He jostled the insect about in his hand until it lay face down on his forefinger underneath his thumb. “Come close, you have to see what I’m doing.” I leaned over his hand, watching him take the hook with his other hand, turn it sideways and slip it forward, toward the head, underneath a hard flap that covered what I would call the cricket’s neck. “That part is called the collar.” He guided the hook halfway under the collar, then turned it up and gently wiggled it until it punctured all the way through. Using the fishing line, he lifted the cricket away from his hand. The cricket squirmed in the air, firmly attached to the hook.
“Champ, that cricket doesn’t know it’s hung on a hook. It’s not hurt and it will behave naturally. Whenever possible, hook live bait so the hook does the least amount of damage and the live bait acts natural. Generally, natural action produces more bites.”
“Imagine if you will, Mom sends us to Browns’ Turkey Farm to pick out a turkey for Thanksgiving. Given the choice of all the birds, would you pick out a big, strutting, pretty turkey or would you pick the dirty one, limping along the fence line?”
“Dad, I don’t like to think about hurting a turkey, but I get what you’re saying.”
“Champ, think about all the effort we put into collecting the live bait and getting it here in good shape; why would we go through all that trouble just to kill it right before we need it most?”
“Dad, there is more to this fishing thing than I realized, isn’t there? There’s always something more than meets the eye. The guys on TV make it look easy, hauling in fish after fish.”
“It’s the same way with anything you’re going to do well, you not only have to know what you’re doing, but why you’re doing it the way you are.”
Together we flipped our crickets into the lake. You could see the crickets slowly sink. Their little legs paddled as they went down. Flash! A tea-saucer sized something sped by, took my bait before my eyes, and yanked my rod tip down before I had a chance to do anything.
“Reel, Champ, reel!” I was on it.
“It’s a big one, Dad!” That fish darted left, right, up and down, and then again. At times, I couldn’t reel; at times, I forgot to reel. Somehow, after what seemed forever, I managed to get the fish close enough so Dad could get hold of the line, bringing it in the rest of the way.
“Dad, that’s the biggest one!” The bream weighed almost a pound. I jumped in Dad’s arms “I love crickets!” Over Dad’s shoulder, I noticed a fish flopping on the shore. I hadn’t noticed, but he had caught a fish while I was dancing with mine. It was bigger than mine was, but he was happier for me.
He took my fish off, put another cricket on my hook, and sent me fishing. By the time he had his on the stringer, I had another bream on the bank. It was a good one, too.
“Champ, we got twelve or fifteen fish on the stringer. I think that is plenty for dinner. Let’s start throwing them back.”
“I don’t care, Dad; I’m having fun just catching them.” We spent the next hour or so feeding the fish crickets until we ran out of crickets.
“You ready, Champ?”
“Sure, Dad.”
“Give the rest of them a treat; sling this corn in the water.” Handful after handful, I peppered the water with corn. I wondered why we didn’t use it when fish started to come in and eat the corn as it sank. Oh well, at least I found out the corn was good bait, too.
The last two handfuls I scattered around the picnic table to make amends with the gulls. A flock of gulls hovered around as Dad and I picked up our stuff from the table. He carried most of the gear and I had the fishing poles and worm bucket.
“Dad, I think the birds are still ticked off; one just painted my head!” He wiped my head off with his handkerchief, laughing all the while.
At the car, Dad popped the trunk, putting the fish in a five-gallon bucket he had inside it. He put the rest of the fishing gear in the trunk, too. In the front seat, he tossed the knapsack, and then he arranged the fishing poles in the back seat.
“Hop in, Champ!” We had our lunches of lukewarm Coke, Fritos, and PB&Js in the car on the ride back to the house, while I gave a recap of every bream I’d caught.
“Do you remember that one, Dad, that took my fourth worm and ran to the middle of the…?”
At home, Dad told me to dump 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