Moe Lane of Obsidian Wings proposes a new word—blograzing:
You know: find a site, read it a lot for a time, check it regularly, slow down, not check it so often, look at something else, come back later and catch up… sort of an ebb-and-flow, you know?
There’s actually a perfect word for this especially if you add posting a comment and checking for a response to the process—trolling (from Merriam-Webster):
Troll
Verb, intransitive
1 : to move around : RAMBLE
2 : to fish by trailing a lure or baited hook from a moving boat
3 : to sing or play in a jovial manner
4 : to speak rapidly
Unfortunately, this lovely word has been corrupted by its commonly accepted blog meaning:
1. verb. To troll for hits is to post a provocative article purely in order to generate an angry response (usually followed by sending a mass e-mail shot to the target audience) and commensurate increase in hit rate.
2. noun. A person who trolls.
The old usage of troll takes me back to hot, lazy summer days fishing by trolling on the Meramec River from an old wooden johnboat with my Uncle George (actually my godmother’s husband).
I remember doing this also. The warm sun, Uncle George’s brown leathery skin, the velvety brown water gurgling by, and staring into the water for the telltale flash of a silver fish. It was kind of like that scene in “Close Encounters of the Third Kind” where the scientists are playing the tones trolling for other life. Same kind of reverence/attention/quietude. I never thought of them as “prey”—actually maybe Uncle George didn’t either. I don’t remember eating any, do you? Ann
Pretty writing, Ann. Actually, I do remember eating them occasionally. But pretty rarely.
I unfortunately never got a chance to go out in the boat with Uncle George. I remember fussing about it and being told I was too young. Instead we went into the river house, and Aunt Margaret spent extra special attention on me, showing me her secret trick of using a piece of toast to sop up the runny yolk in a sunny-side up fried egg. I was not impressed — runny yolks have a very strong and repugnant flavor for a 3 or 4 year old. But now I can look back and remember that shared time with a smile.
Susie Glenn
Susie, interesting post/in the “things I never knew about you” category. Was there any other magic Aunt Margaret tried to teach/taught you? She seemed a kind of magical one to me—maybe it was because of her slight resemblance to Bibbity Bobbity Boo. I remember her blackberry jam and the filling station toy in the bottom drawer.
One memory I want to share about Uncle George—it’s something I always think of now when I think of him. In the last couple of years of his life he would only sit in the tall-back chair by the front window in their little house with the stones. Smoking a cigar? or was it a pipe? And I think he had a little jigger of something there. He had on a burgundy wooly-fabric robe whenever I saw him, and that translucent, pearly skin older gentlemen get.
One afternoon he got real animated and really wanted to show me his box of postcards. He had a great collection of old postcards, from all through his life. He told me about a trip on a train he took out west before he was married—as a very young man, and said these were the best of times, he was just about crying. It seems he showed me cards he had sent back, and the train was made of wood. (Did I dream this?) Love, Ann
It would have to have been a cigar, Ann. I don’t remember a pipe. The rest of your memories sound right on the money to me.
It’s funny what a chain of recollections can be spurred by something small. I’m glad I brought it up.