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Bet you're goin’
fishing all of the time
Your baby's goin’
fishing too.
Bet your life that
your sweet wife
She's gonna catch
more fish than you.
Many fish bites if
you got good bait
Here's a little
tip that I would like to relate
Many fish bite if
you got good bait.
I'm a-goin’
fishing
Yes I'm goin’
fishing
And my baby’s goin’
fishing too.
“Fishing Blues,”
Taj Mahal/Henry Thomas
Sometimes only life’s simple pleasures will do. I occasionally forget what they
are, but over the last few weeks I have distinctly heard the call of a trout
stream.
Unfortunately even the simple pleasures aren’t so simple anymore; it can be hard
to find the time to read a paper, much less trudge off for a weekend. Besides,
my gear was in sorry shape from neglect, I haven’t had a fishing license in
years, and the season is almost over. My old fishing buddy couldn’t make it.
And I was tired and ...
I
was whining. It was pathetic. I went anyway.
Bet your life, my sweet wife doesn’t get closer to a fishing hole than she has
to, but my baby went fishing too. Though trout streams aren’t my daughter’s
element, she admitted we were overdue for a little one-to-one time and my wife
was relieved she’d be there to call for help in case I wasn’t the rock-hopper I
used to be. (Two rather undignified bruises later proved her right, though no
paramedics were involved).
A
6 a.m. wakeup following a midnight arrival didn’t boost my girl’s companionship
value much. She did perk up enough to daub on a little makeup on the drive to
the stream, done more out of reflex than a desire to impress anyone. Either
way, I have learned not to fret over the futility of such routines. I am, after
all, a fisherman.
Or
used to be, anyway. Growing up within walking distance of Folsom Lake and at
least one good pond and stream, fishing was an almost daily part of my boyhood
summers. I don’t remember exactly when I discovered that the fish weren’t
really the point, but I do know there is no solitude like that of a trout
stream, no retreat like the purposeless purpose of soaking worms.
Not that there isn’t at least a dash of ego involved; I once thought it made no
difference whether I caught anything or not until I had a trip that I didn’t.
Still, the fish are mainly a pretense. Friends and family are a lot more likely
to understand the occasional fishing trip than a statement to the effect of
“I’m off to tromp through the brush so I can sit on a stump 100 miles away at
daybreak. And did I mention that I’m going to get my feet wet and slip on
rocks? But it’s OK because I’ll bring back fish that will cost somewhere around
$50 a pound.”
Put him in a pot,
baby, put him in a pan,
Honey, cook him
till he nice and brown
Make a batch of
buttermilk hotcakes, mama,
Chew him fast and
chomp him on down
Since my daughter won’t eat fish her motivation is a little spotty, but she did
find ways to entertain herself. Talking is always a favorite, though it doesn’t
help much in the stealth department. And of course she wanted to make sure I
understood the shortcomings of the great outdoors compared to the average mall,
which she explained in great detail.
The chat was distracting though fun until she gave the fish I caught a name.
“Are you going to eat ‘Pookie?’”, she asked.
“Don’t call it that,” I grumbled.
“You don’t want me to name him ‘Pookie?’”
“I
don’t want you to name him anything. It’s dinner, for crying out loud.”
Pookie was the total catch Saturday, but I let my daughter sleep in Sunday while
I fished alone. I caught a limit.
Must have been the weather. But as I have long known, the fish aren’t really
the point.
© 1997 – 2002 Brent Morrison
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