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As I was
growing up, one weekend of each month the family piled into
the old Chevy (or later, the new Ford) to make the
eighty-mile trek to Daddy Joe's house. Of course, I had a
grandmother too but her presence paled beside this most
special grandfather. Part of that reasoning was because he
always indulged me in my favorite outdoor pastime. Daddy Joe
had hooked me on fishing.
Looking
back, I can't remember how young I was when he taught me to
fish. I do know I was too young to swing that long cane
pole out over the river on those first trips.
Daddy Joe
would plop that line right out in the middle, wiggle it
around, hand it to me and even help me haul in the sun perch
when they hit.
By age
ten, besides being a bookworm, I had discovered I could
write my own stories too. But when we went camping and
fishing on White Rock Creek with Daddy Joe, I never stuck my
nose in a book or carried my Red Chief tablet and pencil
with me. And by that time I had also learned how to bait my
hook with those wiggling worms.
I could
also get my line out there in the middle of the creek, my
eye sharply watching the red and white cork bobber, waiting
for that tiny nibble on the worm. Those perch seemed to
always be hungry so I was kept busy pulling them in and
removing the little yellow-scaled fish from the hook. Daddy
Joe would later roll them in seasoned cornmeal, fry them
until crisp, and I'd have a mini-fish fry.
Daddy Joe
didn't use cane poles or worms. He had a fancy slender rod
with a shiny reel attached. His tackle box was filled with
bright-colored flies, chrome or gold lures and almost
invisible filament. He could always land that line exactly
where he wanted to. And just one of the fish he caught
filled a pan. Not that they tasted as good as my little
perch though.
Every
summer when I go camping on a river far away from that Texas
creek, I think about those days with Daddy Joe. I don't
fish here. The river's too wild for a cane pole and a
slippery worm. I never learned to cast with one of those
fancy rods. I always tangled the invisible line. Maybe
that's for the best. The memory of fishing on creek banks
wouldn't be as endearing if I had.
Barb
Deming
tejasbabs
@ aol. com |
