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    Water, Water, Everywhere
    Water, Water, Everywhere
    Water, Water, Everywhere
    Ebook134 pages2 hours

    Water, Water, Everywhere

    By Thomas Kiser

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    About this ebook

    Unidentified flying objects? Aliens? Do they really exist? For Jerry, he didn't really think much about that kind of stuff. But when he and his family moved to Jenkins, that will be a whole new reality he wished he could've prepared for.

    Jerry, a fifteen-year-old boy and his family moved to a small and quiet town in the Midwest, Jenkins. Nothing was so special about this place. It is located on the edge of a major area of wheat and corn production so the people tend to be quiet and hard working

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPage Publishing, Inc.
    Release dateNov 19, 2014
    ISBN9781634171212
    Water, Water, Everywhere

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      Book preview

      Water, Water, Everywhere - Thomas Kiser

      title.jpg

      Copyright © 2014 Thomas Kiser

      All rights reserved

      First Edition

      PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

      New York, NY

      First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc. 2014

      ISBN 978-1-63417-120-5 (pbk)

      ISBN 978-1-63417-121-2 (digital)

      Printed in the United States of America

      Jerry’s

      Fishing Trip

      Jenkins is a small town in the Midwest known for absolutely nothing exciting ever happening there. It is located on the edge of a major area of wheat and corn production so the people tend to be quiet and hard working. The town has one gas station, a small restaurant, hardware store, and a dollar store. Shopping for anything but the basics had to be done in Renchler, the county seat, which was twenty miles or so to the East. There was a sizable school population due mostly to the large area which they bussed students from, and also the number of hired hands it took to operate the larger farms. Recreation activities were limited at best. There were a couple local lakes for fishing, swimming, or boating, a two-week long rodeo gathering in the spring and various sports fields associated with the schools. School sports were extremely important to the locals, and were always attended well. A trip to Renchler or beyond was necessary for a movie or bowling or other exotic pursuits. Suffice to say, Jenkins was a quiet little town and most of the inhabitants liked it that way. You might not believe that conclusion if you asked the younger generation who definitely wanted more excitement in their lives. A young man named Jerry was one of those who recently discovered the true meaning of the adage: Be careful what you wish for, you may get it!

      Jerry Davis was fifteen and should have been in the tenth grade, but the move his parents made to Jenkins when he was young left him in limbo without enough time to pass, so he had to repeat the fifth grade at his new school. His parents wanted to get away from the big city atmosphere in Washington, and Jenkins is where his dad grew up so it seemed to be a natural move for them. He wasn’t too thrilled to move to the quiet town, but his grandpa still lived there so that made it bearable for Jerry. He was tall for his age and in such good physical shape that he seemed even older. He had medium brown hair which always hung over his collar and his ears, much to his mother’s dismay. He enjoyed reading and working with vintage electronic equipment, but nothing matched the joy he felt when he could be on his bicycle or fishing. His dad had installed a home gym in the basement of their large house, and he snuck down stairs as often as he could to work out. His mom thought he was too serious about exercise but he felt he had to be ready for baseball season in the spring. He spent as much time as he could outdoors in good weather. His complexion always seemed tan like his father, which he thought was unusual because his dad had a desk job and never seemed to spend any time outside, except for their rare fishing trips which both enjoyed immensely.

      That was what Jerry was doing today although by himself. He was heading for his first day of fishing which was usually the best day of the season. The fish were always hungry and were plentiful this time of year. Winter had held on way too long this year and the farming community had to get their crops in the ground. The day was so sunny it seemed as if everything had a golden halo, and each item the sun touched reflected its beauty to the next dreary spot left from winter. The temperature was at that perfect level where you could really not distinguish between warm and cool, yet the sun on his body gave him a slight warm feeling. This was the first day of Jerry’s summer vacation so he reveled in the weather and on his free time.

      The creek was only about three miles from his home and only took about fifteen minutes to get there on his bike but today he rode slowly absorbing as much of the newness of spring as he could. He also had to watch for the leftover winter potholes which his grandpa said could swallow a small car. His backpack contained all the necessary provisions to make this a perfect summer day. Two of his favorite bologna sandwiches, three of his mom’s homemade peanut butter cookies, and some soft drinks. He carried waterproof matches: an emergency precaution learned during his short stint in the Boy Scouts. He quit the Scouts soon after Herman, the ugly little Bulldog mascot, had bitten him for the third time. Jerry hated animals, or at least the pet type of animal. When Jerry was very young, his family tried to have pets, but to no avail. They took in a stray cat or two; they also had a collie pup, and even a hamster. In each case, the pet either ran away or acted wild enough that they had to get rid of them. His sister had some gold fish and a guinea pig, but kept them in her room.

      His sister, Jerilee, said animals hated Jerry, but their mom said they had just been unlucky with pets. Jerry tried to tell them that he got headaches when he was around animals, but several doctors had told them they could find no cases similar to Jerry’s. His parents liked, listened to, and collected old rock and roll and TV show CDs and videos, and that’s how he and his sister got their names. They were both named after a guy named Jerry Lewis: him after a crazy comedian and his sister after a crazy singer with the middle name of Lee. Although he liked his sister, he disliked that their friends called them both Jerry. He was going to high school in the fall and his sister was two years behind him so he would have his own life for at least two years. That thought kept him smiling for the next few minutes as he continued toward his fishing spot.

      This part of the county was mostly flat with a few small farms intermixed with small groves of assorted trees and a few small creeks which were really nothing but drainage ditches. There was water running in most of them now due to the spring thaw but most would be dry by August. Myriad shades of green painted the landscape from the new leaf growth to sprouting pastures and yards. Most of the farms had very small yards as farmland was too valuable for crops and pasture to waste looking pretty. A large yard usually meant that the people had given up on farming and now their income came in the form of one of the few manufacturing jobs in Renchler, or they had retired. He passed an occasional farm worker on a tractor tilling the fields getting ready for another growing season or hauling out the remains of another winter season of keeping the livestock sheltered in the pens and barns. It was easy to tell which they were doing just by using your nose. A few leftover snowbirds gathered on the power lines apparently gathering for their migration to follow the cold weather back north. A few rust bellied robins hopped around the newly tilled fields relishing the upturned bugs giving credence to that early bird and worm thing. A short distance further, and the flatness was replaced by gently rolling hills mostly covered by woods and brush. Around one more corner, he could see the small bridge and culvert which allowed the creek water to continue its travels toward Lake Orange. No one seemed to know why the lake was so named but it didn’t seem to matter somehow.

      Turning to his right, just before the bridge, he pushed his bike far enough off the road into the brush where it couldn’t be seen, grabbed his supplies and followed the creek up stream. It was as if he had entered another world. The spring sounds were gone; replaced by the low gurgling noise of the moving water and the cheep of a few chickadees. Most sounds were quieted by the thick dark covering of cedar trees, their soft brown bark damp from dew, and the sparse, wiry underbrush with its new leaves unfurling with the beginning warmth of the day. The ground here was covered by years of falling scales, the bumpy green leaves of the cedar tree. They piled up year after year as part of nature’s compost pile, slowly changing from their oxygen producing beginnings to a rich dark soil which made the trail soft as a pillow to walk on. Several yards farther, a bend in the creek had caused a deep pool to form and he decided to try his luck. He carefully set down everything he carried except the small container of bait and his fishing rod. His fishing rod was the type that extended from about three feet long up to nine feet. It was great for fishing in the brushy locations found along a stream like this. He could lower his bait over a bank very close to him or extend it and reach a pool on the other side of the creek. It didn’t have a reel but just two clips to wrap the excess line around. Using skills his grandfather taught him, he slowly made his way upstream keeping away from the bank until he was above the bend. He stepped softly so the concussion of his shoes on the bank would not alert any finned denizens below. Experience from last year had taught him that the stream was home to both brown and brook trout and the occasional chub. He impaled one of his bait worms on the shiny bronze hook, released several feet of line, and carefully lowered it into the stream at the upper end of the pool. He watched it glide downstream from the tan gravel-colored shallows until it disappeared under the edge of the bank in the dark brown deeper water. The downward slap of his rod tip let him know that his quarry had grabbed his offering. He gave the pole a small jerk to set the hook and then a steady pull and he flipped a medium-sized brookie onto the path. He removed the hook and slipped the shiny fish into the antique wicker carrier his grandpa had given him. Three more attempts were rewarded with one more of the hungry trout and he decided to move on to another likely spot. Grandpa said to never be greedy but leave some for seed. He found some soft green moss and old leaves, dampened them, and placed it in the creel to keep the fish fresh on his trip home.

      His morning continued like this until he had six of the delicious morsels in his creel. He decided it was time for a little lunch and maybe a nap. He started back toward the road until the telltale signs

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