This is the second fiction
story I’ve posted on this blog site.
The nice young man, who made his appearance in A Mighty Misty Morning on the Ice, returns. While the story and characters are made
up, the geography is real, the southwest shoreline of Long Lake in Cheboygan
County, near my place there. Enjoy.
M.J.
Something from the tackle box:
“A good tree cannot produce bad fruit, and a
bad tree cannot produce good fruit. You can tell what a tree is like by the fruit it produces. You cannot pick figs or grapes from
thornbushes. Likewise good people
do good things because of the good in their hearts. And bad people do bad things because of the evil in their
hearts. And your words show what
is in your heart.” (Luke 6:43-45
CEV)
Very
early on a gray morning, with the sky darkly overcast but the air dead calm,
our nice young man decided to take his wooden cedar slat canoe out for a
pre-breakfast paddle down the shoreline of the lake and back. The wife and kids wouldn’t be up for at
least another hour, or more, which would give him plenty of time to get back
and fix the family’s traditional Sunday morning pancakes before heading off to
church around nine-thirty.
Maybe he’d
even stop at one or two of his favorite spots to try out the old Conolon
fiberglass fly rod he’d picked up at a yard sale the day before. Truth be told, that was the main reason
he was up so early on such a damp and misty Sunday morning. The rod was at least fifty years old
and a little dinged up, but everything was there. It really wasn’t that nice of a rig, but it was just like
the one his Grandpa had used and that he had been taught how to cast with when
he was just eleven years old. He’d
spent the previous afternoon cleaning up the rod and getting new line on the
old Pflueger Progress reel that came with it. Gramps had used a Southbend reel on his rod but, other than
that, it was just the same. The
nice young man was anxious to see if it felt the same as it had when he was a
kid.
With his
newly re-rigged antique tackle stowed in the bottom of the canoe the nice young
man shoved off from the shore next to his dock and hopped in the back of the
canoe without getting any water over the top of his boots, which was always a
good omen. However, by the time he
was a few good paddle strokes away from his place, the nice young man realized
he wouldn’t be staying dry for long.
The mist was turning into a definite drizzle. Oh well, there was still no wind at all, and fishing in a
light morning rain was often a good way to catch some early rising panfish on a
popper.
The first
place he would try would be Delmar’s Cove, just a hundred yards or so to the
left down the shoreline from his place.
A nice big patch of lily pads there often gave up good fish if you
worked close around the edges of the green. You had to haul the fish away from its underwater jungle of
lily pad stems pretty quickly though, or you would lose your fly and a couple
feet of tippet to boot.
The nice young man could hear the boys
before he rounded the bend and entered the cove proper. There were three of them, all clamoring
on the dock in front of Rob and Bunny’s place. The VanGleets were a nice older couple who owned the only
place with a dock right on Delmar’s cove, most of which was surrounded by land
too low and marshy to build on.
They had several grown children and a plethora of grandkids who were
often up to spend time with grandpa and grandma on the lake. The nice young man figured this must be
the case right now, as these three young towheads had Dutch VanGleet written
all over them in capital letters.
They were out doing some early morning fishing right from the dock, and
happy in the undertaking they certainly were. The chatter was animated and full of glee.
The VanGleet’s
dock was a good place to fish from.
The nice young man knew this because, being the friendly and likable
neighbor he was, he had permission to fish Delmar’s Cove from their dock anytime
no one else was using it, and he had.
Although he planned to fish the cove from his canoe today, and still
could have, he figured he would pass it up. What with all the joyous commotion the three boys were
making, fishing might be better on down the lake. But first he would paddle up and pay his regards.
“Hey
there boys. When did you get up
here?”
“Hey
there yourself! We got up late
last night,” replied the fist.
“Yeah. Our folks dropped us
off and we’re going to spend four whole days fishing with grandpa before we
have to go back to Grand Rapids,” chimed in the second.
“Be sure
to tell your kids that we’re here, and they should come down to swim and play
with us!” added the third.
“I’ll be
sure to do that. But right now I
want to know how the fishing is this morning. Have you had any bites at all yet?”
“The
fishing is great, but we haven’t caught anything yet.”
“Not even
a bite, but the fishing is great!”
“Yeah. Not one fish yet,
but the fishing is great!”
The nice
young man didn’t think he’d ever seen three brighter smiles all at the same
time, and in the rain no less.
“Well,
thanks for the info. Since you got
this spot pretty well covered this morning, I think I’ll just paddle on over to
Old Doc’s Cove and see if they’re biting down there. See you later boys.”
“See ya
later. Good fishing!”
“Yeah,
good fishing. See ya later!”
“Yeah,
see ya. Catch a big one! And be sure to tell your kids to come
down and swim later on!”
With that,
our nice young man spun his canoe around and cut across the mouth of Delmar’s
cove to paddle the quarter-mile of shoreline, past a row of close packed
cottages, to the bend than led into his second favorite fly fishing spot on the
lake, Old Doc’s Cove. As he
paddled along he couldn’t help but reflect that those young boys on their four-day
holiday, fully understood by nature, an adage penned by author Robert Traver; ‘The very best time to go fishing is whenever
you can get away.’
Old Doc’s
Cove is perhaps twice as big as Delmar’s cove, and a bit more developed, as
much of the surrounding shoreline is a bit higher than the afore mentioned
spot. There are three summer homes
on Old Doc’s cove, each with a dock jutting out into the water. The cove gets its name from the biggest
and nicest house on the whole lake, which sits right on the bend of shoreline leading
out of the cove on the far side from where our nice young man was approaching,
old Doc Mallery’s place.
The fly-fishing
is so good on Old Doc’s Cove because the water is very shallow all the way
across, and the bottom is a nice sand and gravel mix, which makes it a prime
spot for bass and bluegill to make beds and spawn. Bedding pan-fish are suckers for a popper or rubber spider
in the spring. Once the eggs
hatch, the little fish will hang out in this shallow water all summer long, and
so big fish will come in to feed on them later on in the season. This is when you can make a good catch
on a hare’s ear or minnow pattern.
The nice young man had even caught a couple of small pike on a fly rod
fishing this way. He had a couple
streamers in the fly-box he carried and, if the popper that was already rigged
up on his new old rod didn’t pan out, he could tie one on quick enough.
The rain
had actually picked up a bit as he was approaching the mouth of the cove, and
as he made the bend he looked across the narrow opening of the cove towards the
big house that sat there like a gatekeeper. And there he was, Old Doc, sitting on his old dock, fishing
all alone, and looking just as sour as he always did.
The thing
about old Doc Mallery was, — well, I hate to speak bad about a person, — but, well,
— I’ll just say it; old Doc Mallery was just about the most cantankerous person
you could ever have the bad luck to meet!
By common consensus of everyone who knew him, old Doc Mallery was considered
the most unfriendly and meanest mannered person on the lake. “Just plain old grumpy,” is how our
nice young man’s nice young wife put it.
It’s not
that he was wickedly evil, or anything like that, it’s just that no one could
ever remember leaving his company without having been put off in some way. Usually he did it by just refusing to
acknowledge that you were even present, especially if you spoke to him directly. If you did, and he did acknowledge you,
it was in a way that let you know that he would have been much happier if you
hadn’t spoken to him, or even come into his vicinity at all, for that
matter. If it wasn’t for the fact
that Mrs. Mallery was considered by
everyone on the lake as one of the nicest
people that you could ever hope to meet,
people would have avoided old DOC Mallery and his place like the
plague.
Our nice
young man wasn’t one to take offense too easily. Over the years he had spoken to Doc a great many times, mostly
just to say “hello,” and at each rebuff he had walked away, if not with a
smile, at least without a frown on his face. Once he had even gotten Doc to respond with a, “Oh, for
cyrin’ out loud! — HELLO! — There, are you satisfied?” Which was the only time anyone could
ever remember old Doc saying “hello” to anyone!
So, our
nice young man figured he should keep up good form and pay his respects again
now, come what may of it.
“Good
morning there, Doc. How’s the
fishing?”
“ –
garrfle - snarrfle, - rassen - frassen….”
“Gotten any bites yet?”
“What’s it to ya!”
“So — I
guess you’re sayin’ the fishing has been kind of poor so far.”
“Well, it
might be a heck of a lot better, if I didn’t have to suffer idiots in their stupid
canoes bugging me, when they could be fishing anywhere else on the lake but
next to my place, for cryin’ out loud!”
“Awe,
come on, Doc. You don’t own the whole cove. And everyone on the lake knows it’s a good spot. There’s plenty of fish for all of us to
catch a few here now and then.”
“Oh
Yeah! Well, if it was up to me,
everyone would only be able to fish straight out from their own shoreline! Then you’d have to keep your fancy
canoe and silly fly rods half a mile away from me, at least!”
“Well,
Doc, I sure am glad that’s not how it works. — But, I’ll tell ya what. — Just
to make this morning a little bit
brighter for you, I’ll paddle on home now and start the pancakes without
getting my line wet. Be sure to tell
your lovely wife that we’ll all be seeing her at church a little later on this
morning. And we’d be happy to see
you as well, Doc. Either way, I
hope your fishing pans out. See ya
later.”
“Ahgggh -
garrfle snarrfle rassen frassen…..”
The paddle
back to his own place went quickly for the nice young man. The rain was lightening up, and it
looked like the clouds might break apart by the time they set off for church in
a couple hours. He saw that the
little VanGleets were still fishing as he went across the mouth of Delmar’s
Cove. They all waved heartily, and
one of them pulled a stringer out of the water that had one solitary sunfish on
it.
“The fishing’s
still great!” yelled the one showing off the lonely pintsized fish.
“How’d
you do?” yelled another.
“Not as
good as you,” laughed our friend.
The nice
young man couldn’t help reflecting on how odd it was that the fishing could be
so wonderfully good in one cove, and so downright awful in another cove that
was just a few hundred yards away.
Oh well, he guessed that the old adage was true after all; The quality of the fishing depends, in
large part, on the quality of the people one is fishing with.
Something to take home in your creel:
One of my
very favorite stories is Charles Dickens’ A
Christmas Carol. I like it
just the way he wrote it, and I like it in a lot of the versions that it has
been re-told in, time after time, in movie after movie. It’s a great story. And it’s great because it holds out the
wonderful hope that anybody can
change. Reclamation of one’s
humanity is a possibility for all, even the very worst among us! What
joy I experience every time I watch or read about old Ebenezer Scrooge’s
transformation from a hate-filled miser and enemy of all, into a loving
benefactor and friend to all.
But the
joy this story gives me is always tempered by the realization that possibilities don’t always pan out! I always remember all the lost souls
that Marley’s ghost shows to old Scrooge in the beginning, untold numbers of
those who never rounded the bend from their bitter ocean of self-centeredness,
into the peaceful harbor of selflessness, and who no longer had the ability to
steer their boat in that direction.
It should give us all pause to know that this possibility is as real as
the possibility of redemption is.
Like
Dickens’ Christmas Carol, my story
today has been a fiction. But I
have known, and still do know, some people just like old Doc Mallery in this
story. And I believe that the only
proper course to take with them is the one our nice young man takes, the same
one Scrooge’s nephew Fred took; just keep your door open in a spirit of
charitable forbearance, and pray that the Spirit of Love finally has its way
with them.
