Yesterday was one of the first real days around here that I felt that winter was really gone for good. The sun was out warm enough that one wondered if sun block was needed. The kids were off school for one of those teachers meeting days or something, so it seemed a day made for taking the grandkids down to the lake for some fishing. It was our first day fishing of the season.
Some of the dear readers of these rambling posts will recall that last summer, my grandson Ryan and myself, turned to the cane pole in a quest for simplicity. Now being that nobody in our family used a cane pole in recent memory, (all those spinning reels) we went about a self teaching phase. As things worked out, the bluegills, and perch don't know that bait is on a piece of bamboo or a spinning rod. I guess that fish are'nt too bright works to our advantage sometimes.
So Ryan and I touched up our knives on a strop and set out. Ryan had his trusty yellow Case peanut I gave him last summer, as well as a Buck Cadet he picked out when I had a give-away to the family last fall abouts. Keeping step with my grandson I dropped my yellow peanut in my pocket as well as my small yellow CV soddie. Thus armed with our pocket knives and some number 8 hooks and a container of night crawlers and split shot, we set off.
There's something almost drug like in the calming of the spirit that takes place along a body of water, baited hook waiting, sun shining from an almost cloudless blue sky, and the warm breeze so gentle its like a lovers kiss. It lulls the soul so much I think even a high pressure Madison Avenue type would relax there.
BAM, the wine cork acting as Ryans bobber jerks down out of sight. Ryan woops and hauls up on the pole and catapualts a white pearch almost 5 pounds on the bank, thrashing around. The first catch of the day, and the kid trounces his grandad. The enthusiasim of a 9 year old is a wonderfull thing, he baits his hook again and gets it in the water.
Over the next couple of hours we did a credible job of catching dinner. We ended up with a mixed bag of white pearch, large bluegills the size of a hamburger roll, and a few we had to toss back till they grow some more. We sat by the lake cleaning our catch, and I watched my grandson at work. After carefully scaling the fish, he used the sharp little peanut to open it from jaw to vent and gut it. I think for some reason grandchildren are more special than your kids. I'm not a bright enough bulb in the chandalier to figure it out why, but its true. I tought my kids to fish, and we had a great time, and still do. But the second generation is special. I never understood it till I had my own grandkids, but now I understand why my grandad and my dad had the fight they did when he came home from the war. Grandad had argued with dad that "the boy is watermen born, he belongs here!"
Dad had his new job in Washington D.C. and had returned home to retrive Mom, me, and my sister Anne from grandads where we had stayed the duration of the war. Being born in 1941, and dad not coming home till 1946, I thought in those early years grandad was my dad, and grandad was the normal name a boy had for his dad. I had thought that had been why I had such a close relationship with my grandad, but I was wrong some. A grandson is like watching part of you, and part of your whole family in microcosim.
Watching Ryan working away with the peanut, cutting carefully here and there, I could actually see some of my own father in him. The same thoughtfull way of doing things, the same brown eyes that had that steady look in them when he would look my way. As Ryan cut away the fish guts with his pocket knife, I could see a faint ghost of my father bending over him, moving the same way. It was then I knew I was going to give him dad's brown bone handled Case peanut when he got a little older. Some years ago I had sent it back to Case for an overhaul and new main blade. Ryan will be the third generation to get some use out of that peanut.
We got the fish cleaned and headed home. My Karen was happy the fish had already been cleaned, she hated finding fish scales on her corian counter tops that I had missed cleaning up. Those scales do tend to scatter when they come off! Later that night as the fish were done in the big cast iron pan and some hot oil, we had a good feed. It was after dinner that Ryan and myself continued dad's ritual of the after dinner knife maintanence. The peanuts were used hard on fish scales and bone, and needed a light honing on a very fine stone, with a leather stropping after. At one point Ryan asked me "Did grandad do this every night after dinner?" I told him yes, he did.
I'm glad that dad's old brown peanut is going to get such good care.
Some of the dear readers of these rambling posts will recall that last summer, my grandson Ryan and myself, turned to the cane pole in a quest for simplicity. Now being that nobody in our family used a cane pole in recent memory, (all those spinning reels) we went about a self teaching phase. As things worked out, the bluegills, and perch don't know that bait is on a piece of bamboo or a spinning rod. I guess that fish are'nt too bright works to our advantage sometimes.
So Ryan and I touched up our knives on a strop and set out. Ryan had his trusty yellow Case peanut I gave him last summer, as well as a Buck Cadet he picked out when I had a give-away to the family last fall abouts. Keeping step with my grandson I dropped my yellow peanut in my pocket as well as my small yellow CV soddie. Thus armed with our pocket knives and some number 8 hooks and a container of night crawlers and split shot, we set off.
There's something almost drug like in the calming of the spirit that takes place along a body of water, baited hook waiting, sun shining from an almost cloudless blue sky, and the warm breeze so gentle its like a lovers kiss. It lulls the soul so much I think even a high pressure Madison Avenue type would relax there.
BAM, the wine cork acting as Ryans bobber jerks down out of sight. Ryan woops and hauls up on the pole and catapualts a white pearch almost 5 pounds on the bank, thrashing around. The first catch of the day, and the kid trounces his grandad. The enthusiasim of a 9 year old is a wonderfull thing, he baits his hook again and gets it in the water.
Over the next couple of hours we did a credible job of catching dinner. We ended up with a mixed bag of white pearch, large bluegills the size of a hamburger roll, and a few we had to toss back till they grow some more. We sat by the lake cleaning our catch, and I watched my grandson at work. After carefully scaling the fish, he used the sharp little peanut to open it from jaw to vent and gut it. I think for some reason grandchildren are more special than your kids. I'm not a bright enough bulb in the chandalier to figure it out why, but its true. I tought my kids to fish, and we had a great time, and still do. But the second generation is special. I never understood it till I had my own grandkids, but now I understand why my grandad and my dad had the fight they did when he came home from the war. Grandad had argued with dad that "the boy is watermen born, he belongs here!"
Dad had his new job in Washington D.C. and had returned home to retrive Mom, me, and my sister Anne from grandads where we had stayed the duration of the war. Being born in 1941, and dad not coming home till 1946, I thought in those early years grandad was my dad, and grandad was the normal name a boy had for his dad. I had thought that had been why I had such a close relationship with my grandad, but I was wrong some. A grandson is like watching part of you, and part of your whole family in microcosim.
Watching Ryan working away with the peanut, cutting carefully here and there, I could actually see some of my own father in him. The same thoughtfull way of doing things, the same brown eyes that had that steady look in them when he would look my way. As Ryan cut away the fish guts with his pocket knife, I could see a faint ghost of my father bending over him, moving the same way. It was then I knew I was going to give him dad's brown bone handled Case peanut when he got a little older. Some years ago I had sent it back to Case for an overhaul and new main blade. Ryan will be the third generation to get some use out of that peanut.
We got the fish cleaned and headed home. My Karen was happy the fish had already been cleaned, she hated finding fish scales on her corian counter tops that I had missed cleaning up. Those scales do tend to scatter when they come off! Later that night as the fish were done in the big cast iron pan and some hot oil, we had a good feed. It was after dinner that Ryan and myself continued dad's ritual of the after dinner knife maintanence. The peanuts were used hard on fish scales and bone, and needed a light honing on a very fine stone, with a leather stropping after. At one point Ryan asked me "Did grandad do this every night after dinner?" I told him yes, he did.
I'm glad that dad's old brown peanut is going to get such good care.
.
<sniff> Wish he was closer too, not just the grandkids.
Suffice it to say, no fishing video game is going to take the place of spending time on the water (or in the woods hunting) with Grandad.