Reeling In Time with Fish Tales. Brian E. Smith

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СКАЧАТЬ beside some forgotten creek. I was at Uncle Tom’s fish camp Burgoo Hollow, West Virginia, with my mom and family, while Dad was serving the Army, in Korea. Uncle Tom tainted me with fishing from my start. I wouldn’t deny it, because indoctrinated in the ways, means, and joys of fishing was what being with Tom Redman was all about. At my early age, I was vulnerable; he imprinted my life.

      Uncle Tom fished for trout, catfish, or any other fish that swam through West Virginia, with the passion that any woman would love to receive a fraction of from her husband. The kiss and tell fish stories he told were better than the fishing trips themselves. Uncle Tom had the gift of story, lightly seasoned with concoction strongly spoken in hillbilly. He illustrated on the kitchen table with whatever coffee cup, salt and pepper shaker, pack of smokes, lighter, teaspoon/fork/knife, bowl, or plate, ashtray, pocketknife or piece of food fallen off a plate; he needed to make the trout stream run through Aunt Clara’s kitchen. I’ve listened to most of his stories more than once, but each time, I thought, if I lifted up the coffee cup, a trout would flounce on the table. He could resurrect a fish from long ago. He made it so fresh you could not only smell its odor on your hands but also the earthy aroma of moss on the rocks and the organic bouquet of fallen leaves on the autumn bank. You could hear the rush of water tumble over rocks (salt and pepper shakers) with the seasonal chill that made your feet cold at the table. When Uncle Tom passed, a lifetime of stories was buried in an insufficient fishing hole.

      My father took me fishing as I grew up in Virginia Beach, Virginia. He realized I was tainted from Uncle Tom, he understood I enjoyed fishing more than I enjoyed anything else. He liked wetting a line as well and saw fishing as an opportunity to spend time together; memorable moments with his only child. Dad understood the importance of one-on-one time well ahead of the coined term quality time. His graveyard shift at the Postal Service made early morning fishing trips a sacrifice on his part…, more than I realized at the time. Now, I know how valuable his time was for us; our time spent on watery banks remains my fondest memories growing up.

      Likewise, reminiscences of fishing with family, and friends as close as family, are recollections I treasure, though the fish we caught are mostly forgotten. Time on the water was indeed special, a brief period of one’s years etched in each mind for a lifetime.

      This first volume includes a collection of stories that progress through my life, starting as a young boy with Dad. I age through each chapter. The conclusion is when I start fishing professionally. Lightly salted with real life humor and heavily seasoned with reality. I write in hope that you, the reader, can identify with me at that particular time in life. Loosely hidden in each chapter are learning tidbits about fishing, some are actual techniques, others are simple thoughts; both are inserted to help you enjoy the sport of fishing more.

      Uncle Tom naturally spoke so well that listening brought vivid life back to long ago people or fish, as well as, an account of his living history. Words are more important than we realize: words of praise from a parent, kind words said by a friend, tender words from a lover, perhaps a sermon in due time. Additionally, who hasn’t been touched by lyrics from a special song? I hope the words I chose for these stories bring you fond memories and, perhaps, challenge you to make your own stories with those you care for. Enjoy the read.

      Capt. B

      Chapter 1 - Push-Button

      The parking lot was empty, except for our car. Covered picnic tables dotted the lakeshore. Several uncovered tables were clustered around a nearby small playground area. Seagulls had gathered around a covered picnic table on a point of land where the lake cut back into a cove. Most of the gulls lay on the ground, either sleeping or preening, while others stood amongst them. I didn’t know if they were on guard or just looking for some mischief, but they looked, to me, as if they were up to something. A few had perched on the gazebo roof. From first look, they appeared to be painters, patiently painting the roof, one white spot at a time.

      Dad starting unloading the fishing gear from the back seat of the car. On top of the fishing tackle and bait, he placed the two fishing rods we were to use.

      “Champ, always load the fishing poles last, they’ll be on top of the rest of the stuff and are less likely to get broke,” Dad gave a quick lesson.

      He leaned the fishing rods against the car. His was a six-foot spinning combination. It looked fancy, especially, next to my fishing rod, a short stick with a pistol grip and a Zebco® 33 spin/cast reel. He said that style of reel had caught more fish than all other type reels combined. It looked like an old hand-crank pencil sharpener; he called it a push-button. Dad had given me the push-button the week before. He took me in the yard to practice fish that same day.

      “How am I going to catch a fish in the yard, Dad?”

      “Champ, really you’re not.”

      “Then… why am I fishing in the yard?”

      “You’re going to practice casting, not fishing.”

      “Dad, people will see me in the yard with a fishing pole and think I’m stupid.”

      “Don’t worry about what people think because most of the time they don’t think things through in the first place.”

      “I’ll still look silly, won’t I?” Dad smiled, and then moved the practice to the back yard.

      In the back yard, Dad explained the reel as he got it ready for practice fishing. He pushed the button in the back of the reel, releasing the fishing line. To keep the line from going down inside a little hole in the front of the reel, there was a piece of plastic attached to the end of the line. He pulled twice as much line out of the reel as the rod was long, and then turned the handle a quarter turn forward. The reel made a clicking noise, and that action stopped the line from coming out any more. He cut the piece of plastic off the end of the line with his pocketknife, putting that in his pocket. Then he took the end of the fishing line and threaded it through each of the hoops—he called the hoops the eyes of the fishing pole—and out the last one, which he called a tip. After all of that, he tied a 3/8 oz. bell sinker to the line end. The sinker looked like a tiny bell made of lead.

      “Champ, did you see how all that worked?”

      “Sure, Dad.” That wasn’t the truth, but I figured I’d learn how to do it on my own later.

      “Champ, wind the sinker so it hangs about six inches from the tip of the pole.” He showed me as he went through the motions. “Then push the button in and hold it in with your thumb. Keep the rod straight with your arm, bringing it over your shoulder to about the ten o’clock position.” He stopped his arm and said, “Right like this.”

      I acted as if I wasn’t watching all the way, but I was paying full attention out of the corner of my eye.

      “Quickly move your arm and swinging the rod forward to about one o’clock, let go of the button, like this.” When he did that, the sinker sailed across the yard and my head snapped around to watch it fly. It was a small baseball on a string!

      “Let me try it, Dad!”

      “Watch me, one more time first.” Either he liked doing it, or he was just showing off, because the next cast went further than the first by a long shot.

      I couldn’t wait for him to reel in that chunk of lead to give me a turn. Finally, after forever, he gave me the rod. In the blink of an eye, I thumped myself in the butt with the sinker on the back cast, and then flung the rod several feet in front of me during the forward cast. I had let go of the button and the rod, which then bounced and cart wheeled across the ground. I rubbed my butt as I ran to the rod СКАЧАТЬ