The Clan Pepino celebrated Father’s Day at the park. Mama Pepina organized a family reunion of sorts on the shores of Rio Pepino, at Parque del Frisbee Perdido (Park of the Lost Frisbee). Los Abuelos, Tio Don y Bob, Los Primos Por Alla (Rubia, Ingeniero, y Joven), and the Author of this famed blog, his bride Pepina, and loin-fruit Li’l Pepinita, met at Dock #2, under the pavillion, for pot luck, small talk, and observing Frisbee Fishing.
“Frisbee Fishing,” you ask? Dear Reader, may I step aside from the Father’s Day thread of this entry in order to explain? My pleasure.
El Parque del Frisbee Perdido is reknown for its World Class Frisbee golf course. Two miles long, the course offers scenic views, manicured terrain, and water hazards. Yes, water hazards. Not just the broiling Rio Pepino, but a couple of creeks and three murky, ecoli filled ponds. La familia Pepino decided to park their Father’s day party at the pavillion in front of both El Charco de Ca Ca de Ganso and El Charco de Ca Ca de Pato (respectively, Goose Poop Pond, and Duck Poop Pond). As we set up camp, a man arrived on a bike, with a canvas newspaper delivery bag over his shoulder. He drove his bike to the portage between the two ponds, dropped his bike and bag, and entered the water bare-foot. He waded back and forth along the shore, zig-zagging towards the middle of the pond, seemingly in a trance. Every once and a while he’d stop, stoop into the water, and then toss a frisbee to the shore. Tio Bob, the family financial counselor wondered aloud why the guy couldn’t get a real job. I wondered silently at the irony. I also wondered if the frisbee salvager was a former client of Tio Bob. As well, I wondered when the pot luck would begin. I have a hard time focusing when I’m hungry. Well, I always have a hard time focusing, this blog a testament to that flaw, but a flaw only enhanced when my stomach groans. Oops, now I’m wandering. No wonder I wander. Anyway, the guys fishes out a few lost frisbees, and soon clusters of frisbee golfers approach him. They transact with the frisbee fishermen, and return to their game. We watched a small economy happen before our picnic, all under the radar of the great IRS.
And that, Cherished Reader, is Frisbee Fishing. May this quiet passtime flourish in tepid ponds throughout the Republic, without the sticky-fingered tax collector ever the wiser. May our brave frisbee fishermen (and women, I suppose. Never seen one), wade waveless, and return to shore with arm-fulls of plastic pie plates. May frisbee golfers forever save a buck, “beat the middle-man”, and buy wet frisbees pond-side, a fraction for what they get at Walfrisbee. And may families everywhere, families like Los Suave, continue the American rite of sitting on collapsible seats amongst avian droppings, watching the Frisbee Fisherman ply his (her?) craft. May God (yours, mine, whosever. No offense.) bless the soggy Frisbee Fisherman!
Pezco poco, porque poco pescado pido,
PS The good people at Bob El Gorila’s Mobile Laboratory of Yippee Skippe Games, Songs, and Stories (Pepino Suave Division), hope you all had a great Father’s Day, and remember the Friends of the Court.