One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish. Thank you, Dr. Seuss.
I’ve never been into fishing. I think it is a great sport, a fun hobby, and a commendable skill, and I know many people who love to fish. It’s just not my thing. Perhaps I would feel differently if I had experienced success as a fisherman, but, alas, I never did.
My dad would take my sister and me fishing, not on a regular basis, but sporadically, enough that we knew the ropes, or should I say, we knew the lines. When I was young, I quickly realized that fishing, for me, was a lot of work with very little reward. I didn’t realize that I should work on fine-tuning my craft, practicing my cast, reading the waters, and other techniques that would help me become a more seasoned fisherman. Instead, I just got bored. Here are some of my memories of fishing as a child, in no particular order.
The highlight of the fishing expedition for my sister and I was discovering the snack that my dad had packed for us. He always packed the same one. It was a Little Debby snack cake, very thin, shaped like a moon pie, covered in white coating. The thrill in eating the snack cake was finding, buried deep inside, the yummy strawberry jelly filling right in the center. We never had this special treat except when we went fishing with my dad. I'm not sure where he stashed a box of Little Debby snack cakes so that no one would find them between the fishing expeditions. I guess he had a good hiding place, and I guess those things are so chemically-enhanced and processed that they last for years and years, LOL. We called the snacks Fishing Cakes. I recently looked online to find the nostalgic Fishing Cakes, but it appears that Little Debby stopped making them. There is a chocolate version of Jelly Crème Pies that's bigger and chocolaty. No, that won’t do at all. After my online search for Little Debby cakes, I now see 50 million ads a day for an enormous variety of snack cakes. Thanks, Google.
Something I found fascinating on these fishing trips was the cricket cage. My dad would buy crickets, then store them in a cricket cage, which was a wire coated cylinder with a handle and a deep well in the middle. The crickets were noisy. They would be crammed in the cage, shoulder to shoulder (wait, do crickets have shoulders?), bumping into each other, chirping. Every now and again, a cricket would successfully launch itself around the cage in a full-on cricket jump. I remember being amazed that the crickets were captured in this cage. It seemed to me that if the crickets were smart, they could manage to find the exit and get themselves out. But, they were not smart. They clung to the wire cage, chirping and bumping each other. When retrieving a cricket, sometimes, the human would accidently let other crickets escape. What a thrilling turn of events – crickets on the loose!
I was not allowed to apply the bait to the hook. When I tried to bait the hook, I found out why. That hook was really sharp. And what is up with that barb? I think ‘ouch’ is all I need to say to explain that part of the fishing day. Casting the line. HaHaHaHaHaHaHa. Let’s just say that for an awkward, uncoordinated little girl, holding onto the line while pushing down on this part of the reel while simultaneously slinging the rod with your wrist just like this, nah, that never worked out very well. The number of times my dad had to disentangle lines from the trees, wade out to retrieve the pole, and otherwise recover from my paltry attempts at casting, well, he definitely got his exercise for the day.
When my line was successfully cast and the bobber was successfully floating, then began the hardest part of the fishing experience—waiting for something to happen. This is when I got bored. I found myself propping the pole against a rock then moving further and further away as I rummaged around the shoreline. When my dad called me back, I sometimes got a chance to reel in a catch. Then, the whole casting fiasco would begin again.
You might roll your eyes at this part. As a child, I couldn’t help but think about the experience that the fish was having. I imagined that the fish was swimming around, minding his own business, when he noticed a tasty treat up ahead. When he approached the treat, then clamped down to take a bite, instead of a yummy strawberry jelly center, he was rudely awakened with a sharp piercing barbed hook. He was then reeled into the shore against his will. Shortly thereafter, he was strung onto a line, where he and other lucky freshwater pals were tethered to the shore. In a state of confusion, the captured fish wiggled and tried to swim into the open water, but, were forced to splash against each other until they gave up the fight. It was a very depressing situation. I tried not to look at the fish lined up by the shore, because their beady, pleading eyes were more than I could handle.
If the fishing trip was a success, there were fish to take home for dinner. As an adult, I generally enjoy eating fish. As a child, I did not enjoy eating fish. The adults in my family who prepared fish were not the best at filleting. What I mean is, they never got all the bones out. Whether at my house or at my grandparent’s house, having fish for dinner always meant the same thing. On the table would be a small plate with a tall stack of sliced white bread. We were told that when we felt like we had swallowed a fish bone, we should immediately eat some bread, which would catch the fish bone and protect our throats and other parts. We each stationed a piece of bread on our plates, like a life preserver, ready to be called into action. Maybe it wasn’t described exactly that way, but the message I received was that I had to use the bread as an antidote to the inevitable bone that would endanger my life. Thanks, but no thanks. While eating, I was likely to get a mouthful of bones that had to be spit out. I squirmed and winced as I force-fed myself small bites of fish, hoping I would make it to the next meal.
I applaud the fishermen in my life. I know they enjoy fishing very much. I know that I rely on professional fishermen to send their catch to my local fishmonger and to my local restaurant. More power to you, keep doing what you’re doing. For my part, I can support your efforts, and regale you with a nostalgic poem.
Fishy Fishy In the Brook
Daddy Caught You With His Hook
Mommy Fried You In a Pan
And Baby Ate You Like a Man
The day might come when I try my hand at fishing again. I dunno, maybe I can work on my fishing skills. Maybe I can work on my patience. Maybe I can work on my confidence about cleaned, properly filleted fish. I’ll let you know how it goes.
That’s all for now. See you around. Nobody home.