit. He’s gone, and I should just accept that, but everyday I think of him.

Slowly, I rise to my feet, and move towards the envelope. A step here, a step there. It feels like the distance is forever. Time slows, as I feel the stomach acid jump to the back of my throat. Maybe I wasn’t as cool as those movie stars from the 60’s, maybe they were never real to begin with.

My hands touch the dry paper, ripping it open to reveal a handwritten letter. Inside it read “Hello Jerry, I know I haven’t spoken to you in many years, and I am sorry. I know after you had gotten married a lot of us stopped talking to you, and that was wrong. I want to still be a part of your life, despite all of that. On top of that, I would like to let you know that Josh and I are getting married. I didn’t have your number, but I assumed you were in that same old house with Steven. If you can make it, that would be excellent, but if not, call me at 978-436-9234, I really just want to hear how things have been.”

I stared at the letter for some time. My fingers traced each word, each letter. There were no tears, just the dull feeling you get when you survive a car crash. I could feel my head swivel over to my phone on the counter, and back to the letter. Jen had believed Jerry was alive this whole time. Nobody bothered to tell her. At that moment I felt rage towards everything. I wanted to rip Jerry’s family’s lungs out.

I dial the number, I want Jen to feel the pain I do. I want her to see the white Toyota Corolla balled up like a failed math test. To know that what you love can be taken away. To not take life for granted. I want her to see the oil slick tracing its way to that crumpled up ball of paper we hurdle down the highway at 80mph everyday of our lives.

“Hello,” a familiar voice answers “who is this?”

“It’s Steven,” I feel like I’m shouting down from the space station.

“Oh, my god, Steven, it's great to hear from you! How have things been! Can you put Jerry on the phone? it’s been ages!”

“Jerry died 2 years ago.” It’s like a robot has taken control of me, I’m on autopilot

The next few seconds are silent. The wind has been knocked out of both of us. In this moment I realize that even though I lost a husband, she lost a brother. We both loved him. I don’t own the rights to this suffering any more than she does.

“I’m so sorry,” her voice lowered to a whimper.

“I am too, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you guys. I didn’t think you wanted anything to do with us.”

“Don’t be sorry, we didn’t reach out, it’s not your fault.”

When you share a seat on the train with a stranger, it’s not that awkward. Most likely you’ll never see that person again, and they’ll never see you. The silence we shared was not like this. It was sticky.

“We’re here if you need someone to talk to, and you can still come to the wedding,” she states in the blunt voice of a police officer telling you why your husband didn’t come home that night.

“Sure, I’ll think about it, thanks Jen.”

“Love you, Steven.”

“Love you too, Jen.”

That’s it. The day carries on, as it has always carried on.