Reeling In Time with Fish Tales. Brian E. Smith

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СКАЧАТЬ the worms back in the garden. While I was doing that, he carried the bucket of fish to the backyard picnic table under the maple tree. Then he carried a scrap piece of plywood to the table, while dragging the garden hose with a nozzle behind. I was waiting at the picnic table when he came back around with a shovel, sharp knife, fish scaler, and a big plastic bowl.

      “Jump down, Champ.” As I did, he wet the table and board with the hose and took the fish from the bucket, sliding them off the stringer onto the table. The bucket, he sat on the bench next to the plywood.

      “Champ, today you just get to watch, but in short time this is going to be your job, understand?”

      “Yes, sir.” I had my hind-end up on the table, mopping up some water with the seat of my pants, watching every move he made. First, he took the fish scaler and scraped the scales from each fish. There were thirteen bream. Scales flipped around everywhere, some even got in our hair! Second, he cut a semi-circle around the pectoral fin, toward the head before cutting the head off. He put the heads in the five-gallon bucket beside him.

      I thought, This isn’t girl stuff, for sure!

      Third, he ran his thumb in the body cavity to remove the guts, which he put in the bucket, too. Last, he rinsed each fish with the garden hose and put the cleaned fish in the big plastic bowl.

      “Did you see how that worked, Champ?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Now, take these fish guts and bury them at least a foot deep in the garden. I’ll take these fish and knife to your mother. When you’re done with that, wash down the table and bucket, and put the plywood and hose up, OK?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Be sure to turn the water off, too.”

      By the time I finished, Dad had already put the rest of the fishing tackle away. He was busy doing something so I watched TV, drifting off quickly. Mom woke me up for supper.

      Mom had put most of a bag of corn meal in a paper sack, then she’d drop in three or four fish at a time, she’d shake the bag until the corn meal covered the fish. She eased them into a cast-iron pot, half-filled with hot peanut oil, cooking them until they floated up, golden brown. With tongs, she put them on an oblong platter, layered in a few sheets of newspaper with a top layer of paper towels. On the side, she made French fries, coleslaw, and home-canned green beans. It was a heavenly smell.

      We held hands as Dad said grace. I was happy he didn’t go into a long prayer. After Amen, my hand shot to the fish platter. I grabbed the top fish, fingers telling me it was the last one out of the hot oil.

      As I juggled it back to my plate, Dad said, “Hot, Champ?”

      “Yes, sir, but I just couldn’t wait!”

      “Honey, eat it slowly, so you won’t choke on a bone,” Mom told me. I watched and did as Dad did. He used his fork to work along the backbone, and then flipped one side of the fish over to expose the meat. Steam rose off the fish. He picked the meat away from the skin. They were so delicious. I ate three fish. I believed every piece I ate I’d caught. I told Mom about the whole day at the lake, even told her about the bird painting me.

      “For goodness sake, go take a bath!” Mom said, making a face.

      “Good night, Dad.”

      “Good night, Champ.”

      “Thanks for taking me fishing today.”

      “We’ll do it again soon, OK?”

      “Sounds good to me.”

      He didn’t know it, but that first fishing step directed me on a long, joyful journey, which has enriched my life with adventure, experience, knowledge, friendship, and love.

      Thanks again, Dad. Today is my forty-seventh birthday and the thrill of fishing has lasted, getting better with each new trip. The memory of that first Push-Button and my dad’s fishing lessons will be a treasure in my mind, always.

      Chapter 2 - Isthmus?

      “Champ, you ready to go fishing?” Dad was shaking me awake. It was still dark outside. Six o’clock came early. Mom and Dad put me to bed on time, but he didn’t know I flounced there until after two o’clock, thinking about going fishing. My head just wouldn’t turn off. In the morning, my head was still half-asleep, but I didn’t complain.

      Mom had laid out some fishing clothes for me the night before. I slipped into my most worn out pair of shorts, pulled that ratty T-shirt over my head, stuck my feet in blue-ringed athletic socks, then worked my feet into the old funky Chuck Taylor’s that needed a retread about 3,000 miles ago. I took a moment to fold the socks down below my calves. I always felt goofy with socks riding up to my knees.

      I stumbled to the bathroom, splashed water on my face, looked in the mirror, and just put a ball cap over my uncombed hair. The rest of the bathroom business I hustled through.

      “I made you an egg sandwich, Champ. It’s in the car with a cup of OJ,” Dad told me as I came in the kitchen.

      “What about the fishing gear?” It was missing from the living room where we put it by the front door. Last night I helped Dad rig the poles. Well, actually, I went through every gizmo in his tackle box, asking the what, how, and when, with each trinket.

      “I loaded everything before I got you up,” Dad said.

      In the front seat of the car, my head fit just underneath the half dozen, rod tips jutting over the backrest. I ate the egg sandwich and drank the OJ en route.

      “What do you think we’ll catch today?”

      “Well, I’d like to bring home a mess of catfish, but we might tangle with a bream or big carp along the way.” He went on talking, but my eyelids fell down shortly after I downed breakfast.

      I woke when Dad opened the car door. Right in front of the windshield was a big lake. I quickly hopped out and looked all around. Day was breaking. Four of the brightest stars still dotted the sky, slowly washing away as the sun rose. Wisps of pink, cotton candy clouds strung along the skyline, with streams of bright sunshine vaulting upwards from the east, silhouetting the trees while bathing their tops in brilliance along the western shore. I was caught up in the wonder. It was like God coming. A light onshore wind brought the odor of the lake to me, smelling good and natural. I could smell the sweet hint of a plant in bloom. It was the beginning of a perfect, early summer day.

      “Want to give me a hand with this?” Dad popped off and brought me back to reality. He had already laid out six fishing poles against the front of the car. He pulled his tackle box, worm bucket, knapsack with our lunches, and a five-gallon bucket half-filled with stuff out of the trunk, putting it all on the ground behind the car. He placed the worm bucket inside the five-gallon bucket, and slung the knapsack over one shoulder.

      “Champ, will you grab the tackle box and a couple of those fishing poles?” He picked up the bucket full of stuff and met me at the front of the car where the rods were.

      “Why do we have so many fishing rods, Dad?”

      “I’m going to show you when we get to the fishing spot.”

      “Which СКАЧАТЬ