The Things That Hook Us

PHOTO: At the Old-Style Place, September 2016. Tim Ormson (left).

Northwoods vacation properties are full of contradictions. People go there for quiet and peace, but upon arriving, immediately unpack the noise makers: TVs, stereos, and phones, and turn them on. Whatever we meant it for, The Old-Style Place always delivered what we truly needed even if we didn’t know it.

My brother Tim loved fishing and spending weekends at The Old-Style Place where he hooked, caught, and then fried up his fresh catches.

One time, alone at the cabin, Tim noticed a Rapala, a Finnish casting lure with two treble hooks, laying on the floor of the boathouse. One of its hooks was caught in a loop of the carpet. For a number of reasons, this aggravated him, so he bent over to grab it and pull it out.

Here’s a note about Tim

He was a fine athlete when he was young, but he had grown like many Midwestern men do, stiff, and out of shape. Oh, he was physically strong, all right, with the shoulders and arms of an athlete, but not the flexibility.

Back to the Rapala embedded in the boathouse carpet.

Tim was planning to spend a day or two enjoying fishing and quiet time. He didn’t like the Rapala embedded in the carpet, and when he tried to get it out, it didn’t budge.

So he yanked a little harder a second time.

It stayed locked in the carpet.

That’s when he decided he’d force it and give it a hard, fast jerk.

With a mighty pull, his fingers slipped, driving one or two of the sharp barbed treble hooks deep into his palm near his thumb. Have you ever been hooked by a fishing lure deep in your skin. I mean really hooked, with the sharp barbed points of a casting lure?

He was caught like a bluegill.

And in pain.

It was a hot day and he was bent over in an uncomfortable position. Remember what I said about being stiff?

See yourself bending down to pick up something from the floor and then imagine a couple of sharp hooks with barbs stuck in your palm, near your thumb, literally hooking you like a fish.

He couldn’t stand up. There was a knife on the table, but it was out of his reach. Pliers and metal cutters were there too, but beyond his reach.

And so was his phone.

The hook was embedded deep in his bleeding palm.

“I was all crunched up and couldn’t move. Sweating, and I thought I was going to die there,” he said.

I’ve written about alone time at the cabin. It can be a rich time, but it can also be a dangerous time. If you fall and hit your head, or cut yourself, or have a heart attack, nobody’s there to help you.

My brother had only one option, and that was to rip the hook out of his hand.

He knew it would hurt, but that’s what he did.

There are other ways to be hooked and caught.

The Things that Hook Us

We are caught in traps of our own making, hooked into a desire for convenience or comfort, hooked into consumption, hooked on the idea that whatever we have can be improved, replaced, upgraded, connected, automated, or made easier.

We carry the things that hook us right into the places we go to escape them.

The cabin has resisted most of this.

It has resisted improvement almost as stubbornly as that Rapala resisted Tim. There is still no running water at The Old-Style Place; and the red hand pump still squeaks. Fires still have to be built to warm up the cabin when cold northern air comes through the walls.

And I wonder if the impulse to remove, improve, replace, and upgrade is itself one of the things that captures us and keeps us caught in the net of buying more and more stuff.

I am hooked by memories there, not the stuff because the stuff is unimpressive. But I go there to renew my memories of my late brother Tim, my parents, and others that have graced the cabin floor.

I am hooked by my experiences at that cabin that still live within me, especially the days and nights when people sat around the table playing games and laughing into the night. I am hooked by a small room where the lyrics I was writing came together as a song, a gift from that place. I am hooked by my memories of warm fires on cold fall evenings. I am hooked by the loon yodel across the lake, the sound of ice melt dripping from the hardwoods, the crack of a fire, and the squeak of the water pump.

None of these things makes life more convenient.

None can be upgraded.

And none is available for purchase.

The Old-Style Place has delivered this even as the world keeps offering the shiny and new things to hook us.

The cabin has outlasted them all, and this allows me and others who visit to hear the songs of soul, the gold of what remains: loon, pump, voices, bear rustling in the blackberries.

Yes, I am hooked too.

Caught and hooked by the things that don’t need improving.