Some of my fondest childhood memories hail back to a time when the highlight of the summer was a week-long fishing trip to a lake in the woods of northern Minnesota, where the target catch was walleye, Northern Pike, and the occasional perch. Learning at the feet of my grandfather, my father, and my uncle all the while competing with my cousins as to who could catch the most fish, these hold a special significance for me. Of course, if I am honest, many days were spent just hoping to catch anything at all. Nevertheless, the lessons in tying fishing line, setting the hook, getting out of the weeds, casting without hooking anyone in the process, cleaning a fish … all these foundational experiences set forth in me a life-long love for being on the water, with a line in, passing the time.
And then, the sad resignation that since one trip in college, I haven't been fishing in 20 years.
As Boy Scouts, my sons are heading to camp, where each will work to earn their Fishing Merit Badge. Yesterday, I bought each of them new gear, including rod and reel, to replace those that I had once owned but was unable to recover from the storm.
Today, I taught them what a swivel barrel is, and how to tie the line to the swivel. I showed them what the different lures were for, the difference between a jig and a spinner, and how to attach a bobber. I showed them proper casting technique, taking advantage of the yard's tall grass to simulate the effect of having the lure get caught in the weeds, and how to gently but firmly tug at it without breaking the line.
I then went inside, while they continued to practice off the back deck.
I know there is still time, but the fact is there is not nearly enough of it. My oldest will be off to college in just a couple of years. They will have a different set of memories and experiences than I had growing up, and I suppose that is okay. But my heart hurts that I have not managed to make this one thing that was so important to me a part of their experience.
My boys might catch a fish this week. And if they do, I won't be there to see it, or to share in their joy.
The thought of this makes me ache, far more than I care to admit.
But I still hope they catch the fish.
