The Old Finn and His Fish

Something from the tackle box:

       Nothing on earth is more beautiful than the morning sun.  Even if you live to a ripe old age, you should try to enjoy each day, because darkness will come and will last a long time.  Nothing makes sense.

       Be cheerful and enjoy life while you are young!  Do what you want and find pleasure in what you see.  But don’t forget that God will judge you for everything you do.  (Ecclesiastes 11:7-9 CEV)

       I’ve told a few stories about fishing with my grandfather on my mother’s side, Delmar Carr, and how I’ve come to own the place on Long Lake that he originally bought when I was just a youngster.  Now I’d like to tell a story about fishing with my grandfather on my father’s side of the family, the Old Finn, my grandpa Eino Jarvie. 

decorated for heroism in France 1918

       My grandpa Jarvie really was an old U.P. Finn, the genuine article.  He was born in the Duchy of Finland in the year 1896 and came across the Atlantic to settle in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula with his parents, and a whole lot of other Finnish immigrants, right around the beginning of the Twentieth Century.  Apart from his beginnings in Finland, the time he went west as a youngster to work on a cattle ranch in Wyoming (another good story), and a couple more years in the Army helping push the Kaiser out of France in the Great War (yet another good story), my grandpa lived out his life in the U.P.  For most of his adult life he lived with his wife Goldie, raising up a dozen kids on a small farm located about half way between St. Ignace and the Soo near the town of Rudyard.  He was a genuine Yooper.

       I didn’t get to spend an awful lot of time with my grandpa Eino when I was a youngster.  My mom and dad had met as students at MSU in the early fifties, had gotten married, and then started teaching careers in the southern part of the state, which is where I grew up.  It was a good seven-hour or more road trip from our house to grandpa Jarvie’s place up north, even with the new Mackinaw Bridge in place.  So I got to see grandpa Jarvie once or twice a year, when we would go up for a week during summer break, or when grandma and he would come down and stay a day or two with each of his several kids who worked downstate in turn. 

       I can say that I didn’t get to know my grandpa Eino nearly as well as I now wish I had been able to.  But that wasn’t all due to the fact that I only saw him for a few days each year.  Even when you were around him, it was kind of hard to get my grandpa to say very much of anything.  He was a taciturn old Finn, which I have come to understand is a pretty common quality in that race.  He was pleasant enough, always had a smile and a hug for all of us grandkids when we came to visit, but it was grandma Jarvie who did all the talking.  And she did a lot of it.  She was not a Finn.  Grandma would sit and share the news, spread the gossip, tell the stories and jokes, and otherwise keep the conversation going around the room admirably.  Grandpa would just sit and smile at it all, and maybe say, “yep,” every once in a while.  But I liked him – quite a lot. 

       Raising a big family on a small Upper Peninsula farm was a lot of work without a lot of prospects for material wealth in return for it.  You could get by, and even be quite happy, if you didn’t mind working hard and living very simply, which is just what my dad’s family did when he was young.  It was a good life, but there wasn’t a whole lot of time for just goofing off, at least not for days on end, without some kind of hope for a return on it.  Yes, there were many pleasant days spent in the woods hunting and on the water fishing, but venison roast and canned sucker were pretty regular items on the family menu because of it.  If they had not been you could bet your bottom dollar that those pleasant days spent hunting and fishing would have been far fewer and further between. 

       When I came along, my life would be much different for me as a youngster than it had been for my dad.  When I got old enough to hunt and fish in the mid 60’s, those activities were way more about having fun than getting food for our family.  Sure, we ate fish and game, and liked it too, but it wasn’t really of any great concern whether we had it on our table or not.  If we were going to hunt or fish it would be because we liked to hunt and fish.  Getting a good meal out of it was secondary and, to be honest, totally beside the point. 

       Things had also changed for my grandpa Eino by the time I was a child. In many ways life was much more relaxed than it had ever been for grandpa and grandma in their youth.  All twelve of the kids had grown up and were out on their own, starting their own families.  He and Grandma moved into a new little house, built right next door to the old farmhouse where the family had been raised and which was now occupied by my uncle Delbert, his wife Jean, and their three boys.  No one had to put food on the table for as many as fourteen every day any longer.

       Things like taking vacations and having fun without a point to it were now a much greater possibility, and they took advantage of that.  For instance; spending two weeks away at Deer Camp with old friends, not really trying all that hard to shoot a deer, became something my grandpa Eino looked forward to doing every November. 

       I guess I’m telling you all of this because, although I only was around him for a week or two each year, it was kind of fun for me as a child to see the lighter more childlike side of my grandpa Jarvie come out in ways my dad says he rarely, if ever, saw when he was a child.  The best example I can give was the time grandpa came along on one of our family trips to go pike and walleye fishing up around Longlac Ontario. 

       I can’t remember exactly how old I was that time grandpa Jarvie came along fishing with our family, probably around twelve.  I do know that it wasn’t my first trip up to go fishing in Canada.  I had made at least a couple of fishing trips by then and felt like an old pro.  It would be fun to show grandpa Eino the ropes.  Or, at least I thought it would be.  Turns out he already knew what he was doing.  And he did it with such enthusiasm!  He was like a little kid up there!

       Grandpa appointed himself our ‘camp cook’ right off the bat.  I think that might have been his habit at deer camp, sort of hunting with his buddies, and he was a pretty good pancake chef too, but liking to cook was not the reason he did this.  He just wanted to make sure that everyone was up and ready to fish well before sunrise.

       Grandpa didn’t have to wake you up with his voice.  You never heard anyone make so much racket in the kitchen whipping up pancake batter in your life.  It sounded like he was right next to your bed mixing the batter up in a big metal bowl with a big metal spoon. Whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack. 

       If a couple of minutes of that didn’t get you rustling out from under the blankets and pulling your socks and shoes on, it would get even louder.  WHACK, WHACK, WHACK, WHACK, WHACK!  There was no sleeping in on a day of fishing up in Canada with the old Finn along for the trip.  WHACK, WHACK, WHACK, WHACK, WHACK, WHACK! On this fishing trip you would be watching the sun rise over the water - from the boat, - that was guaranteed.  The pancakes were pretty good, though. 

       It was fun to see grandpa smiling from ear to ear in the boat.  At least it was for me.  His joy was evident even by the half-light of pre-sunrise dawn.  Perhaps some along on the trip might not have been quite so appreciative of the old Finn’s early morning gusto, but no one was mad.  The fishing was very good, and everyone was having fun once they had all of the sleep rubbed out of their eyes.

       We caught a lot of northern pike and walleye, as we did on all of our Ontario fishing trips, but this trip held one special fish to be caught by the Old Finn.

       We all had our favorite lures.  Mine was a short blue and silver Rapala wooden minnow with only two sets of treble hooks, as opposed to the three sets found on the standard length lures.  I caught a lot of pike on that lure, even when it was getting pretty chewed up.  When I recommended the blue and silver pattern to grandpa, or the more common black and silver if he didn’t have a blue one, he would just shrug and say, “yep,” with that happy kid grin on his face.  I don’t think that he was taking my advice and, as he was catching his fair share of fish, I couldn’t press the point. 

       I don’t remember if grandpa had brought his own tackle box, or just used some of my dad’s gear, on that trip.  What I do remember is that he was kind of secretive about what he was trolling with, - didn’t let you get a good close look at what he was hooking up to the end of his line most of the time. He’d chuckle as he slipped his lure over the sideboard and play his line out, saying he wanted to fish a little different than we were fishing, and maybe catch something special, which is exactly what he did in the end!

       We’d all caught our fair share of walleye and pike by the last afternoon on the last day of our trip, but grandpa was still fishing a little differently than the rest of us, hoping for that something special fish.

       And then it came!  Grandpa’s rod bowed over hard and started to twitch in a way unlike anything I’d seen before on any fish I’d ever caught before.  He laughed and said, “This feels like what I’ve been looking for!” 

       The rest of us reeled in our wooden minnows and spoons to make room for the fight it looked like the Old Finn was in for.  Then, about forty yards out from where grandpa’s rod tip was pointing, the water exploded!  A huge black and silver looking fish came flying up, dancing in the air completely out of the water, before splashing down and taking the line deep again! 

       I’d never seen anything like it before!  Walleyes generally stay down until you haul them up.  Pike will bust the surface as you draw them to the boat, but not come right out of the water and fly like a bird!  This was exciting!  The next time the fish launched itself like a Polaris missile from a submarine, it was only twenty yards from the boat.  Grandpa kept the line tight even though that fish shook like a wet dog as it flew through the air.  One last airborne acrobatic exhibition, less than ten yards out from the boat, actually splashed water on us.  But the Old Finn knew what he was doing. 

       Soon my dad had the fish in the net, and landed into the boat.  My grandpa’s grin was downright infectious as he picked up that fish with a finger through the gill and curled out the corner of its mouth. 

       “Look at my big Lake Trout,” he chortled!

       I’d never seen a trout of any kind before that day, at least not up close and personal.  It was the only trout that any of us ever caught on our trips to Canada fishing with my dad when I was a kid, and I held my grandpa Jarvie in high regard for having caught it.  I’ve never seen a happier kid than he was that day. 

Something to take home in your creel:

       That one trip was the only fishing adventure that I ever had with my grandpa Jarvie.  I’ve caught my fair share of trout as an adult; browns, brookies and rainbows, fly-fishing on streams in the Lower Peninsula.  But I’ve never caught one as big or as exciting to watch getting caught as the big Lake Trout I watched my grandpa catch when I was a kid. 

      As I got older; college, work, marriage and starting my own family took up most of my young adult life.  I still got up north to see him at the little house near Rudyard in the eastern U.P. once in a while though. 

       The Old Finn passed away in 1982, when I was almost 26 years old. My last memory of grandpa Eino was watching a frail old man bounce my infant firstborn son, Zachary, on his knee, as he smiled that big smile of his and sang Finnish nursery rhymes to the little tot.  It was the only time I ever remember hearing my grandpa speak in his native tongue.  I think he looked almost as happy as I remember him looking the day he caught that Lake Trout. 

       Don’t ever lose your love for life.  Don’t ever let go of that childlike delight in catching a fish, or in singing nursery rhymes to little children, for that matter. 

A Mighty Minty Morning On The Ice

WARNING:  This story might not be for young or sensitive readers.  While it contains no actual coarse or vulgar words or phrases, it does contain words and phrases that rhyme with coarse and vulgar language.  These rhyming words and phrases are all written in italics, and they intentionally represent the genuinely coarse language used by many of the people I’ve known, worked, and even fished with, over the years.  Some folks, most of whom are very good people, do talk this way.  There was a time in my life when I was prone to it myself.  I try my very best not to use that kind of language any more, and do pretty well most of the time.  However, this kind of rough talk is germane to my story, and so I’ve rhymed it out.  Call me a coward if you must, but it’s what I’ve done.  If you think this literary technique does not reduce the offensiveness, I beg your forgiveness and ask you to read no further.  This story is not for you.  If you do read further, and are still offended, you have no one to blame but yourself.

Something from the tackle box:

       Jesus’ disciples came to him and asked, “Why do you use nothing but stories when you speak to the people?”

       Jesus answered: I have explained the secrets about the kingdom of heaven to you, but not to others.  Everyone who has something will be given more.  But people who don’t have anything will lose even what little they have.  I use stories when I speak to them because when they look, they cannot see, and when they listen, they cannot hear or understand……… But God has blessed you, because your eyes can see and your ears can hear!  (Matthew 13:10-13, 16 CEV)

       Once, early in the morning of the day after Christmas, a young man went out to fish through the ice.  The young man figured that he might well have the lake all to himself, for a time at least as, being the day after Christmas, most people would be sleeping-in after all the celebrating and over-eating of the previous day. 

       The young man was coming off a very full day himself, having observed the Holiday with his wife and three young children in all its facets, presents in the morning, worship at church a bit later, then an afternoon trip to the in-laws for a big dinner complete with mulled wine and pies for desert.  But he had gotten the new ice auger he had wanted for Christmas and he was very anxious to try it out despite the long day previous.  So he was out on the ice, ready to set up at the spot he figured on fishing, before it was fully light.  Which isn’t really that big of a deal in this part of Michigan, as sunrise isn’t until after eight o’clock on days late in December.  In any event, he did seem to have the lake to himself as much as he had hoped he would. 

       His new ice auger worked like a dream.  It only took a few seconds to drill a nice clean hole through the nine inches of ice that covered the lake.  In less than a couple of minutes he had two holes drilled, his folding director’s chair set up, and two baited lines running down in the water, and was waiting for the first tentative morning nibbles from the ice cold pan-fish hugging the bottom of the lake.

       It was a clear and very cold morning for December, but it was dead calm, which makes the deep cold almost enjoyable.  The very top sliver of the sun had started to show through the leafless trees to the east of the lake, and the young man felt very blessed to be right where he was at.  And so, he thanked God for it all, which was not an uncommon thing for this nice young man to do.

       He remembered his wife’s words as he left the bedroom earlier, “Have fun.  Catch a dozen and we’ll have ‘em for lunch when you get back.  Catch two-dozen and we’ll have ‘em for supper when your folks are here for ‘Day Late Christmas’ dinner.  Your dad would like that.”

       The young man would like that, too.  Either option, actually.  He was blessed with a great family all around, and he thanked God for that as well, — again, not an uncommon thing for him to do.    

       The first fish came when the sun was only half a ball showing through the trees above the horizon.  It was a nice fat, eight-inch bluegill.  A good eating fish.  He tossed it on the ice, re-baited his line and, within seconds of letting it back down into the water, had strikes on both his lines at once.  It looked like he was going to have a very good morning.  Three nice pan fish in his creel as the sun was just barely showing itself as a full orb above the horizon.  His life was very good, and he thanked God once more. 

       And that’s when he first heard the cussing coming from a couple of hundred yards down the ice from where he was set up.  He didn’t have the ice all to himself after all. 

       “Sun On A Beach!  Well, I guess that ice spud is at the bottom of the lake now!  And you Damp fish aren’t going to send it back up to me, are ya? – I guess you’re all safe now, you little Bass Tarts!  If I had better gloves on I wouldn’t have lost my grip in this Brass Freezing cold!  Car Rust!  And the hole I’ve got ain’t even big enough to fish through yet! – Oh, Key Wrap!  Now I’ve stepped on and busted my rod!  Holey Sheet!  What a Cluster of Flux this morning is turning out to be!  Sun On The Beach!  I guess I’ll just have to go home and eat Another Trucking baloney sandwich for lunch – again!  Got Damp In Hall To Hail!”

       The young man rolled his eyes.  Even though he wasn’t overly offended by the vulgar tirade coming from down the lake, it definitely was taking the nice edge of his otherwise perfect morning.  He’d shared a lot of ice time with other fishermen out on the lake in his thirty odd years of life, and he’d heard worse. 

       The young man knew this kind of torrent was usually liquor fueled, and he figured this one was too.  Lots of ice-fishermen kept a thermos with more Kahlua than coffee in it next to their seat.  Some preferred a half-pint of peppermint schnapps in their coat pocket.  Why, he didn’t mind a sip or two of that kind of refreshment himself from time to time, but some folks could always be counted on to overdo it.  He figured that this was the case now, even though it was awfully early in the morning for it.  Oh well, he thought, nothing to do but walk down and see if he could help with anything, which is what he did.

       As he got closer, the young man’s first suspicions about the situation only grew stronger.  From where he had been set up, all he could see was a slightly built older man, with a grey or white beard, dressed in a red snowmobile suit, red hat, and black knee boots, hopping around and flailing his arms as he cursed his luck.  If he hadn’t been so scrawny and foul mouthed, you might have been able to fool a little kid into thinking that it was Santa Claus out there, but up close, the details came into better view. 

       The old man didn’t have black boots on at all, just tennis shoes.  His red workingman’s insulated coveralls, with the name ‘Sam’ embroidered above the chest pocket, were discolored with old motor oil and grease from the knees down, and had only looked like black boot tops from a distance.  The cuffs on his old red coveralls were pretty well frayed right away at both the ankles and wrists.   If they hadn’t been so oil stained it would have looked like fur trim.  The red hat was an old Detroit Red Wings ball cap, the brim and Winged-Wheel logo being about as oily as the cuffs on his overalls.  He did have a white beard, though.  Or, at least the outside edges of his beard were white.  The parts of it beard closest to his mouth and directly below for several inches were distinctly yellow-brown with very unattractive tobacco stains.  Other than that, he was just as scrawny up close as he had looked from far away. 

       “Hey there friend.  Sounds like you’re not having a single thing go your way this morning.  -  Anything I can do to help?” offered the young man, as he got up close enough to detect a strong whiff of peppermint schnapps on the breath of the old fellow who turned to reply. 

       “Oh, - Hey there yourself. - I don’t think so,” he said, a bit sheepishly.  Then, in an instant, he got very animated again.  He started hopping, gesturing with his hands, and shouting,  “I was chopping this Damp hole through the ice to catch a few Trucking fish for lunch today.  But, in this Bawl Shrieking cold, my gloves frosted up and my Trucking iron spud slipped out of my Trucking grip and shot right to the bottom of the Trucking lake!  Sun On A Beach! – And if that wasn’t enough to Fish Won Off, - then I stepped on my Trucking fishing rod - and busted it all to Hail, - Got Damp In Hall.”  Then he stopped, hung his head, stuffed his hands into the pockets of his coveralls, and said, as he looked like he was about ready to start crying, “I’m sorry about that little outburst.  – I just came out to catch a few fish and enjoy a day on the ice after working ten hours yesterday on Christmas day, and I end up not having a good morning at all, - as you can see.” 

       “Well, - we all have bad days, I guess,” replied the nice young man.  “But I don’t think the cold was the only reason you let your ice spud slip through your hands, or stepped on your rod.  You know, it might have helped if you hadn’t tried to catch up on the Christmas ‘cheer’ you missed out on yesterday, all at once – before nine o’clock in the morning.” 

       “What do ya mean by that?” scowled the old man. “I hain’t been drinkin!”

       “Come on.  I’ve been on the ice for tip-up festival when the schnapps wagon rolls around.  You’re breath is smelling mighty minty for this time of the morning.”

       “Oh, - that!” chuckled the old man.  “That’s not schnapps.  I don’t drink that stuff.  That’s left over candy canes from work yesterday.  I stuffed a bunch of ‘em in my pocket when I finally clocked out.”   He laughed, then noticed the young man wasn’t laughing, and added, a bit more soberly, “I had permission to take them.” 

       “Whatever. – If you really want to catch a few fish for lunch, I’ve got an extra rig and a couple of holes opened up just down the ice a ways.  Grab whatever stuff you haven’t lost under the ice already and you’re welcome to join me.  You can have some of my coffee, too,” said the young man, - and then added, “There’s no Kalhua in it though.” 

       “Oh, that’s fine.  Like I said, I don’t drink any more. — Of course, — I don’t drink any less, either!  haw, haw, haw, haw — Get it. I don’t drink any more — but I don’t drink any less! —  Eh, well, anyway, — I’d love some of your coffee.  — Lead the way.”  

       So they made there way back to the young man’s spot, cleaned the holes out, and started to fish.  The young man sat in his director’s chair, the old fellow squatted down on an upended bucket.  It was quiet, and the fish that had been so anxious to be caught just a short while ago seemed to have moved on, so the young man opened the conversation.

       “So, you had to work yesterday, on Christmas day.  That’s too bad.”

       “Oh, I don’t mind too much.  I don’t really have much family myself, and someone has to keep the gas station down by the freeway off-ramp opened up for the folks that is so stupid they don’t know enough to fill their tanks the day before a Holiday.   And, I guess, some folks has a long way to go and would run out of gas even if they did fill up the day before, so — someone’s got to do it. I always volunteer. I do wish that old skin-flint Sun On A Beach that owns the place would pay me a little extra for it though.  He says, since I volunteer, he don’t see why he should pay me any extra. — And, if I don’t volunteer, he’d just as soon force one of the youngsters with a family to work the day for extra pay — just to spite ME for NOT volunteering to work the day!  How do ya like that! — The Sun On A Beach. He’s not all bad though.  He does pay me a dollar over minimum wage because I help folks with all the hard jobs that come in, like flat tires, leaking oil, cleaning up kid’s vomit out of the back seats, that kind of stuff. We offer Got Damp good service down at the B & M, let me tell you!”

       “I believe it,” said the young man.

       “Got Damp good service! I’ve been there over ten years now, and I’ve got seniority!  Which is another reason I get a dollar an hour over minimum wage.  No one else earns that much down there.  I can tell you that!”

       “I believe that, too,” said the young man again. 

       “But I don’t mind the hard work, even for an old skin flint, slave driving Bass Tart like my boss.  You know, the bible says, ‘if someone forces you to carry their sheet for them one mile, - carry their sheet an extra mile, - just to show ‘em who’s your real boss, — and — and — then it says not to worry about getting anything at all for it, neither.  Birds and flowers don’t ask for extra pay, and they got all they need and more, — and that comes right from the mouth of baby Jesus himself, son. — Well, young man, so do I. — I’ve got everything I need and more, Tick Beds like my boss running this world or not. Except, now, maybe I do need a new ice-spud! - haw, haw, haw.”

       “I believe that Grown-up Jesus said a lot of stuff like that, too.”  Replied the young man.

       “You bet your sweet Bass he did,” agreed the old man. — Said a whole lot of stuff like that, and we’d all be a Damp sight better off to take some to heed!”  He paused, - and then added, a little sheepishly, “Especially when you’re having as rotten a morning as I have been, I guess.”

       The old fellow took out some papers and a tobacco pouch and rolled his own cigarette, something hardly anyone does any more.  As he stuck it in his mouth and lit it up, he said, “I normally smoke a pipe, but I noticed that I had lost it while I was at work yesterday.  Don’t know where the Damp thing is.  These will do until I can get a new one.” 

       They drank the last of the coffee then, and fished on in the quiet of the morning for quite a long time.  But the fish really had moved on, and the breeze was starting to pick up, turning the crisp air from enjoyable to uncomfortable. 

       Finally the young man said,  “I don’t believe we are going to catch any fish today, and I have to be back home by lunch-time.  Before you showed up I already had three early rising bluegills in that creel over there.  If I take them home for lunch the kids will just fight over ‘em.  But three that size makes an acceptable meal for just one fellow.  Why don’t you take them home with you?  It’s no feast, but it’s got to be better than another baloney sandwich.”

       “Why — thank you!  I sure have had a hankering for some icy-fish. — I’ll do that.  Thank you very much!” 

       “And to be perfectly honest.  I just hate that rod you’re using.  Worse fishing tackle purchase I’ve ever made.  I’d consider it a favor if you’d keep it, too. — Can’t replace your ice-spud though! (chuckle) that one’s on you, my friend!”

       “haw, haw, haw!  I guess it is!  But thanks for the rod, too.  I’ll use it. — Here,” the old man said, as he patted around the pocket with the name ‘Sam’ embroidered above it on his coveralls, “Take one of these candy canes I took away from the station last night.” 

       With that, he unwrapped a cane and handed it to the young man, who really wished he had just left the wrapper on and handed it to him.

       “Go ahead! — Try it! — They’re mighty minty, let me tell you!” said the old man with a wink and a smile.

       “Why, it is pretty good,” replied the nice young man as he took a lick.  “It’s very, - very,……. very,……… goooo” - - -  And, with that, the young man was fast asleep in his director’s chair, — on the ice, — in the middle of the lake.

       When he awoke, he sat drowsy for a minute, — until he realized where he was, — and remembered what had just happened.  Then he jerked up out of his chair with a start.  He had every intention of doing great bodily harm to the old Bass Tart who, he was quite sure, had slipped him a Mickey! — But — there was no one around.

       He spun around, - and looked around.  One rod was gone, - but he had given that to the old man after all. Everything else was there, right where it had been, — and more besides!

       He checked his watch.  He wasn’t sure of the exact time when the old man had handed him that laced candy cane, but he calculated that he couldn’t have been out for more than a few minutes, at most.  Which made other things very unexplainable.  For there on the ice, scattered all around his director’s chair, lay a man’s daily bag limit of big fat bluegills, two-dozen plus one.  And written in the dusting of snow that covered the ice were the words, ‘have a great day late Christmas dinner with mom, dad, the wife and kids.  thanks again, S.C.’

Something to take home in your creel:

“Wishing and Praying for a Very Merry Christmas, filled with blessing upon blessing, to fall happily upon ALL of my Friends, and everyone else in this Good Old World as well!”  M.J. 

My Very Best Fishing Buddy

Something from the tackle box:

       Can you catch a sea monster by using a fishhook?  Can you tie its mouth shut with a rope?  Can it be led around by a ring in its nose, or a hook in its jaw?  Will it beg for mercy?  Will it surrender as a slave for life?  Can it be tied by the leg like a pet bird for little girls?  Is it ever chopped up and its pieces bargained for in the fish-market?  Can it be killed with harpoons or spears?  Wrestle with it just once – that will be the end.  Merely a glimpse of this monster makes all courage melt.  (Job 41:1-9  CEV)

The two best I know - Nolan catches fish with grandma in Delmar's Cove

       My last story, about fishing with my lovely wife Kathy, went over so well that I’ve decided to do a couple more stories about fishing with particular people who are a part of my life.  This story is about one of my favorite fishing partners, my five-year-old grandson, Nolan.

       Since before he could fish I would be telling my grandson, “Someday soon, Nolan, we will be going fishing together, and you will be my very - best - fishing - buddy.”  

       “Oh yeah, grandpa.  That’s going to be fun,” was always the response.  And I am happy to report that, so far, it has turned out to be just so!

happy faux fishing

       It started out when he was three.  We used toy fishing rods loaded with cotton string and magnetic hooks, and we went angling from Nolan’s boat, that looked a lot like a picnic table, for plastic fish that were swimming in water that looked a lot like the grass in his back yard. 

       It was great fun.  And, taking after my wife, Nolan always seemed to catch more and bigger plastic fish than I did.  I guess he has inherited grandma’s marked superiority over his old grandpa’s feeble fish catching abilities. – I also noted that he has inherited his grandma’s wonderful glowing smile whenever he would catch a fish that put him ahead of me in the count. – Alack and alas for me, an old-timer, doomed to perpetual sidekick status fishing in the presence of true angling greatness. 

       But fishing with toy rods, off of picnic table boats, for plastic fish strewn on the lawn, would not be the final chapter in our now longstanding fishing relationship.  Two springs ago now, when Nolan had reached the adventurous and capable age of four, we started fishing with real tackle, in real water, for real fish!

First real fishing on Jordan Lake

       Our first adventure took us a four-block walk from the parsonage, down to a parishioner’s home on Jordan Lake, where we fished off the dock for some of the abundant ‘sunnies’ that my parishioner’s two daughters had reported as being very anxious to be caught.  We had been practicing in the back yard with a small spin-casting rig, but Nolan wasn’t quite ready to use it in live action yet, at least not without endangering his old grandpa’s life and limb in the process, so we opted for my grandpa’s favorite tackle, cane poles.  It was a glorious outing!  Fish were caught, and I came away with only a couple of minor injuries. 

       A little bit more practice with his crank-style fishing gear that summer and Nolan was ready for the annual Lake Odessa Little Kid’s Fishing Tournament, held every August on a small private lake just outside of town.  The lake is a man-made fishing hole excavated out of a corner of the local gravel quarry.  I would guess that it’s only about five or six acres of water surface, but the owners keep it well stocked with bluegills and bass.  It may not seem like a prime location to hold a civic sponsored fishing tournament, but every year fifty or more kids between the ages of three and thirteen show up to try out their angling skills against one another, with adult assistance and supervision, of course.  Nolan was anxious to use his new spin-casting rod and reel, figuring it would give him quite an edge, but grandpa took along his cane pole too, just in case.  Both got used. 

Gramp helps get the tackle set up

       The tournament lasts for two hours, from nine to eleven in the morning.  Grandma and grandpa were both concerned that this might be too long a stretch for a four-year-old fisherman, and we let Nolan know, right up front, that he only had to fish for as long as he wanted to fish.  The moment he got tired of it all, we’d throw rocks in the lake, or do something else, whatever would make the day fun for him.  We figured that we’d probably be packing up and leaving before the prizes were even handed out – and that would be OK.  But the little guy surprised us.  He fished enthusiastically for almost an hour and forty-five minutes before he decided that it would be more fun to dig in the dirt of the lake bank with a stick.  We considered it an impressive stretch of fishing for a preschooler. 

first fishing tournament in Lake Odessa

       While Nolan was nowhere near the top of his age bracket in number of fish caught, or largest catch, he did put together a nice stringer of five pan-fish for gramps to clean and gramma to cook for lunch.  While no prizes were won, we left with much optimistic banter about how much better he was likely to do next year with all the fishing experience he would have at the age of five!

       This past summer brought another Lake Odessa Kid’s Fishing Tournament, along with a brief moment of consternation over the fact that he didn’t catch more fish at the age of five than he had at the age of four.  My sage observation was, “Oh well, that’s fishing, Nolan.”  He seemed to get it.  But then again……. maybe six is the age when true fishing prowess will manifest itself….

       More importantly, this past summer brought Nolan on his first trip to go fishing with grandpa and grandma up at the cottage on Long Lake!  If Nolan didn’t shine in competitive fishing at the local gravel pit, he sure made up for any deficit fishing the natural waters of a true northern lake!  Unlike the tournament, where adults are required to supervise and assist the youngsters, but strictly prohibited from fishing themselves, grandma and grandpa could enjoy fishing right along with Nolan up on the lake.  But why bother!  If Kathy has me beat before we even set out most times we go fishing, she now has to bow and pass her crown on to Nolan.  He has us both whipped, hands down!

       Now, it is true that I took Nolan to spots where I was reasonably certain that we would catch a lot of very small fish with very little trouble.  Sure, almost all of them would be too tiny to keep, but so what? 

       “Let’s go catch some fish, best buddy!”

       “Sure thing, grandpa.  Lots of fish!” 

       The bigger ones can wait a few seasons, until the capacity for patience, especially as it applies to the craft of catching the bigger fish in a lake, is more developed than the average five-year-old can be expected to have.  In layman’s terms, if you take a youngster fishing, – and don’t catch any fish – at all, – you might not have a very enthusiastic fishing partner the following year – or any fishing partner – at all – once they get old enough to say “no” to the suggestion. 

Something to take home in your creel:

 

        I figure it this way; when you’re trying to develop a shared passion in a child’s heart for anything, - and especially for something that you want to enjoy in company together with them for many years to come, - it just makes sense to approach it the way I did this past summer.  Nolan and I fished a lot of sites where I knew we could expect a fair amount of bites, if not a lot of line-stretching, rod-bending fights.  We would have lots of fun, even if the lunkers would all remain in our future. 

a nice 'rocky'

       I was optimistic, but I sure didn’t expect what we got!  I’m here to tell you that the kid could hardly throw a line in the general vicinity of water without catching a fish, - and quite a few of them were genuine keepers!   I didn’t get in half the fishing I had hoped to do myself, as every time I got Nolan going and then went to set up my own tackle, Nolan would have a fish on that was too big for his little hands to get unhooked and back into the water by himself.  The Rock Bass seemed especially fond of Nolan’s technique.  Nice ones too.  Go figure. 

       In any event, I’m pretty optimistic about next year’s fishing enthusiasm level from my very - best - fishing - buddy.  

trips up north to fish can wear a guy right out!

My Sweetie Out-fishes Me, All the Time!

Something from the tackle box:

       A truly good wife is the most precious treasure a man can find!  Her husband depends on her, and she never lets him down.  She is good to him every day of her life, and with her own hands she gladly makes clothes.  She is like a sailing ship that brings food from across the sea.  (Proverbs 31:10-14 CEV)

       Most of those who know me, also know my wife, Kathy, as well. I’ve written about her on this blog before.  You can go back to my entries for this past September and read, Fishing With an Artist, to see some of the wonderful watercolor paintings she has created featuring subjects related to life on the water.  Some other paintings are scattered around in other stories as well.  She is a very talented artist, but that is beside the point.  She is something extra special in the grace filled way she lives her life as a wonderful human being.

On Tupper Lake

       Kathy is just about the best person any other person could ever hope to know, and everyone says so.  I believe that my own mother likes my wife better than she likes me – and I have to give my mom credit for her good judgment on that point!  I love Kathy so dearly, and she gives me every good reason to do so – which is what makes it so hard to get upset with her when she continually out-fishes me! 

       You see, my sweetie out-fishes me at an alarming rate, one that cannot be accounted for by anything other than divine intervention on her behalf.  Any casino that offered Kathy the same odds on a bet that she would catch more fish than I do when we are fishing together, as they offer the average sucker poking quarters into their slot machines, would soon go broke.  It is uncanny!

a cold day on Long Lake

       Now, you do have to understand that my sweetheart does not fish nearly as much as I do.  If you count all the times I might walk the three blocks from my church office down to the lake, just to fish for an hour or so on an afternoon break from my pastoral duties, I might well go fishing a hundred times or more in a year.  It would not surprise me if I topped that number.  My wife goes fishing with me, on average, perhaps three or four times each year out of that number. 

       I love to fish.  But, most of the time, my wife is perfectly content to just send me off, rod in hand, and spend her time doing all the other things that she’d rather do until I get home.  She doesn’t mind fishing, but doesn’t have the passion for it that I do, and that’s OK with both of us.  More than OK.  I believe it is, in fact, one of the bedrocks of our great relationship. 

fishing in Florida

       However, as I said, every now and then, three or four times a year or so, my sweetie says, “Sure! I’ll go fishing with you today!  Sounds like fun!  Let’s go!”  

       And off we go.  If we’re up at our place on Long Lake we take grandpa’s old fourteen-foot boat and outboard motor.  If we’re around Lake Odessa, we pack our wide beamed lake canoe on top of the Subaru and head for one of the many nearby lakes or navigable rivers.  “Look out pan-fish, here we come!  And you had better look out for Kathy, way more than for me!”

       I’ve never minded the ‘slight edge’ in catching fish that any of my other fishing buddies might hold over me for a stretch of time.  Why, my good friend Wayne Swiler has pulled in a few more fish than I have, as many as three or four outings in a row, several different times.  I don’t even mind him grinning about it when he’s on a streak like that, because I’m just as likely as not to return the favor over the course of the next few session we fish together.  Our respective fishing bragging rights have always been tenuous, and temporary, at best.  Not so with Kathy.  She’s always ahead of me.

       The first time that it really hit home that I was getting schooled in fishing by my wife on a regular basis, was the very summer we bought our wide-beamed lake canoe.  We decided to take it down to Jordan Lake, just three blocks from the parsonage, paddle it to the east end and then up the mile-long scenic channel to Tupper Lake, where we would spend the afternoon trying to catch a dinner’s worth of bluegills before paddling back the way we’d come. 

       It was a beautiful, bright, sunny, summer day, and the water was very clear.  I always look into the water as I paddle along when it’s clear like that.  I like to spot fish where I’m thinking about fishing before I start throwing my bait out.  About a quarter of a mile up the channel we come to a bend, where I notice some movement in a shaded hole underneath a low, overhanging willow bough.  I tell Kathy to stop paddling when we are about ten yards beyond the willow.  I drop the anchor and quietly ease us back towards that willow branch with the flow of the water, until we are about twenty feet away from the spot. 

just around the bend from where this story happened

       I tell Kathy that I was pretty sure - - “I saw some fish movement, about four or five feet deep, right underneath that low hanging branch, and I don’t want to get any closer and scare whatever is there away.  That big branch won’t let you cast right to the spot, but if you set your slip bobber to about three feet up the line from your sinker, you can drop your baited hook into the water between the boat and that branch, then play some more line out, and the current should carry your worm right into that shaded hole with no danger of snags.  Here, let me show you.” 

       I demonstrated the technique I had just described perfectly, and I was rewarded with several good solid taps before my bobber went still, indicating that whatever was under there had stripped the bait off my hook.  I reeled in my rig to re-bait.

       “I got it,” Kathy said.  “I can see there’s something under there.  I’ll give it a try.”  She tossed her line in and floated it under that branch as nicely as you could want it done.  The only difference from my attempt was that her bobber just plain disappeared as her rod bent over, and she ended up cranking in a nice seven-inch long bluegill.  She smiled big as I filled the fish bucket with water and she tossed the first fish of the day into it.  She always smiles big when she catches a fish.

       “I’m up on ya, one to zip, sweetheart,” she giggled. 

       “Gills run in packs,” I replied. “We might as well stay here and see how big the family is.” – Well, - it was a honey hole!

       “I’m up on ya, three to zip, honey.” – big smile

       “I’m up on ya, six to one, sweetheart,” – big smile

       “I’m up on ya, ten to two, pooky bear.” – big smile

       “I’m up on ya, fifteen to three now, darling.”  - big smile

       “Let’s see.  That makes it twenty-one to four now!”  - big smile

       “Well dear, I’m done.  I’ve hit my limit.  But you keep fishing, honey.  I’d hate to see you go home with less than half a dozen.”  -  huge big smile

       Well, - when you’ve been bested, you’ve been bested.  And it’s best to be bested by the best, I always say.  “I love you too, sweetie-pie,” I replied.  And, believe it or not, I had just as big a smile on my face as she had on hers.  -  I am still smiling to this very day!

 

Something to take home in your creel:

       I’m not saying that Kathy has out-fished me every single time that we’ve ever gone out fishing together.  About once every other year or so, I will catch a couple more fish than she has, – really, – but she does hold a huge advantage over the years. 

       But I don’t mind it a bit.  In fact, - I kind of like it this way.  You see, my wife has the most beautiful smile of anyone I’ve ever met, and when she’s out-fishing me, she smiles a lot.  It is so worth it.  I’ve included a lot of photos that I’ve taken of my sweetheart smiling while she fishes, just to prove my point.  I hope that you think she’s as beautiful as I do.  And, if you’re a fisherman, I hope that you are just as blessed as I am, too.