We start down the hill. On his 7-year old shoulder rests a fishing pole. It’s position there postures that of an experienced fisherman. I shoulder the true weight~ that of a teacher and mentor him in the art of fishing.
It is our first real try, a boy and his mom. We arrive at the lake’s edge and untangle our poles. I open the tackle box. I manage to tie a hook and a few weights onto our lines, whistling.
I place my hand on his to practice a few casts, without bait, to get the rhythm down. I grip his hand gently and press the release button, directing the pole as far out as I can.
It is our first real try, a boy and his mom. We arrive at the lake’s edge and untangle our poles. I open the tackle box. I manage to tie a hook and a few weights onto our lines, whistling.
I place my hand on his to practice a few casts, without bait, to get the rhythm down. I grip his hand gently and press the release button, directing the pole as far out as I can.
It feels like I have been here before.
And I have…..but it was my hand that was small, and my grandfather’s that held mine.
” Kerplunk.” The hook and bait fly. The bobber lands. We watch. My grandfather always called the best of anything “the garden spot.” Because the spot of land that was the most fertile was always called “the garden spot.” It was where things grew. Where things happened. He adopted this term. We all did. We lended it to anything worthy.
Memories that are unexpected rush back. Memories of my grandfather’s hand on mine, of his whistling and his white fishing cap and “garden spot”comments.
I wipe the trickling emotion from my eyes and blink, take a long gulp of coffee, and pull my sweatshirt around me closer for comfort.
And I have…..but it was my hand that was small, and my grandfather’s that held mine.
” Kerplunk.” The hook and bait fly. The bobber lands. We watch. My grandfather always called the best of anything “the garden spot.” Because the spot of land that was the most fertile was always called “the garden spot.” It was where things grew. Where things happened. He adopted this term. We all did. We lended it to anything worthy.
Memories that are unexpected rush back. Memories of my grandfather’s hand on mine, of his whistling and his white fishing cap and “garden spot”comments.
I wipe the trickling emotion from my eyes and blink, take a long gulp of coffee, and pull my sweatshirt around me closer for comfort.
I holler:
“Ah, the garden spot, Mitchell!” “See that~ you are in the perfect spot for that big catfish. The guy yesterday said there is a 20 pounder out there!”
I sit down on the dock for a minute, suddenly aware of the next generation of fishermen. I feel the weight.
After only 2 practice casts my son announces that he is ready to cast out. All on his own. And so begin his flurry of comments: “Put some bait on Mom.” “We’re not going to catch anything with all this practice.” “I know how to do it.” “That big fish is out there where you said. I just know it! We’re wasting time. You said they bite best in the morning, right?” There is no more placating his anticipation. He is ready. I instruct him on a few more nuances and witness his impatience.
“Ah, the garden spot, Mitchell!” “See that~ you are in the perfect spot for that big catfish. The guy yesterday said there is a 20 pounder out there!”
I sit down on the dock for a minute, suddenly aware of the next generation of fishermen. I feel the weight.
After only 2 practice casts my son announces that he is ready to cast out. All on his own. And so begin his flurry of comments: “Put some bait on Mom.” “We’re not going to catch anything with all this practice.” “I know how to do it.” “That big fish is out there where you said. I just know it! We’re wasting time. You said they bite best in the morning, right?” There is no more placating his anticipation. He is ready. I instruct him on a few more nuances and witness his impatience.
I step back. He casts out.
“Look Mom! The garden spot! Oh man, I’m gonna catch a big one there.” My son and I fish and we talk. We laugh and complain and remember and dream and pretend and just ponder life. He asks me questions and I volley them back.
Time stands still.
Time stands still.
I divide my thoughts between this moment and memories of my grandfather and our early-mornings in the 1970’s when my brothers and I baited hooks with him. We used worms we caught ourselves, from the Iowa soil. We claimed “garden spots.”
We spend two hours on the dock. It’s just us and the water and a bobber and a dream.s fishing lure and line, and a big goose feather. big one.”
I stare into my son’s blue eyes. They are the color of water.
I secretly hope that he is old enough that he will remember this morning for always.
The morning he spent with his mom on a dock. No fish in sight. But a garden spot, nonetheless.
I secretly hope that he is old enough that he will remember this morning for always.
The morning he spent with his mom on a dock. No fish in sight. But a garden spot, nonetheless.
p.s. As all fisherman do, we have to show our latest catch. He cast out there, on his own, just like we practiced. I stood in amazement.
This first one? In my hometown: Chardon, Ohio. With my dad, who taught me to cast.
This first one? In my hometown: Chardon, Ohio. With my dad, who taught me to cast.
And this one? Alaska, summer 2013.
He’s got this.
He’s got this.
