Once again I went fishing with my not-quite-four-years old Granddaughter and her Dad, my Son-In-Law. Once again she outfished me. This time quicker and better. She caught an 8 or 9 inch largemouth bass and a couple of small sunnies to my nada. I had swipes at my yellow ant, but apparently the hook was still too big. Next time we’ll scale down the rod, leader and try fishing teeny, tiny streamers. Fishing, like life, is a learning experience. All I knew from fishing different places years ago doesn’t readily transfer to much smaller fish in much tighter quarters around a city dock.
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| John Buchan: 'The charm of fishing is that it is the pursuit of what is elusive but attainable, a perpetual series of occasions for hope.'
Photo by J. Harrington
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The closest I’ve come to how and where we’re fishing these days was back in about the seventh grade, fishing late afternoon to early evening off the Hingham city dock for smelt, using seaworms as bait and a bamboo pole as a rod. I hadn’t thought about that for years, until this afternoon.
It’s encouraging to see the younger generations picking up where we’re leaving off. The tackle I’ve accumulated over the years may continue to bring pleasure once I can no longer use it. If I make a few adjustments and get back in practice, I hope that won’t be for awhile.
Bringing Forth
On the gold rock,
we used to sit
with our primitive poles.
Sticks we gathered
from grandmother’s
broken maples,
pins we tied by the head
onto white string.
The sunnies swam
brown-golden-rainbow
in her lake, near the sand beach
she brought in
herself. We always cheered
when we hooked
the surge of body and fin.
But I also cried
at the blood, the shining hole,
and more often than not
I threw the breathless sunnies
back in.
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Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.
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