Bits And Pieces

Gone Fishin'

     You've never been fishing; in fact, you don't give a fig for the sport.  But if hubby likes to fish, and if you plan to spend any of your future vacations together you might as well give angling a try.

     First of all, you can go out and buy a natty outfit for trolling the deep.  Something like slacks and shirt to coordinate and compliment each other.  A crazy straw hat with zany figures on the brim which just makes the outfit.  Then you can put the whole thing on the closet shelf because to go fishing you dress as drab, as old and as sloppy as possible.  Your husband wouldn't be caught in the same boat with you--not if you're dressed like something from the pages of Vogue.

     To begin, you borrow and old and usually tight pair of blue jeans, putter pants, or discarded painting pants from husband  or son.  Next socks that are too big and bunch in layers around your ankles--this provides a barrier against mosquitoes you see.  A sweater, and never mind the color, something left over from college days will be fine.  Over that you put on a sweatshirt, king size, and one of the variety with a hood and pockets--this takes care of hat and gloves.  Now over the whole thing you put on a jacket, also old and winter type as it gets mighty brisk on any lake at night.

     Of course, you can go in the evening or at the crack of dawn.  Either way, you're so bundled up you can roll down the hill and into the boat, you can't step that's for sure.  The blue jeans don't bend and fit skin tight so your first problem on getting in the boat is to sit.

     You're hot now, but you just wait until you get out on the lake, you'll wish you had mink lined underwear,

     Well, now I've made it to the boat I'm fairly confident about this first fishing trip.  The motor objects to five in the boat and mashes up the water in fine shape.  We sorta nose around a bit looking for a likely spot to fish.  Seems a fishing line isn't dropped just anywhere in this lake, dearie me no.  You fish near weed beds, on rocks or where there is a cluster of other boats.

     In a loud voice you can ask them how the fishing is, and if they grunt, shrug shoulders or ignore your cheery greeting, put your boat right next to them and fish because ten chances out of ten he has a peachy dandy hole he's just selfish about sharing.

     The sun is setting and the scenery is beyond description as clouds change from white to pink to scarlet to gold.  I'm just beginning to enjoy this fishing business when the motor stops with a final angry snarl and we're at our destination.

     Seeing as how I managed to fall into the pointed end of the boat I have the honor of dropping the anchor.  A tricky bit of business too when I feel like a mechanical man in a padded suit.  Takes a bit of doing to bend over a life preserver wrapped around my middle and not get my fingers and feet caught in the rope.  The anchor is down and tied to Pop's satisfaction--back to the sunset which has turned to a deep crimson laced with pink edged clouds.

     Mighty quiet and pretty out here maybe I have been missing something, but now I'm handed a bamboo pole, recommended for fishing out of a boat, and a can of worms.

     Now I don't care for worms even in the ground, but I gather I'm supposed to slip this slippery object, that keeps making itself thinner and thinner like a string , to a hook.  Pop takes pity and the line is baited--now I can watch the clouds.

     No, not quite, seems the string coming from the pole is twisted.  In fact when I flipped the line out the worm end sorta snapped up and looped through the line on the pole and the hook sorta caught there.  In fact it's the same mess you get when you haven't cleaned out your sewing box in several years.

     This calls for several snide remarks from Pop as he still hasn't his own line baited with what putting on hooks and giving a lecture on "learning to put your own worm on your own hook."  Finally he hands me another pole all baited without any comment and sighs as he puts the other pole aside to untangle some quiet rainy day.

     Fishing five in a boat can be nerve wracking and wrecking, so we have a few standard rules like: no shifting seats unless the boat captain is informed, no casting when there are more than three in the boat, life preservers all around even for the good swimmers and a new one just added called "let's give mother advice."  I'm told how to hold the pole, how deep to fish and constantly that the line is on the bottom of the lake.

     Questions like:  Did I bring any candy or gum?  How about the mosquito stuff, did I bring that?

     I've several packages of gum and a few candy bars concealed in the hand warming section of my sweatshirt.  Slowly and silently a long line of gum wrappers and candy bar covers form a lazy pattern drifting away from our boat.  And I tell the boys to get the trash back in the boat.  All is quiet.  The air is clear and caressing, but it carries a bit of the winter's snow in its touch and I'm grateful for the extra clothes.  The moon is  giant yellow disk, fuller and brighter here away from the buildings and houses of home.  A couple of deer feed near the water's edge.

     Suddenly there is a tug on my line and the string starts spinning off with a screech.  The boat is suddenly alive and directions start flying.  "Pull up quick.  Reel it in slowly.  For gosh sake don't lose it.  Don't jerk.  Get it over the boat."  My heart is in my mouth.  The bamboo pole is bent at a wicked angle--this must be a big one.  Pop loses his cigarette in the water as he leans over to help me, and I cough on a piece of candy bar but I get my fish in.  Son No. 2 plays the flashlight on my catch.  It's a good big one alright, almost eight pounds of turtle.

     Now no one knows whether I'm a jinx or expert because after my turtle we caught a long string of pan fish.  Anyway my story added a bit of interest to the gathering of the "Sit and Stare" society for us old folks which meets at the lodge every night.

     Anyway I really did have a nibble and I'm a goner--no more of this just men fishing stuff--from now on it's a family affair.

Written August 8, 1962