Not Just Fishin’
I bounced into the cab of “Ol’ Whitey,” my grandfather’s truck, too excited to care about the searing heat that scorched the backs of my thighs as I sat down. It was summer, and Granddaddy and I were going fishing! Under a blazing sun in a cloudless sky, Granddaddy and I headed out to drown worms, or minnows, as it were.
The first order of business was making the trip to Sulphur Springs, fifteen miles away, to buy minnows for bait. I loved going to the bait shop. I would walk up and down the rows of open cinder block tanks, trailing my hands in the water. I tried so hard to catch the minnows bare handed, but they were far too quick for my intrusive childish hands. Even though I never caught one, I loved feeling the silvery swish as they swam gracefully away from my clumsy, grasping fingers. I loved looking at all the different sizes of minnows, from the large ones that were longer than my fingers to the tiny ones that were almost invisible. And on the rare occasion when a minnow actually touched my hand as it jetted past, I marveled at the rainbow of colors in the scales it left behind. I always thought that iridescent silver was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
With our supplies purchased, it was time for Granddaddy and I to make the return trip to Cumby. My job on this leg of the trip was to hold the bag of minnows. Granddaddy would walk me to the passenger side of the pickup, wait until I climbed in and got settled, and then hand me the bag. I remember the sensation of blistering heat on the backs of my thighs and quivering cold on the tops of them. I would watch the minnows circling in the bag, wondering what they thought of this tiny, bright, flimsy new tank they were in. I remember feeling sorry for them, because I knew what fate had in store for many of them—being speared by a hook before becoming a snack for a larger fish.
When we finally arrived at the pond, I would carefully carry the bag over to the bank while Granddaddy unloaded the rest of our gear—the fishing rods, the minnow bucket, and the cooler. No fancy tackle boxes or hand-tied flies for us, just rods, reels, lines, corks, and hooks. We’d set up chairs, dump the minnows into the minnow bucket and set it in the water, bait our hooks (or Granddaddy would, since I never quite mastered that task), cast our lines, and wait. Then I would sit, eyes laser focused on that bright orange (or green, or yellow) plastic ball floating in the middle of the pool, every fiber of my being waiting for the slightest sign of motion. Was that a bobble? No, just the wind.
I was never a particularly good fisherman, because fishing required two things I was never very good at doing: sitting still and being quiet. I remember hearing, “Be quiet! You’ll scare the fish away!” more times than I could count—but never from Granddaddy. I’d sit there in my little lawn chair, trying so hard not to talk or move until I was practically vibrating with the effort of holding back. Granddaddy would finally tell me, “Go get me ____ out of the truck,” or “Let’s give the fish a break for a little while.” I understand now that he really didn’t need a break or whatever it was from the truck, but he knew I needed to get up and run around for a few minutes.
We’d sit for hours on the bank, sipping icy cold Cokes (in glass bottles) from the cooler and hoping for a bite. Sometimes we’d go home hot and sweaty, with nothing to show for our day but a sunburn (well, I'd have a sunburn—this was before anyone cared about SPFs.) and an empty minnow bucket. On rare occasions, we might bring home four or five fish—just enough for a meal. Granddaddy would clean the fish and give them to my grandmother to cook. She’d fry them up and we’d have ourselves a feast. To be honest, I didn't really like fish all that much, but those meals could have put Gordon Ramsay's best effort to shame.
Looking back on those days I spent with Granddaddy on that pool bank, I now realize that they taught me a very important lesson. How many fish we did or didn’t catch was not the point; in fact, the fish were completely irrelevant. It was about was the time—the time I spent with Granddaddy.
