It’s summer, and for anglers that means it’s always time for fishing. My mother loved to fish, and her love of the sport took root in two of her three children. When you read this story about one of our family’s fishing excursions, you’ll wonder what possessed my sibs to touch a fishing pole again.

Gone Fishin’

When, therefore, Peter heard that it was the Lord,
he put his outer garments on, for he was stripped for working,
and threw himself into the sea.
John 21:7

“Careful, Jolene,” Mom warned as I crammed my bamboo fishing pole into the trunk. “Lay it in gently, or it will break.” I shoved it in harder, secretly hoping this bane of my existence would snap in two, so I could avoid the bullhead encounter I knew loomed dead ahead. “Jolene!” Mom grabbed the pole out of my hand and shooed me away. “I told you to be careful. Why don’t you get in the car and wait there?”

A golden opportunity to shape my own destiny was snatched out of my hands. I slumped my shoulders and dragged my saddle-shoe shod feet towards the crowded back seat.

“Come sit by me, Jolene,” cajoled Grandpa Stratton, patting the spot next to him. I climbed in and snuggled up to my grandpa, who had just enough room in his life for three grandchildren. With John on his lap and Jill and me on either side of him, we covered him with our wriggling devotion, knowing that he would divide his attention and the nickels in his pocket equally amongst us.

“Send Johnny up to the front, Dad. With four of you in the back seat, you’ll get mighty hot and crowded. It’s a good hour to Storm Lake, you know.” Dad reached up and cushioned John’s descent after Grandpa hoisted him over the seat back. “Turn around and sit down, John,” Dad ordered.

John delayed just a moment, crouching on the seat ahead of us, letting his ornery eyes peek over the car’s bench seat. He raised himself so his whole smirking face was revealed, baiting his practically perfect sisters. “I got gum,” he gurgled.

Jill and I refused to bite or chew upon this injustice, for sitting in the coveted positions next to Grandpa all the way to Storm Lake more than cancelled out the lure of a measly stick of gum. John sneakily bobbed his entire chest above the seat, exposing not one measly stick, but an entire package of Wrigley’s gum poking out of his front shirt pocket.

“Where’d ya get that?” I sputtered.

“Johnny, turn around and sit down.” Mom reiterated Dad’s order as she slid into place behind the wheel of the car. He flipped around and flopped down on the seat, in the process casting a triumphant look of glee at our incredulous, gapingly gumless mouths. We cuddled closer to Grandpa in a vain attempt of tit for tat, but it was too late. John was facing the front window, well aware that he had won the first round of the angler’s derby, dishing out to his sisters a particularly repugnant fish gumbo surprise.

The adults, unaware of the competitive undercurrents pulling their small fry to and fro, discussed the plans for the day. “Once we get to Storm Lake, the kids and I will get out our fishing poles and head for the dock. Harlan, you and Grandpa Stratton can sit in the car and visit or get out and sit on the shore.”

Grandpa lit Dad’s pipe and then his own Camel cigarette while Mom issued captain’s orders. “We’ll fish for awhile and then stop and eat the lunch I packed. I can hardly wait to try out my new rod and reel.” Mom’s excitement reminded us of how much she liked to fish, a pastime for which none of the rest of us had yet developed a similar passion.

“How come we kids don’t get a rod and reel? How come we gotta have bamboo ones?” Jill demanded. She was in her “everything should be perfectly fair” phase, a position I covertly admired, though I lacked her gumption in voicing such a potentially volatile manifesto.

“A rod and reel is for a grown up, Jill. Your bamboo poles are just fine while you learn how to fish.”

I knew what that meant. “A rod and reel was too expensive” is what that really meant. Lots of things were too expensive at our house, most notably, I fumed, whole packages of Wrigley’s gum. Jealousy, that green worm, writhed beneath the surface of my emotions, proximity to Grandpa unable to suffocate its parasitic presence.

“How’d,” I wondered, “how’d my brother get a whole pack a gum?” This day was going from bad to worse, so far as I was concerned. John had all the gum, Jill had Grandpa’s arm around her while the one at my side maneuvered his cigarette back and forth. All I had for consolation was the prospect of a hot afternoon spent spearing worm halves on a hook and drowning them in clear, cool water. The closer we drew to our destination, the deeper I wallowed in my misery. At the same time I could see anticipation rising in my mother as she sped towards an afternoon of fishing, indulging in a relaxation that seldom fit into her duty-filled days.

“Here we are,” she trilled as we pulled into the graveled parking lot next to the public dock. “Hmm, there’s not much shade,” she noticed and turned toward Dad and Grandpa. “I hope you don’t get too hot.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Dad assured her. He loved to bake in the heat, for he often complained that the numbness in his limbs made them, especially his legs, feel cold. “Maybe I’ll finally warm up.”

Mom didn’t hear a word he said, so intent was she on unpacking the trunk. She pulled out the poles and carefully leaned them against the side of the car. Then, she heaved the collapsed wheelchair out of the trunk, unfolded it, and set it out upon the gravel.

“Harlan, have Cyril push the chair up to the side of the car if you want to get out for awhile, but for Pete’s sake, don’t get too close to the water,” she warned him. She turned back to the trunk, searching for the fish bucket and the can of worms hiding behind the box containing our lunch.

Taking advantage of her unusually distracted state, the three of us oozed out of the car and inched towards the water, its cool wet promise drawing us to its inviting depths. “You kids stay out of the water!” Mom hollered, her head hidden in the trunk. “I told you no swimming or wading today, just fishing.”

“Mom,” we whined in hot protest, “we’re burnin’ up. We’re dyin’!”

“Do not go in the water.” She drowned our protests in a sea of commands. “Come get your poles. Jill, carry the fish bucket, and Jolene, you carry the can of worms.”

“Ewwww, I hate worms,” I squealed. “They make me barf.”

“Fine, John, carry the worms.”

Shooting a disdainful, manly glance my way, he picked up the can and strode down the dock, following Jill. The top of the entire package of gum waving from the pocket of the shirt which covered his puffed up little chest taunted me.

“Enjoy yourselves,” she sang out to the men in the car, swinging into line along the pier.

I lifted my pole and shuffled along, making steady if unenthusiastic progress until I managed to wrap my ankle in the fish line, nearly impaling my digits upon the fish hook in a vain attempt to untangle the situation. Coordination was never my strong suit. Knocking myself off balance as I swerved to save Thumbkin, I screamed, “Mom, HELP!” teetering precariously near the dock’s edge.

Mom turned and sprang into action. She dropped her rod and reel and sped towards me, pulling me to the middle of what I now considered the dangerously narrow dock. “Jolene, how did you do this?” She sat me down on the wooden slats and unwound the line from my ankle.
“I da’ know,” I sniveled. “Mom, will ya put the worm on my hook?”

Sensing another catastrophe in the making unless she agreed, she answered, “Yes, I’ll bait your hook.”

“Will ya take the bullheads off, too?” I pressed my advantage, for the nasty stingers behind their evil gills filled my cowardly heart and dainty fingers with dread.

“Yes,” she sighed, slight frustration tinging her voice.

I jumped up and bragged mightily as I headed to my fellow spawn, “Mom’s gonna’ bait my hook and take off the bullheads for me.” Round two of the fishing derby had ended in my favor.

“No fair,” they protested. “Mom!”

“Okay, Okay.” She swam into the fray. “I’ll help you all. Hold out your poles.” Patiently she baited our hooks and helped us cast our lines into the glassy water. She told us to watch the red and white bobber on the surface. “If it moves, you’ve got a bite.”

We sat on the dock, our feet dangling over the edge, tantalizingly close to the lake’s cool wetness. She baited her own hook, cast with expert precision and settled herself on the dock. Her shoulders relaxed and her eyes closed for a moment as she savored this bit of peace.

“Jolene, look.” Jill pointed at my bobber. “You gotta bite.”

“Mom, Mom, I gotta bite.” Never a rock in times of crisis, I nearly dropped the pole.

Her eyes popped open. “Hang on and pull it in.”

“What? How?” Overwhelmed by responsibility, my hands trembled and my muscles turned to mush. “Help!” I wailed.

“Good grief, Jolene, do you have to make everything into such a production?” Her firm hands covered mine, and with a mighty yank she lifted pole, line, and daughter skyward. A bullhead dangled at the end of the line, while a youngster hung suspended upon a length of bending bamboo.

“Help!” I bellowed.
“Sit down and shut up,” Mom commanded, and I did, at least until the bullhead flopped beside me on the dock.

“I’m not takin’ that off the hook. It’ll sting me.” Hysteria ratcheted my voice up a few notches from its already considerable volume. “Get it away from me, quick!” My arms and legs flailed as I inched away from the scaly monster.

“Jolene, shut up.” Jill put her head close to mine. “Everyone on this entire lake is lookin’ at you. You’re so embarrassing.”

I looked around and discovered that, indeed, my performance was gathering a nice little audience. The men in the rowboat were laughing heartily, and the fisherman on the shore to the right of the dock was shaking his head. My father and grandpa had left the car and were nearing the water’s edge, curious about the cause of the commotion.

“Look, Mom.” I pointed towards them, pleased that my antics were drawing such a crowd. “Dad and Grandpa are gettin’ in the water.”

Her rod and reel clattered to the dock again, and she sprinted toward the men. “That woman can run,” I marveled.

“Harlan, put on your brakes! You’re rolling towards the water!”

Harlan looked up, and then down, in surprise, and seeing that his wife was correct, braked just in time to avoid baptism by immersion.

“Cyril!” she cried as Grandpa stumbled over a piece of gravel in his attempt to catch the wheelchair. “Watch out!”

He reached forward and caught hold of Dad’s wheelchair just before his own unintentional proclamation of faith was accomplished.

“What are you two doing down here so close to the lake?” she scolded. “Would you please go back to the car, so I don’t have to worry about you two and the kids?” she begged.

“Dorothy, it’s gettin’ hot in the car,” Dad protested.

“Leave all the doors open,” she snapped.

“Let’s go back to the car,” Grandpa advised catching sight of the wild look in his daughter-in-law’s eye.

“My gum!” A shout from the dock wafted to the shore. “My gum fell in the lake!” John wailed and gnashed his teeth.

Jill and I stood frozen, watching the entire pack of gum float upon the surface of the water. Then we sprang into action flopping on our stomachs and reaching for the sweet, minty treasure, determined to rescue the five sticks of pleasure from a soggy fate.

John saw immediately that our arms were too short, took a deep breath, and bellowed, “My gum!!!!”

We grabbed our poles and tried to guide the waterlogged package closer, but to no avail.

A man of action if not forethought, John took the only step possible, one long step off a short plank, and splashed into the water.

“John, you can’t swim!” Jill informed him at the top of her lungs.

“My gum,” he burbled. His logic seemed impeccable to me. The gum was definitely worth the risk.

“Girls, get out of the way.” Mom barreled down the dock, her short legs moving faster than I thought possible. We got out of the way. She lay down on her stomach, inching as far out on the dock as she could safely extend, stretching out her arm. “John, grab my arm.”

“MY GUM!!”

“I’ll give you another piece of gum,” she promised. His arm swung toward her hand, and she strained forward, grabbing his wet hand, pulling him to her. She grabbed his collar, and by some reservoir of brute strength deep within herself, hauled him onto the dock. She sat a few moments, her chest heaving, her eyes closed, John dripping all over her lap.

After a moment, she collected herself and stood, steadying John on his watery feet. She looked at Jill and me. “Girls, pick up the poles. We’re going home.” Her shoulders sagged as she stooped down and picked up the fishing bucket, placing the full can of worms in its empty depths. She had lost round three of the fishing derby, but nobody had won.

She walked towards the shore, and we tagged along behind her, John, then Jill, then me.

“Mom,” John piped up, “when am I gettin’ my gum? You promised.”

We never went fishing again.