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The Fisher of Stories



I catched a big fish the fish was ginormous. My dad catched a ginormous turtle. It was a mean turtle. The wind was (unreadable and he couldn’t remember what he wrote). And we went to the military.

The wind was wicked gusty.


Today was really fun. We went fishing and then saw the Ft. Gibson National Cemetery. When we were fishing my dad caught a turtle and said “Stand back.” “Yes sir,” we said back. Clip, my dad clipped him off and it ran madly back to the water. Then I/my dad got a huge fish up to the bank then my dad had a fish and lost it and last my brother caught a fish couldn’t get the hook off but my dad did and then we packed up and left. On the way back I asked my dad “Where is the national cemetery?” And then my dad took us. There were a lot of people who have fought for our country. Then we left, went home, and wrote this. Then ate lunch. The End. 

We do not have lounge chairs.


I like to fish.
Today I took our son and daughter out with me. The wind was terrible, and when we got to the pond I immediately regretted spending five dollars on minnows. But we soldiered on.
The lines went in the water, and before long corks started going under. Akeeli did what Akeeli normally does, which is catch a lot of fish but then lose them at the bank.
For the first time since we’ve started fishing, Aven caught more fish than anyone, and he was actually pulling them on the bank and taking them off, then throwing them back into the water.
Then, my cork went under. As I reeled it in, I knew something felt wrong. I told the kids I thought I’d caught a turtle, and sure enough, I hauled an enormous “Tennessee Fightin’ Turtle*” out of the water. The neck on this thing was longer than my leg and it. was. pissed.
I told the kids to get back because it kept charging us, and I kept yanking it up in the air, making the relationship more difficult. I finally got my clippers, stretched it out as far as I could, and clipped the line, letting the thing run straight back into the water.
In the meantime, Aven caught yet another fish.
Then, Keeli’s cork went straight under. Being a girl, and naturally predisposed to not paying attention, she didn’t see it.
“Keeli, your cork is gone.”
She set the hook and started reeling like crazy.
“Dad, it’s too big. You’ll have to do it.”
I took the rod and to my surprise, she had a nice fish attached. Then it jumped. It was amazing. After a couple more minutes, I drug the fish onto the bank…and lost it.
Then I told them about how to construct a “the one that got away” story.
As we left, I sneezed about 600 times and my eyes swelled shut due to my “seasonal” allergies. I was dying.

Not pretty y’all.

On the way home, Keeli asked me where the National Cemetery was in Fort Gibson. I asked if either of them had ever been, and they both said no. I figured then was as good a time as any for an object lesson, so I drove them out there.
I told them how those people were the reason we could go fishing, go to church, and be free. I told them there were more people serving who were helping to protect those rights as well, including their Uncle Josh.
As we drove out of the cemetery, Keeli looked at me and said, “We probably better go home, your eyes are watering from your allergies.”
Yeah. My allergies. Stupid allergies.
I like to fish. I love our kids.

This should not be confused with transition defense, which I’m terrible at.


I’d say that’s all I’m able to say…but we all know that it’s me, and that won’t happen.

I posted a blog last Wednesday, about a tragedy that had befallen our hometown. If you haven’t read it, go do so here, and this post might make more sense. It was a blog that was tough to write, but not for the conventional reasons that are normally associated with chronicling death. It was tough to write about because I was fighting my narcissistic nature the entire time that I wrote it. In fact, at one point, after having spent about 3 hours writing and deleting and rewriting, I finally had to walk away.

I’m so glad I walked away. You see, what I was writing was full of the word “I” and “me” and my thoughts and memories and opinions. And in the end, I’m not the person I needed to be writing about. So after spending a short time in prayer, I started all over. I listened to this song, and I allowed God to show me how he could be glorified, which inspired me to write the words that so many of you took the time to read and share. In fact, here are some of the numbers from the post, On Tragedy.

It has been viewed 2300 times in the last five days.
It has been viewed in 226 cities in 29 countries on 6 continents (the only one missing is Antarctica, and I can’t blame them really, getting an ISP out there is tough).
It has been shared 430 times on Facebook.
It has accounted for 5% of all my blog traffic in the past three years.

Those are the stats as of right now. Even as I’m typing this, I’m checking my real-time data on the analytics website, and people are still drifting on and off the page. And seriously, as much as I’ve always loved blog traffic and numbers, I’ve realized two amazing things that I love more.

  1. The gospel message has been viewed 2300 times in the last five days. I’ve not been given any knowledge whatsoever that there have been decisions for Christ made as a result, but I like to think there have been.
  2. The family has been completely unanimous in their expression that the post gave them peace and comfort.

They buried Kambrin today. No one has given me an official attendance count, but I’d say somewhere in the neighborhood of eight hundred were there. There was standing room only in even the overflow room. There were a lot of tears, but even more laughter. We got to hear her uncles tell stories, and remind us all that she wasn’t here anymore, but that we’d see her again one day.
We drove out to the cemetery. My family gathered around my dad’s grave briefly before the internment, and…we laughed. We joked about the size of coffin I’m going to need when I die. We talked about putting all four of us boys into a giant crypt with bunk beds in it, just like our room used to be. When the family arrived, we gathered closely around them and tried to give them comfort. There was more laughter, there were more tears. And then it was over.
And because I absolutely deplore anyone who I feel is “cashing in” on tragedy, that’s the last you’ll ever hear of Kambrin on this blog.
And so here I am. I’m sitting at home, much like five evenings ago, and faced with the most stress I’ve ever had when typing up a blog. In fact, I’ve been telling my wife all week that I have no idea how I’m ever going to write a new post. I’m wrestling with transitions.
You see, a lot of people who have never seen this site before have been here in the last few days. More are on the way. I know that, because today I was asked at least five times what a “blog” was, and then asked for specific directions on how to get here. If you’re reading this, I guess you made it. Thanks.
But it’s in all that traffic where the problem lies. You see, I’ve not always been a “spiritual” blogger. I’ve always had and openly talked about my faith, but I haven’t always represented it with the cleanest stories, language, or subject matter. If you look through my archives, you’ll see posts littered with profanity, off-color humor, and several other things that would offend a great many “church folk,” and my mom.
I could go back through the posts and delete the worst ones, and I might still do that. I could also go back through and edit out all the foul language and use words like “pickles” and “dangit” and “fudge.” And I might still do that as well. I haven’t made a final decision though. You see, those posts, those stories, they represent a part of me. They let people know (if any still exist that think it) that I’m not perfect. I have a history. And it’s not a “before Christ” history either. I’ve been a Christian for twenty four years now. It was simply a time where I was not as close to God as either one of us would have liked for me to have been.
I will say this though. If you think I’m going to turn my little piece o’ the internets into something other than a humor blog, you’re dead wrong. You see, tragedy and comedy are a lot alike. In fact, you can’t have one without the other. They are intertwined with each other, and both will ultimately lead to the other. So we’ll go on laughing here. We’ll go on telling stories about the athlete refusing to die and the fact that I’m a crybaby, or the time when I got what I deserved.
For you rookies that might still be reading this, if you click the blue text, it’ll take you to some funny stories.
Will as many people see this post as the one before it? I’d be crazy to think that. Will this post be shared 430 times on Facebook? Maybe by me…but that’s it. But the people that matter will be here. And they’ll read it, and they’ll know that even though I have a past, and even though I can form letters into words which might bring peace and comfort to some, ultimately I’m Travis Sloat, I’m a Christian, I’m proud to say my hometown is Okay, Oklahoma, This blog and I are a work in progress, sometimes I cuss a little, I love you all, and…I like to fish.

How you doin’?

(Picture enlarged to show sexiness)