FISHING FUN
As a child I used to go fishing with my Grandpa, brother or uncles.  We would take our bamboo poles that Grandpa ensured was just the right length, lay them over our shoulders and walk to the creek.  Here, we would find a shady spot under one of the huge weeping willows that grew on the bank, put a worm on our hook and cast into the clear water.
Before long, the fish would start biting.  Grandpa had a fisherman's almanac that told the date and time that the fish would be biting.  I have no idea how the author of that almanac calculated his facts but his advice was right on target.
We always took along a five-gallon pail to bring the catfish home in.  Grandma did not want the fish to die before she was ready to skin and clean them.  Many times we would have seven or eight good-sized catfish in that bucket when we returned to the house.  Grandma would smile and tell us what a good job we'd done.  We always felt proud to have pleased her.
Grandma would skin those catfish in no time.  When we took her fish, we were always invited to stay for supper.  I would watch her salt, pepper and roll the filets in flour, then put them into a cast iron frying pan and fry them to crispy brown.  My mouth would water in anticipation of the first bite of the slightly pink meat.  The way Grandma cooked it, it melted in your mouth.
Another activity we enjoyed was taking some kindling on our fishing excursion, gathering some twigs and branches and starting a small fire on the creek bank.  This always was contained within a circle of rocks to prevent it from spreading out of control.  After we had caught a few fish, usually bass or perch, we would scale and clean them, skewer them on pointed branches whittled especially for this purpose and hold the fish over the open fire.  When it was done, we would eat it with our fingers.  I well remember a few burned fingertips but the tasty fish made the pain well worth it.  For desert, we roasted marshmallows over the open fire.
Sometimes we would wade into the creek, the mud squishing between our toes and cast our lines from there.  This was done only when the hot summer sun and lack of rain had made the water low.  Normally, the swift current of the creek would have swept us off our feet.
I remember one time when my brother, Ted, caught a big, old snapping turtle.  Its jaws moved angrily as he tried to remove the hook from its mouth.  We had been warned of putting our fingers into the mouth of a snapper.  Finally, he cut the line with his pocketknife and the turtle waddled down the creek bank and into the water.
In spring, Pike came up the creek to spawn.  It was illegal to catch them in this season but when they returned, we often enjoyed a delicious meal of Northern Pike.  The Pike were fighters and it took a long time to land one.  I remember the time that one struck my hook.  What a thrill to have a twenty-eight inch fish on my line.
Through the year I have always enjoyed fishing.  It is a sport that I find relaxing and enjoyable.  For years now, I have practiced catch and release to ensure the survival of fish species.
Last spring, my grandson, Brandon, turned four.  We bought him a fishing pole for his birthday and promised to take him fishing.  A few days later, we drove to the rural community where I was raised.  My aunt and uncle now lived on Grandpa's old farm and I stopped by to ask permission to take Brandon fishing in the creek.  Much to my disappointment, I was told the creek had dried up.  The fish that used to swim there was now non-existent.  Brandon would never know the joys of fishing in that creek. 
One warm Sunday morning, we took Brandon and set off with a picnic and our fishing poles.  We stopped and bought worms and drove to Mohawk Lake, not far from our home.  There, we found a perfect spot for a wee boy to fish.  A wide cement platform had been built just for this purpose.  I put a worm on Brandon's hook and showed him how to cast his line into the water.  Papa baited his hook and did the same.  I instructed Brandon to be patient and to keep a keen eye on the red and white bobber.  Before I could get my line ready, Brandon was calling that his float was moving.  Indeed it was.  He had caught a good sized rock bass.
Brandon caught five fish that day.  His Papa caught six.  My line was seldom in the water but I did manage to catch one fish.  Papa caught a catfish, which Brandon inspected carefully.  He wanted to know all about this ugly looking creature and ran tiny fingers along its side, feeling the skin. 
Each time Brandon reeled in a fish, my heart soared.  His eyes sparkled and he jumped up and down with glee.  I showed him how to remove fish from the hook and place the fish gently back into the water.  Before the day was through, he was taking the fish from me and releasing them back into the lake. 
All too soon it was time to take him home.  He had spent a wonderful day with his grandparents and he was totally worn out.
When we opened the door at his place, he seemed to be filled with energy once more.  He was so excited.  His eyes sparkled as he told his Mom and Dad, "I caught five fish, Papa caught four and Grandma only caught one." 
I could see his little chest puff out with pride as he told his parents how wonderful it was to go fishing with Grandma and Papa.  Papa started to correct his error on the amount of fish everyone had caught but I shook my head.  This small boy was telling his first fishing yarn.  The more power to him.
Then it was time to head for home.  We hugged him and told him we loved him before we left.  I explained to him that to have him to accompany us on our fishing trip was very important to me.  This made him feel that his company was worth a lot to us, which it was.
As I walked toward my care, my step was lighter.  Memories of fishing with Grandpa flowed into my mind.  My heart soared once more.  We had given our grandson something that day that he would never forget, just as I had never forgotten the same gift Grandpa had given me.  We had given him the gift of love by taking a few hours out of our busy schedule to enjoy a quiet day of fishing.  It is a gift that meant a lot to all of us and it will remain in our memories forever.
Copyright © 2000 by Mary M. Alward

Do not use without permission