This June I picked up my Daughter for our summer visitation. She had a pile of baggage and other things she could not live without for summer, including a new fishing pole that she won. Our ride was filled with updates of her recent life, when we arrived home, the first thing she asked me was. “Can you take me fishing?” I informed her that she could walk the two blocks to the lake and go by herself. You see at the time I had not yet purchased my fishing permit for the year, actually, I have not had a permit for about 4 years now. She informed me that she could not go without me because she required my assistance in baiting and removing fish from her hook. This immediately transported me to the past when I was in my preteen years at Happy Acres Campground.
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During the summer months of my youth, many weekends were spent with my grandparents at the Happy Acres Campground. It was always a treat to run wild in the woods, pond swim, and fish for two whole days. Most of the time my cousins tagged along too. My grandparents had a reserved lot with a camper trailer that stayed year-round, which children were not allowed into except during bad weather. The roads leading to the campsite and other features on the grounds were gravel and covered with tar, a great delight for the barefoot child in the hot midday sun. We usually walked along the side in the grass until we had to cross when we usually hot-potato quick-stepped across.
One particular day my cousin Stevie and I made the half-mile walk to the pond to catch some bluegills. Since we were young and were squeamish about putting worms on our hook, we often used dinner leftovers as bait. Bluegills will eat just about anything, we learned this one time when Stevie caught one with a blade of grass wiggling on his hook in the water. Our favorite leftover baits were hot-dogs, bread, and canned sweet corn. Today we have a couple hot-dogs. After about half an hour we had caught a few bluegills, then Stevie caught a yellow bull-head, which is a mini version of catfish, stings and all. Of course, being too wussy to even use live worms as bait, we had our issues about removing a fish from our hook that may possibly hospitalize us with its stingers. Grandpa Everett always aided us in this frightening endeavor when he was with us at the pond. However today we were flying solo. So, Stevie just keeps casting the poor bullhead in the water hoping it would work itself free and he could continue fishing. We would have just cut the line, but neither one of us had any extra hooks. After many casting attempts, we decided to head back to camp and have Grandpa perform his miraculous feat of heroism and dislodge the bullhead from Stevie’s Hook.
Now I’m not sure what was happening at the camp while we were gone, but it must have been pushing Grandpa’s buttons. Everett had one of those tempers that just goes off sometimes. I imagine I take after him in that regard, I usually let things roll off my back, and the stress just builds until one small thing blows my top, that was how he was. Stevie and I arrived at the camp and my cousin proceeded to ask Grandpa to remove the now lifeless bullhead from his hook. He tore the pole from my cousin's hands and transfers the bullhead from his hook to the fire in front of him. He then stands up spewing all kinds of curse words and launches Stevie’s fishing pole twenty yards towards the woods where it twists and tangles itself in the tree, dangling there for the rest of the weekend. The one phrase I understood during Grandpa’s fit was. “If you damn kids can’t take off your own fish off the hook, then you should not be fishing!” Stevie cried and ran to the back of the pickup truck where we slept while camping. After the aggressive pressure was relieved, Grandpa was back to his normal, loving, humorous self.
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I later purchased a permit and took my daughter fishing. I hope to go again with her before the summer’s end.
Bullhead, Tree, and The Flying Fishing Pole
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