It’s been years since I’ve gone fishing, but lately I’ve been thinking I might like to try it again, surrounded as I am here with fishing of all sorts. I remember fondly the thrill of a tug on the fishing line and the excitement of bringing it in. Don has lots of tackle, so that wouldn’t be a problem.
Then I stop and remember the worst that could happen: I might catch something.
I was fairly young back in my fishing years, and I usually went with my family or occasionally some kid friends. My brothers cleaned the fish. They taught me how to scrape off scales, or peel off catfish skin, but mostly they did it. And when I did go alone or with friends, if we did catch anything worth keeping, we brought it home as a string, and Dad would clean it.
The fish around here are serious fish, and the prospect of having to clean one of them cools my ardor immediately. My old boss used to “catch and release”. At the time I thought it was a little silly, considering all he did to catch bass, but now it makes perfect sense.
I’ve been trying to recall my fishing years. I well remember digging for worms. I was pretty good at baiting the hook. I could take bluegill or sunfish off the hook, though someone else removed the catfish—I was scared to death of getting “horned”. But did I or didn’t I ever clean a fish?
My usual fishing companion other than family was my friend Janet. I lived in town, and she lived on a farm within easy biking distance. As a rule we fished in a pond near the road, but there was a bigger pond deep in a woods at the back of her father’s farm. In retrospect, it probably wasn’t all that big, and it was only across a couple of pastures, just inside a copse of trees. But her brother used to bring in magnificent strings of fish from it.
One summer day when we were 10 or 12 we decided to camp out all night by the big pond, and for supper we would eat the fish we would catch. Besides our blankets, we took an iron skillet, matches, utensils, and bacon and cornmeal for frying the fish. Gathering up all that stuff took time, of course, so it was getting late when we started.
The woods really were kind of dark. I think we did get a fire started; Janet and I were pretty good at that. I can’t remember if we ever caught any fish or not, but when evening fell, her brother came out and to our immense relief (though we protested) brought us back to the house.
Now, about 70 years later, I think I’ll once again let cooler heads prevail. I can go a little longer without cleaning a fish.
Lynn Hopper 