SEPTEMBER 9, 2020 – (Cont.) When Dad got something special for any of my sisters or me—a birthday present, for example—he’d “hide” it on the back shelf of the front hall closet, which was pretty much his closet, where he parked his fedora, hat brush, dress coats, and umbrella. Every day in the weeks leading up to my birthday, I’d check the shelf to see if a Sears box big enough for the imitation-Zebco set had yet appeared. About a week before the big day I noticed a Sears box, but it was too small, I figured, to accommodate the fishing gear I’d “ordered.”
After I’d blown out the candles and Mom was serving the cake, Dad presented the box from Sears. His face beamed with excitement as I prepared myself for disappointment—a single-handle crank reel. But at that very moment, I realized that Dad’s happiness was more important than my disappointment. I prepared to express my delight, irrespective of what came out of the box.
I was amazed by how much Sears could pack into what’d seemed like an all-too small package. Making up for the dreaded one-handle-crank reel (albeit with an attractive, deep-green housing), was a beautiful rod with a nice cork-padded plastic handle, and a small but serviceable green-white marbled-plastic tackle box, filled with hooks, lines, sinkers . . . bobbers and lures. I was a happy camper, er, fisherman . . . mostly because Dad was happy that I was, by this point, genuinely happy.
“You’ll have to try it out up at the lake this weekend,” Dad said. I could hardly wait.
That Saturday evening after a typically elaborate dinner produced by my grandmother, Dad and I headed down the hill to the dock and boat.
With a mighty thrust, Dad pushed the Alumacraft away from the boat cradle. While I re-examined for the umpteenth time all the gear in the tackle box, Dad rowed us to the rock bar that parallels the shore in front of the cabin. His strokes with the aluminum oars and well-varnished wooden grips were as graceful as they were powerful. In no time we were at our destination. Dad lowered the anchor, and I cast away. Dad lit up a cigar. We were both in heaven.
When Dad’s cigar was smoked halfway, I felt a nibble, then a bite, then an honest-to-goodness catch. I reeled fast, then more slowly, then sped up again, as I’d watched the older kids do with their carp and bullheads. Except, I was fishing in Grindstone Lake, realm of respectable fish—bass and pike, as Grandpa had told me.
Dad grabbed Grandpa’s old net, which Dad had optimistically pulled from the boat box (a large covered wooden box housing various boat/dock-related gear and tools) before our departure. As I drew the fish alongside the boat, Dad leaned over and with a perfectly timed swoosh! netted the catch and landed it onto the floor.
“A bass,” Dad announced. “A smallmouth bass. Good size, too! Congratulations!”
(Cont.)
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© 2020 by Eric Nilsson
