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Little Big Guy 2

4 May 2009 No Comment

“Take a Kid Fishing” is the catch phrase they use.  Been around for years and for folks who love to fish, it instills daydreams of their descendants amorously alluring fishes along banks of rivers or lakes lit by the the golden glow of the setting sun, smiles all around.

How could they know it would create a monster?  Oh, I guess that’s the way of it.  Some genius has a great idea that would benefit all mankind only to have it perverted by n’er-do-wells into some hideous thing.  Kinda like the Atom Bomb, Embryonic Cell Research, Frankenstein’s Monster, etc.

Ouch!  What the..?!  Oh, sorry about that.  I have this little machine that kicks me when I’m waxing too politically philisophical (an abhorrant waste of human energy).  Thank-you dear!

So they taught me to fish, took me out fishing.  And it stuck in me.  I can’t imagine life without it.  What the heck else would I be passionate about?  I like art, drawing, painting… but even with that inspiration needs to stem from somewhere.  Fish, and fishing… I was drawn in like a mosquito to a soothing blue, grill-shaped, buzzing lamp.

There could be worse things for kids/people to get obsessive about.  If you’re the least bit observant, you know what I mean.  So it can’t be all bad, right?

When I was a kid, my grandmother would watch us after school, and I remember staring into her fish aquarium for hours.  I studied the way the tropical fish moved, how they interacted with each other, how they swam, their habits, how they fed.

When I was a teenager, I stayed the summer with my uncle and did chores for him and my grandmother cleaning up.  I bugged my uncle non-stop to go fish.  And we did!

We’d go get some minnows and sit on the old sand docks that jutted into Sandusky Bay and catch perch, catfish, bullhead, crappie.  The sheephead we’d give to other folks who enjoyed them (they’re not so great outa the frying pan).

I’d go to the docks downtown by myself and fish, chatting with the old-timers who could draw out slabs of crappies or monster cats right off the piers with cars whizzing by.

My uncle and I went out to the infamous impoundments where good bass and bluegill lived alongside great northern pike.  Sometimes we’d use the jonboat and catch good bass on Mann’s and Culprit worms and loose a few good lures to trees.  Other times we just went out, as my uncle said, “for a couple of casts,” in the evening right off the bank.

One evening, we fished from the bank, just a couple of casts.  We fished not far from the old blue station wagon so my uncle could hear the progress of the Indians ball game over the radio from the car.  Funny…  even now, when I’m having a good fishing day, I can hear the voice of the announcer for the ball game and smell the smoke from my uncle’s Pall Malls.

We each had our own tackle boxes, open and filled with our favorites, sitting in the grass beside us.  We fished maybe fifty yards apart, not really moving, just casting and hoping, trying different things as the ball game sauntered on.  As the sun sank and the tanning grass of late summer glowed in amber, the lake trees barren and bone-colored, the sound of the old AM radio seemed to blend as if it was just another part of nature, the bullfrogs, the whippor-wills, the catfish splashes.

I’d caught a nice catfish, a couple of small bass… then, something big.  My spinning reel screamed as line flew off the reel.  The fish made a straight path for me and showed itself… a VERY nice northern pike- then it high-tailed it out into deeper water. 

I looked to my uncle and he was already looking at me. “Northern pike,” I yelled, “A good one.”

He reeled in fast, then did something I’ll never forget.  He sprinted for the net that we’d left in the station wagon.

Now, keep in mind my uncle was very short, but just as wide.  He’d cut the legs off his chair so he could more comfortably watch TV, 8+ hours at a stretch.  He enjoyed non-filtered Pall Mall’s.  He wasn’t used to moving, let alone sprinting.

Through the tall weeds, down the gully, into the parking area, fling open the tailgate, grab the net, back through the parking area, UP the gully, down the bank to me.  Maybe 300 yards round trip.  He was panting crazily and dripping sweat, old-fashioned black-rimmed glasses barely holding on.  I took my time with the fish (if I lost it now to those sharp teeth…), and finally brought it to the net. 

It was beautiful, and we both marvelled and smiled.

A good fish is a wonder to behold.  Getting a good fish and revelling in the experience with the person that brought you into fishing is something indescribable.  You kinda want to say, You did this, or Look what you did, or… thank-you.

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