There's A Catch
Over the past week I’ve been thinking a lot about fishing. Maybe it has to do with the current research surrounding the Oregon Trail and the travelers needing to use the land to supplement their food supply, maybe not. With the weather so frigid and snow covering the ground; putting my mind to past occasions of warmth and sunshine provides a bit of comfort.
As I’ve mentioned before in my blog, my parents owned a weekend cottage on a small inland lake thirty miles from home. The place was close enough to escape to and far enough to leave all of our troubles behind. I spent many summers there. After meals we were not allowed to swim for an hour after so as to avoid cramping. During that wait, I’d grab my fishing pole and toss the line in search of the legendary Otis. You’ve probably heard of Otis, for most every lake holds a whale of a fish. He’s the one that got away and as most fishermen can attest, grows larger and more coveted with every telling. Those who appreciated a great challenge kept their sights on that elusive fish, myself included.
I’d dig for worms; I’d use hotdogs or any scraps that were readily available as bait. My reel of choice was a Zebco 202 that I kept perfectly tweaked. My casts were strong, seeming to fly from shore towards the center of the lake in as little as 7 seconds. I loved the way the line would shimmer in the afternoon sun and there was nothing like the initial click of the reel after the hook landed with a splash. “Tick, tick, tick,” would echo as I turned the lever with great patience reeling it in. If I was lucky, I’d feel the flutter on the other end of the line and it was then I’d say, “got-ya!”
The thing of it is; I never liked messing with fish to take them off the hook. They were slimy and the fin on top would often cut into the palm of my hand. Forget catfish, they were just plain frightening. No matter where I was along the shore, when I caught a fish, any fish, I’d go running for my dad. He’d always respond by saying, “oh let’s see what you caught this time.” I can only imagine his annoyance because I was quite good at catching fish and I was always seeking him out.
There were occasions that I’d accompany my father on his fishing boat. He preferred evenings after the lake had calmed down. He knew this amazing spot to where he’d line his boat up with a certain willow tree on one side of the lake and a boathouse on the other. He had this secret bait that we had to hand pick ourselves from the great Catalpa Tree back home. The fish were a-plenty too! We’d toss our lines and within ten seconds we were reeling in the plumpest bluegills. Dad fished with two poles and if you added my one to the mix, we were navigating three at one time. Those fish would sit in the holding bucket for my father to determine if they were “keepers” or “toss-backs.” We kept a running total for we didn’t want to be fined for taking more than what was allowed.
The worst part of the fishing experience came the following morning when we had to clean those little rascals. Dad used the fillet knife as my sister Mary and I were on the scaling crew. Mom provided smocks but the truth is; we needed hazmat suits. Scales flew in all directions and the worst was when they flipped into our hair or landed near our lips. My sister and I were both an absolute mess …and the stench; even a good scrubbing of soap followed by the best of perfumes couldn’t mask that truth.
As I matured, I finally concluded that the closest I wanted to come to fish was from behind a menu at the local restaurant. So I retired my fishing pole leaving the possibility of Otis back at the lake for someone else to pursue.
Fast forward to just after my son turned six and I bought him his first fishing pole…a Zebco rod and reel for it was, after all, tradition. We drove out to my parent’s cottage and there was great excitement as he tossed the line into the water. Although with many more speedboats tearing around the lake, it took a lot more effort than I remembered. My son caught his first bluegill that day, a four inch toss-back. The smile on his face, priceless…the fish on the hook, waiting for me to remove…all-yuck! I did it though, with a plastered grin, all for him just like my father had always done for me.
The parenting experience is funny sometimes. In the past nine years I’ve removed more fish from hooks than I ever imagined possible. My son is quite the bass fisherman too. Have you ever placed your thumb to the lower lip of a large mouth bass? Let me just say that they have small teeth that prickle into a person’s finger. I typically say the same thing to myself just about each and every time, show no fear. Sometimes when that fish jumps in protest, I’ll jump as well…and I always laugh. Showing courage is something easier said than done since bass are intimidating creatures! They likely eat small bluegill for breakfast and frogs for dinner.
Of course my son is old enough now that he can probably manage just fine on his own…but when it comes time for the cleaning, I stand alone. My sister Mary is no longer at my side to help scale those fish; dad is no longer at the far end of the table using his fillet knife to carve out the meat ever so carefully. It’s just me with my dad’s knife that was handed down soon after he passed away several years ago…it’s that and the memory of telling him, “I caught another one dad.”
My mom would always bread the bluegill and pan fry them. Instead, I opt to use foil, a bit of lemon, herbs and the indirect heat of our gas grill. Bass is quite delicious too, light and flaky. What makes it all the better, are the conversations of “remember when” as my son reels them in. “Mom, look at that beauty!” he’ll announce. I find myself smiling with appreciation knowing that someday my son will better understand the great circle of life when he finds himself on the sidelines as his child reels them in. A 4” bluegill or an 18” bass, it’s all good. The greatest warmth is often found in the depths of my heart while considering the “fishiness” of summer from the distance of a cold winter’s day.
As I’ve mentioned before in my blog, my parents owned a weekend cottage on a small inland lake thirty miles from home. The place was close enough to escape to and far enough to leave all of our troubles behind. I spent many summers there. After meals we were not allowed to swim for an hour after so as to avoid cramping. During that wait, I’d grab my fishing pole and toss the line in search of the legendary Otis. You’ve probably heard of Otis, for most every lake holds a whale of a fish. He’s the one that got away and as most fishermen can attest, grows larger and more coveted with every telling. Those who appreciated a great challenge kept their sights on that elusive fish, myself included.
I’d dig for worms; I’d use hotdogs or any scraps that were readily available as bait. My reel of choice was a Zebco 202 that I kept perfectly tweaked. My casts were strong, seeming to fly from shore towards the center of the lake in as little as 7 seconds. I loved the way the line would shimmer in the afternoon sun and there was nothing like the initial click of the reel after the hook landed with a splash. “Tick, tick, tick,” would echo as I turned the lever with great patience reeling it in. If I was lucky, I’d feel the flutter on the other end of the line and it was then I’d say, “got-ya!”
The thing of it is; I never liked messing with fish to take them off the hook. They were slimy and the fin on top would often cut into the palm of my hand. Forget catfish, they were just plain frightening. No matter where I was along the shore, when I caught a fish, any fish, I’d go running for my dad. He’d always respond by saying, “oh let’s see what you caught this time.” I can only imagine his annoyance because I was quite good at catching fish and I was always seeking him out.
There were occasions that I’d accompany my father on his fishing boat. He preferred evenings after the lake had calmed down. He knew this amazing spot to where he’d line his boat up with a certain willow tree on one side of the lake and a boathouse on the other. He had this secret bait that we had to hand pick ourselves from the great Catalpa Tree back home. The fish were a-plenty too! We’d toss our lines and within ten seconds we were reeling in the plumpest bluegills. Dad fished with two poles and if you added my one to the mix, we were navigating three at one time. Those fish would sit in the holding bucket for my father to determine if they were “keepers” or “toss-backs.” We kept a running total for we didn’t want to be fined for taking more than what was allowed.
The worst part of the fishing experience came the following morning when we had to clean those little rascals. Dad used the fillet knife as my sister Mary and I were on the scaling crew. Mom provided smocks but the truth is; we needed hazmat suits. Scales flew in all directions and the worst was when they flipped into our hair or landed near our lips. My sister and I were both an absolute mess …and the stench; even a good scrubbing of soap followed by the best of perfumes couldn’t mask that truth.
As I matured, I finally concluded that the closest I wanted to come to fish was from behind a menu at the local restaurant. So I retired my fishing pole leaving the possibility of Otis back at the lake for someone else to pursue.
Fast forward to just after my son turned six and I bought him his first fishing pole…a Zebco rod and reel for it was, after all, tradition. We drove out to my parent’s cottage and there was great excitement as he tossed the line into the water. Although with many more speedboats tearing around the lake, it took a lot more effort than I remembered. My son caught his first bluegill that day, a four inch toss-back. The smile on his face, priceless…the fish on the hook, waiting for me to remove…all-yuck! I did it though, with a plastered grin, all for him just like my father had always done for me.
The parenting experience is funny sometimes. In the past nine years I’ve removed more fish from hooks than I ever imagined possible. My son is quite the bass fisherman too. Have you ever placed your thumb to the lower lip of a large mouth bass? Let me just say that they have small teeth that prickle into a person’s finger. I typically say the same thing to myself just about each and every time, show no fear. Sometimes when that fish jumps in protest, I’ll jump as well…and I always laugh. Showing courage is something easier said than done since bass are intimidating creatures! They likely eat small bluegill for breakfast and frogs for dinner.
Of course my son is old enough now that he can probably manage just fine on his own…but when it comes time for the cleaning, I stand alone. My sister Mary is no longer at my side to help scale those fish; dad is no longer at the far end of the table using his fillet knife to carve out the meat ever so carefully. It’s just me with my dad’s knife that was handed down soon after he passed away several years ago…it’s that and the memory of telling him, “I caught another one dad.”
My mom would always bread the bluegill and pan fry them. Instead, I opt to use foil, a bit of lemon, herbs and the indirect heat of our gas grill. Bass is quite delicious too, light and flaky. What makes it all the better, are the conversations of “remember when” as my son reels them in. “Mom, look at that beauty!” he’ll announce. I find myself smiling with appreciation knowing that someday my son will better understand the great circle of life when he finds himself on the sidelines as his child reels them in. A 4” bluegill or an 18” bass, it’s all good. The greatest warmth is often found in the depths of my heart while considering the “fishiness” of summer from the distance of a cold winter’s day.
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