The Fish Story

The first story from Yukon I have to tell is about the fish that was suppose to be my dinner.

The first year Dad and I went up north we found our road and followed if off the highway to the river that had washed the road out.  

"We were there on the rode up to are clame (claim) but, we were up about 2 1/2 miles and the river had cut the rode (road) of from the flude (flood)." (July 12, 1992 )

We were already a solid two hours from the tiny little town of Watson Lake, the town of the sign post. 

We made camp at the end of the washed out road and forged our own road back to the claim.  I road my bmx the first year and dad the Trail 90.  The second year I got my own motor bike so I could keep up with him.

Every night I would try my hand at fishing with my little compact fold up pole. I knew there was this giant fish in that hole because I would occasionally see him, but never got anything past a nibble.  I wanted to eat that fish for dinner.  I wanted Dad to be proud of me.

Half way through summer we had stumbled upon some abandoned trapper cabins and decided to relocated camp there to be more comfortable.  On the day we packed up I had done my part and was waiting around for Dad to finish so I grabbed my pole for one last hopefully whack, at that fish.  I was out there for a good amount of time before Dad hollered at me to load up.  By that time I was so frustrated with that dam fish that on my very last cast I reeled it in as fast as I possibly could.  And then something miraculous happened.  That fish jumped completely out of the water over my line and then vanished back into the water.  My would be dinner had mocked me. 

I loved my Garfield.

If it wasn’t for the fact that I caught the biggest fish at the next camp I would have abandoned fishing entirely after that summer.

"Today are traler brok (trailer broke) down.  But dad siad , "Don't worry I'll fix it."  And he did. (Aug. 15th 1992)

My dad next to a sign on the highway as we traveled north.  My family name is Hyde.
The truck and trailer in the background was our home and work horse for those two summers.

The view of the washed out river bank from the window over my bed.
I used a brief case that summer for my books and my art supplies.

The land where the sun never went down.

I took a lot of pictures that summer.  But by the time I got home in September to develop it, the film had been destroyed.  What I lacked in photos I made up for in drawings, I just have to find that folder.

Online Journaling. 12/8/2010

What is this all about I’m saying to myself. I use to keep a journal pretty consistently. You would be surprised at the kinds of things you forget. Like when I was a kid I use to get mad at my brother when he would eat too much sugar and bounce off the walls. As an adult I know he has a sugar problem, but it wasn’t until I read some of my childhood journals that I realized the problem went deeper than just a bad case of the munchies.

I would always journal to get to the bottom of things. When I was sad or really mad or just very confused about what I was supposed to be doing in the space I called my life at the time. At the end of a free write I would usually come to some conclusion of why I was feeling the way I was or what the real problem was. Often times the conclusion would be that I didn’t know what the problem was to begin with.

I love my journals. I love books. I love the way the cover is hard and protective. I love the feel of the pages under my thumb as I rapidly flip over them. I love the way the penmanship would flow together and fill up the pages. Words melded into sentences, sentences into paragraphs, paragraphs into entries and entries that fill an entire book, all hand written by me. I tell you, I cherish my journals more than most my artwork.

When I was feeling frisky or particularly passionate I would write in a rhythm, I would create words that flowed and produced emotion not necessarily a story of my life. Lust would flow and unopened boxes would be imagined over as Pandora’s and dismantled in life’s most strange mysteries.

This online journaling is a little strange to me. But what is even stranger is the fact that I have not kept up my book journal in the last few years. It’s a pattern. When I’m happy, seeing someone, busy - don’t have copious quantity of down time, I simply don’t write. But this time the boy is not going to go away; projects are not going to diminish. It kind of happens when you buy a house, get married and adopt a puppy. It just doesn’t equate.

My mother use to make notes on her calendar and then sit down once a month to write out the months happenings. She has used the computer for her journaling as far as I can remember, to her it is normal. To me the pen in hand and a cool page underhand is normal and therapeutic.

So here I am with free time and a computer to look like I’m actually working. My day job has its benefits. Like winter, the slow, no work, watch a movie time of year. So I’m going to tackle this journaling thing and take it one step further. I’m going to try journaling with my art in mind.

I’m going to try to bring you into the chaos that is my life. A husband who married me for direction, a house that is almost hopeless to remodel without gutting the entire thing, an art business that I will probably struggle with the rest of my life, and a puppy who is a blur of puffy fur as he pursues the cat in play. And of course a Kitty, who wants nothing but the puppy to die of Distemper like the last one who entered her house.

Welcome to the Henn house, welcome to my studio.