Norah and Justin have both shown a passion for outdoor activities that reminds me of myself as a child. Despite a woeful lack of fishing trips over the last several years, it remains one of my absolute all time favorite activities. I have longed to share this experience with them since before they were born and I wanted to make sure that I introduced it in a manner that would have the greatest opportunity to be a positive memory.I took casting and entanglements out of the equation and reduced everything to its simplest form. Forget about over-priced, poorly constructed Disney themed rods and reels with umpteen little lures geared more toward catching fishermen than fish, lures that no self respecting fish would dare bite without enduring death by embarrassment. I bought two 8 foot long cane poles with a bobber and hook, and chose corn for bait. In doing so, I also ruled out the gross out factor of live bait.
Norah and Justin were awestruck as I dug through a few old tackle boxes from my closet making sure we had the mandatory provisions. I remember having the same feeling when Gramps prepared the equipment before taking me fishing when I was a boy. As the old familiar, stinky tackle box smell wafted through the room I frequently reminded them that every item in the box could poke them, and watched their eyes widen as I pointed out the barbed hooks on several lures. They couldn't resist the temptation to pick up a few, but they were generally very careful. Norah was magnetically drawn to the fluffy pink crappie jigs, while Justin preferred the wiggle worms.
I debated about which box to bring, but really knew before I started that my children's first fishing trip would be incomplete without paying homage to my Grandpa by bringing his old olive drab canvas fishing bag. It's filthy, even containing a mud-dauber's nest stuck to it's inside. It's frayed nearly to the point of disintegration, and it's filled with an impenetrable, crazy bird's nest of monofilament line, hooks, lures, bobbers, leaders, swivels, sinkers, pliers, stringers and bits of this and that. It's a bag that deserves respect, as one inattentive grab inside will undoubtedly result in multiple puncture wounds from multiple sources and exposure to God knows what kind of long dormant bacterial plague, lockjaw, and maybe death. While not perfect safety qualities for use with excitable pre-K's, it is an essential element to this experience as it furthers the mystery. They stared into it like viewing some kind of mythical animal or spirit bearing limitless unknown magical powers and possibilities. As we got out of the car I watched with no small amount of reminiscing and pride as they ran ahead to the water's edge and I toted the green satchel, a couple poles, and a heart full of childhood and early adult memories.
I thought back to so many different fishing trips to many different places. I remembered fishing for perch in Hatchery Pond in Stillwater when I was Norah and Justin's age. I remembered week long family camping trips to Keystone Lake, near Manford, Oklahoma where we bank fished, then trolled the depths for sand bass and striped bass. I recalled long mornings on Lone Chimney Lake where we made a killing hauling in Crappie as fast as we could reset our lines.
But of course my favorite fishing hole was always, and always will be, on my Grandpa's 80 acres out in the middle of no where, approximately where Avery, Oklahoma once existed. The lowlands were filled with deciduous hardwoods, and the upland areas were poor pastureland, dotted with a scourge of cedar scrub that Gramps and I lovingly grubbed with lopping shears each January or February. I remember being slightly confused and offended every time he insisted on paying me for the "work."
The pair of muddy little livestock ponds were far from majestic, but they created a haven for a nature deprived subdivision dweller, bored to madness by endless mazes of gray wooden privacy fences and lookalike houses. The pond was so small a young boy could easily throw a rock across it in any direction. More importantly, if his lure was heavy enough and the wind was right, you could easily cast from one bank and hit the other, catching a wiry branch of the sand plum thicket hanging out from the dam, and initiating the age old lure retrieval decision making flow chart:
But of course my favorite fishing hole was always, and always will be, on my Grandpa's 80 acres out in the middle of no where, approximately where Avery, Oklahoma once existed. The lowlands were filled with deciduous hardwoods, and the upland areas were poor pastureland, dotted with a scourge of cedar scrub that Gramps and I lovingly grubbed with lopping shears each January or February. I remember being slightly confused and offended every time he insisted on paying me for the "work."
The pair of muddy little livestock ponds were far from majestic, but they created a haven for a nature deprived subdivision dweller, bored to madness by endless mazes of gray wooden privacy fences and lookalike houses. The pond was so small a young boy could easily throw a rock across it in any direction. More importantly, if his lure was heavy enough and the wind was right, you could easily cast from one bank and hit the other, catching a wiry branch of the sand plum thicket hanging out from the dam, and initiating the age old lure retrieval decision making flow chart:
Will it flip back in the water with proper strategy and a skilled little tug?
If so, then great.
If not, find the balance of the following 5 questions, and be decisive.
1. How much do you like the lure?
2. How much did it cost?
3. How many lures did you bring?
4. How cold is the water?
5. Have you caught enough fish for today?
Grandpa's fish were bold, completely ignorant of the dangers lures present, and unabashedly hit anything in sight. These ponds held no lunkers, no record breakers, no trophies for the wall, but hearing stories on the ride down the state highways and washboard gravel roads began a metamorphosis of my soul that spiked sharply as the engine shut off and all seemed to fall silent for a moment. Slowly the subtle sounds of the country revealed themselves: the meadowlark's song, the cawing of crows, the mooing of cows, the labored and cantankerous clicking of a pump-jack off in the distance competing with the clicking of grasshoppers taking flight as our every step crunched down the knee high grass, the occasional sound of gravel ricocheting off old pickups chased down the road by a swirling cloud of dust. All these sounds were music to my ears, building my anticipation for the flick of my wrist, which initiated a whirring sound of line leaping from the end of a cheap but reliable Zebco 33, made with pride in Tulsa, Oklahoma (well, not anymore). The lure would make a graceful rainbow arc, then descend rapidly, colliding with the water in a gentle sploosh in the back half of an open pocket in the weeds, against the opposite bank, precisely where it was intended. This was followed by rapid and squeaky cranks of the reel to keep the lure high in the water, and the hooks free of the salad bar just under the surface. All sounds evaporated instantly as a rush of water silently swelled up from no where, on a collision course to meet the lure precisely the moment it fell off into a water depth where light could no longer penetrate and support the vegetation.
With the drag set low, even a small perch felt like a whale, but these were no small perch. They were just about the biggest, stockiest yellow bellied hybrids around, and they fought with gusto, weaving frantic, criss-crossing paths just under the surface and darting through weeds until their nearly inevitable landing within one of many deep hoof prints in the red clay bank. As my rod tip was nearly doubled over, I would balance on a pair of old, half embedded sandstone slabs, my favorite spot in the world, and loose the hook. I would hold aloft and critique my catch, wait for Grandpa's approval from his spot further down the bank, and gently release the bewildered and gasping creature back to his element. After a couple hours of heaven, we would break for a picnic lunch Granny prepared and packed in a cooler, and drink water from an old blue thermos.
Lunch generally consisted of ham sandwiches on white bread, with way too much mustard, and a generous supply of thickly sliced, homegrown tomato and homemade lime pickles. To my knowledge, nobody else in the world thinks they would like these sandwiches, but they don't know what they are missing because they were truly special. After the break, we would pick up where we left off and start hauling in fish left and right. At some point I would hold up my catch and find Gramps napping; laying on his back in the grass, with his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, his hands folded and resting on his chest and a stained, white, straw summer cowboy hat pulled down over his eyes. All I could think of were chiggers, bugs and critters, but they never seemed to bother him, nor did the sun. He just turned a deeper tan. The end of the day always found my skin burnt bright red, both thumbs lightly bleeding and completely chewed to bits by the sharp little cartilage teeth of several dozen perch and bass, and my soul fully restored by exposure to such perfection as we headed home and literally rode off into the sunset.
1. How much do you like the lure?
2. How much did it cost?
3. How many lures did you bring?
4. How cold is the water?
5. Have you caught enough fish for today?
Grandpa's fish were bold, completely ignorant of the dangers lures present, and unabashedly hit anything in sight. These ponds held no lunkers, no record breakers, no trophies for the wall, but hearing stories on the ride down the state highways and washboard gravel roads began a metamorphosis of my soul that spiked sharply as the engine shut off and all seemed to fall silent for a moment. Slowly the subtle sounds of the country revealed themselves: the meadowlark's song, the cawing of crows, the mooing of cows, the labored and cantankerous clicking of a pump-jack off in the distance competing with the clicking of grasshoppers taking flight as our every step crunched down the knee high grass, the occasional sound of gravel ricocheting off old pickups chased down the road by a swirling cloud of dust. All these sounds were music to my ears, building my anticipation for the flick of my wrist, which initiated a whirring sound of line leaping from the end of a cheap but reliable Zebco 33, made with pride in Tulsa, Oklahoma (well, not anymore). The lure would make a graceful rainbow arc, then descend rapidly, colliding with the water in a gentle sploosh in the back half of an open pocket in the weeds, against the opposite bank, precisely where it was intended. This was followed by rapid and squeaky cranks of the reel to keep the lure high in the water, and the hooks free of the salad bar just under the surface. All sounds evaporated instantly as a rush of water silently swelled up from no where, on a collision course to meet the lure precisely the moment it fell off into a water depth where light could no longer penetrate and support the vegetation.
With the drag set low, even a small perch felt like a whale, but these were no small perch. They were just about the biggest, stockiest yellow bellied hybrids around, and they fought with gusto, weaving frantic, criss-crossing paths just under the surface and darting through weeds until their nearly inevitable landing within one of many deep hoof prints in the red clay bank. As my rod tip was nearly doubled over, I would balance on a pair of old, half embedded sandstone slabs, my favorite spot in the world, and loose the hook. I would hold aloft and critique my catch, wait for Grandpa's approval from his spot further down the bank, and gently release the bewildered and gasping creature back to his element. After a couple hours of heaven, we would break for a picnic lunch Granny prepared and packed in a cooler, and drink water from an old blue thermos.
Lunch generally consisted of ham sandwiches on white bread, with way too much mustard, and a generous supply of thickly sliced, homegrown tomato and homemade lime pickles. To my knowledge, nobody else in the world thinks they would like these sandwiches, but they don't know what they are missing because they were truly special. After the break, we would pick up where we left off and start hauling in fish left and right. At some point I would hold up my catch and find Gramps napping; laying on his back in the grass, with his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, his hands folded and resting on his chest and a stained, white, straw summer cowboy hat pulled down over his eyes. All I could think of were chiggers, bugs and critters, but they never seemed to bother him, nor did the sun. He just turned a deeper tan. The end of the day always found my skin burnt bright red, both thumbs lightly bleeding and completely chewed to bits by the sharp little cartilage teeth of several dozen perch and bass, and my soul fully restored by exposure to such perfection as we headed home and literally rode off into the sunset.
All those memories flooded through me as I watched our beautiful children, Norah and Justin running a meandering route to the water's edge to point and call out to the ducks. I desperately hoped that someday they would share such a memorable fishing experience, and maybe I could even take them to that most special and private place when they are old enough to enjoy it or endure it. Maybe the pasture would still resist the encroachment of cedars, and maybe the fish would still strike like hammers. Maybe Norah and Justin would like lime pickles, or maybe not. They are an acquired taste and it's okay if they don't. My ego doesn't require them to adopt all my sentimental passions. I must have been thoroughly distracted by daydreaming because I didn't even notice that my allergies really flared up out in the wind between the car and the pond, and my eyes were suddenly a bit watery.
Hopefully that trip will materialize someday, but for now it will have to wait. Due to their youthful attention spans we made a short trip to a local park with a pond. One of their favorite playgrounds was within a few yards, which allowed them to run between the two activities at their own leisure. I knew we wouldn't even see a fish, much less catch one as I looked at the rough water and felt the chill wind, which pushed their line into the weeds every few seconds. They didn't seem to mind. They were excited about their new poles and eagerly learned about the tackle and the general strategy. They even got to feed the ducks. Between the newness and the playground, they had a great time and were reluctant to go. Before we left, we all sat down together and I held the canvas bag in my lap and told them just a little bit about the man who carried it before me, a man they've never met. He wasn't a scholar, rich, famous, flamboyant or extravagant. He wasn't a big "hugger" or a cheerleader. He was a humble man willing to be there and share some peaceful moments together with his grandson, which was exactly what we both needed. Today we failed to catch any fish, but we communed with the outdoors and those dearly departed who showed us the way, and we succeeded in sharing some peaceful moments together.
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