guxiaoxiao2's Blog

 

I found my great love for fishing while growing up on the San Carlos Apache reservation in Arizona. Whenever my uncles or neighbors went fishing, I grabbed my tackle box and fishing pole and jumped in the back of their pickup truck. My dad never understood why I enjoyed fishing so much, but because he knew his three sons liked to fish, he bought us fishing rods and tackle. He even helped us look for worms, but never showed any interest in the sport.

 

One day my two younger brothers—ten-year-old Carl and nine-year-old Boy—and I somehow talked our dad into taking us to nearby San Carlos Lake. As we began to cast out, Dad remained in the truck, reading his paper.

All of a sudden I had an idea! What if I talked Dad into fishing just this once? What if he somehow caught the biggest fish today? Then he’d have to fall in love with fishing, too! Then he’d want to take us fishing ALL the time. What a great plan!

I shared my amazing plan with my younger brothers. We coaxed Dad out of the truck, and to our surprise, he walked down and joined us at the shoreline. But he ignored the fishing poles and simply opened his lawn chair and continued reading his paper. My brothers and I looked at one another, dumbfounded. Now what do we do?

Then, a possible answer—a large fish jumped not far from us. Quickly I put on the biggest worm in our can, cranked back as far as a twelve-year-old could, then let the line fly. I hit the spot almost dead-on where the big fish had jumped.

Propping my rod next to Dad and his newspaper, I walked over to my brothers and pretended to untangle their lines. Every now and then I would glance at the bobber on my line. After what seemed hours, the bobber moved! Then it moved again!

“Dad! Grab my line! I can’t get over there,” I yelled. “Carl’s line is all tangled up!”

“You boys come pull it in before it eats your worm,” he countered.

All four of us watched the bobber dance on the water. Then Dad scooted to the edge of his chair and dropped his newspaper on the ground. Suddenly, the bobber disappeared.

In unison, my brothers and I yelled, “Pull the line, pull the line!”

Dad jumped up, grabbed the rod and pulled the line tight. “Something big’s on here, boys!” he shouted. “Get over here and help me!”

We ran over and stood by him as the line moved slowly through the water.

“Don’t lose him, Dad!” I yelled.

“Don’t give him any slack,” my brother yelled.

“Start turning the handle; reel him in!” screamed my other brother as we watched a grown man holding tight to a fishing rod, straining as it bent from the weight of something big.

“Turn the handle now, Dad, pull that fish in, Dad. You got him, Dad!” I yelled again. It was funny to see three little boys, jumping up and down and yelling orders at their dad as he tried to land his first fish.

Finally Dad, all excited about the fish he was about to catch, braced himself.

“Okay, Dad, we’ll get him when you drag him out,” my brothers and I said. One last pull and out came the . . .

“It’s a turtle, a big turtle!” we yelled.

“Turtle!” Dad gasped as he instantly jumped back. “See? See? You boys know turtles are not to be touched by Apaches—they are taboo!” he said, as the turtle wiggled on its back. “This is why I never wanted to fish!” He dropped my pole and stormed back to the truck.

My brothers and I stared down at the turtle wiggling at our feet.

“You take it off!” my brothers said.

“No, you take it off!” I answered.

“No, no, it was your idea,” they reminded me.

Many years later, I can still hear my brothers’ words, and I smile, remembering that day long ago when we tried to get our dad to fall in love with fishing. I really don’t recall who took the hook out of the turtle that afternoon. But one thing I do remember. Although Dad never did develop an interest in fishing, he did help us dig for worms many more times, and he still took us on many more fishing trips during our childhood—and he did it simply because he was our dad.
 

Michael is the kind of guy you love to hate. He is always in a good mood and always has something positive to say. When someone would ask him how he was doing, he would reply, "If I were any better, I’d be twins!” He was a natural motivator.

 

If an employee was having a bad day, Michael was there telling the employee how to look on the positive side of the situation. Seeing this style really made me curious, so one day I went up to Michael and asked him, "I don' t get it. You can' t be positive all the time. How do you do it?"

Michael replied, each morning I wake up and say to myself 'Mike, you have two choices today. You can choose to be in a good mood or you can choose to be in a bad mood.' I choose to be in a good mood. Each time something bad happens, I can choose to be a victim or choose to learn from it. I choose to learn from it. Every time someone comes to me complaining I can choose to accept their complaining or I can point out the positive side of life. I choose the positive side of life.

"Yeah, right. It isn't that easy." I protested.

"Yes it is, " Michael said. "Life is all about choices. When you cut away all the junk, every situation is a choice. You choose how you react to situations. You choose how people will affect your mood. You choose to be in a good mood or bad mood. The bottom line is: It's your choice how you live life. " I reflected on what Michael said.

Soon thereafter, I left the big enterprise that I had worked in for years to start my own business. We lost touch, but I often though about him when I made a choice about life instead of reacting to it. Several years later, I heard Michael was involved in a serious accident, falling off 60 feet from a communications tower.

After l8 hours of surgery, and weeks of intensive care, Michael was released from the hospital with rods placed in his back. I saw Michael about six months after the accident. When I asked him how he was, he replied, "If I were any better, I’d be twins. Wanna see my scars?" I declined to see his wounds, but did ask him what had gone through his mind as the accident took place.

"The first thing that went through my mind was the well being of my soon-to-born daughter," Michael replied. "Then, as I lay on the ground, remembered I had two choices: I could choose to live or I could choose to die. I chose to live." "Weren’t you scared? Did you lose consciousness?" I asked. Michael continued, "... the paramedics were great. They kept telling me I was going to be fine. But when they wheeled me into the operation room and I saw the expressions on the faces of the doctors and nurses, I got really scared. In their eyes, l read 'He's a dead man.' I knew I needed to take action." "What did you do?" I asked. "Well, there was a big burly nurse shouting questions at me” said Michael. "She asked me if I was allergic to anything. ‘Yes,’ I said. The doctors and nurses stopped working as they waited for my reply. I took a deep breath and yelled", ‘Gravity’” Over their laughter, I told them, 'I'm choosing to live. Operate on me as if I am alive, not dead'."

Michael lived, thanks to the skill of his doctors, but also because of his amazing attitude. I 1eamed from him that every day we have a choice to live fully. Attitude is everything.

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