January 30, 1999

Gone Fishin’ 

by Joshua Carden

Part I

Back in the days when I was still a city slicker, (1974-1980) my dad took us fishing for the very first time.  My brother Jason and I were three and six respectively, and pretty excited about the prospect.  Doubly exciting was the fact that we were going to our family farm in Peaster, Texas (now my family’s home) almost two hours away!    This was our first overnight camping trip together with dad.  Mom was a bit apprehensive, but, knowing that my father’s idea of “roughing it” meant using an extension cord for his electric blanket, she figured we’d be all right.  And so, armed with powdered doughnuts, flashlights, and fishing poles, we set out. 

My dad had packed a small gun in case we saw any dangerous Texas wildlife bigger than a field mouse, and my brother with his quick eyes had spotted it.  “Dad, what’s that shootin’ gun for?” he asked.  In my elder-brother wisdom, I replied “That’s in case we get attacked by snakes or wild rabbits.”  Fortunately, there were few people on the road to Peaster or my dad might have wrecked the car at that point. With Jimmy Carter just out of office, “wild rabbit” had fairly amusing connotations.  (Yes, I am old enough to remember that.  Kids, ask your parents.)  After a fun-filled evening of roasting hot-dogs and setting up camp, we rolled into our sleeping bags for a good night’s rest.

Those of you who have young children know that Einstein’s formula for the Theory of Relatives is this: 

The hour that you would like to awaken on a Saturday morning after a full week of work, divided by the number of children you take camping, multiplied by 50%, is the hour that they will shake your sleeping bag and say “Dad, dad, dad, let’s go fishing! Let’s go fishing.” 

My father had wisely prepared for this contingency and sleepily attached large flotation devices to our bodies and handed us the small pole.  “Good luck, you two,” he said as he rolled back into his sleeping bag.   My brother and I spent the next two hours casting that line and reeling it back in.  We had several nibbles, but didn’t catch anything.  We didn’t care, we were happy as little clams.  Little clams with big life preservers and stupid looking hats (I have pictures).  Now before you concerned mothers start calling Child Protective Services, let me hasten to say that my father really was looking out for us.  I’m sure you’re all imagining the endless possibilities of fishhooks in eyes or heads. You’ve got it all wrong, that didn’t happen until much later.  After some time had passed, we went back and looked at the old photo albums from this trip.  When we asked my father why he had ever let us do that by ourselves, he got a twinkle in his eye and admitted “I sent you guys down there with a casting plug!”  No hooks, nothing to put our eyes out, a simple casting plug designed for fishing practice.  No wonder we didn’t catch anything!  I guess sometimes ignorance IS bliss.  It was quite a while before we were ever allowed to REALLY go fishing by ourselves….

TO BE CONTINUED

Part II

As old readers will remember …excuse me that’s not very Politically Correct.  As “experienced” readers will remember, my brother Jason and I hadn’t had much luck with fishing on our own.  Well, at the much older ages of nine and six, we were ready to try it again. 

With our dad, we had discovered a small creek that emptied into the ultimate fishing hole behind our property.  It was quite a ways off, (a two-canteener) so my dad had never let us go by ourselves.  Well, on the Saturday in question, mom was gone.  Not a good start.  Moms should never leave ‘cause that’s when dads and we kids always get into trouble.  Dad wanted to get some chainsaw work done, so with ample warnings of caution, he let us head out with our trusty poles and tackle box containing three lures, spilled suntan lotion, and a broken bobber.  After walking ALL DAY we finally arrived at The Fishing Hole.  (The space-time continuum shrinks to compress several hours when you’re under the age of twelve.  Trust me on this.)  I was all settled on the bank, when Jason made his third cast of the day.  As I expectantly waited for the “plop,” none was forthcoming.  Jason began to make whimpering noises and, sure enough, he had caught himself in the back of the head.  All the first aid I knew instantly flashed into my head: “Stay here, I’ll go get dad!”  As I sprinted back to the house in world record time, I began yelling as soon as I was in earshot.   “DAD! Come quick! Jason’s got a hook in his head!”  My mother chose that very inopportune moment to open the car door – home from her trip to the store.  As my dad began sprinting toward me, he stopped and grabbed a pair of needle-nose pliers.  Later, my mom said that she immediately switched prayers from “Lord, let Jason be okay,” to “Lord, don’t let Jim use those pliers!” 

When we reached The Fishing Hole, Jason had calmed down quite a bit, and was waiting at the top of the hill.  He had the presence of mind to fish his pocketknife out (the only successful fishing that day) and cut the line from the pole.   He had left about three feet of line attached, so he looked for all the world like a ninety-pound carp with glasses.  Dad scooped Jason up and as he began walking home, told me to go down the hill and gather the gear.  At this point in my life, I was not noted for my walking grace, and especially not for my running grace.  In fact, the grace of salvation is about the only grace I enjoy.  Anyway, I was three foot down a fifty-foot hill when I tripped, flew through the air, and broke my fall with my chin.   That left a mark. (For another story about painful marking experiences, check out “This Won’t Hurt” in my archive.)  So now, my dad hears ME screaming in pain.  He puts Jason, who is basically fine now, (except for the hook, of course) down, and starts after me. 

He told us later that he prayed: “Lord, I know this is probably my day to get bitten by a snake, but I think I’ll pass if you don’t mind.”  Well, to make a long story short (I know, I know, too late), two hours later and a hundred bucks lighter, we left the emergency room with stitches (three in my chin, two in Jason’s head.  Hmmm, that’s $20 a stitch.  I’m in the wrong business.) and war stories.  We were definitely the heroes of Sunday School that week.  My mom put us on “fishing probation” until we were REALLY old enough to do it by ourselves without getting hurt.  She let my dad off for good behavior (he didn’t use the pliers.)  I think my term is up in a couple of years.  I’ve had my casting plug out…practicing every day…look out, fish…