Fishing With Grandpa
The best memories of my childhood were the afternoons I spent “fishing with Grandpa”
The first few times someone tries a new activity, if the experience is unpleasant, chances are pretty good that activity will not become a lifelong hobby. Such was the case with me, and fishing.
Twice I went fishing with my father. The first time, I was still quite young. I don’t believe I was in kindergarten yet, so I was probably three or four. The second time, I was a couple of years older. Both fishing trips with my father were memorable, neither was enjoyable.
Both times I went fishing with my father, I did something my father didn’t appreciate. All these years later, I couldn’t tell you what I did that upset him. I’m not sure I ever did know.
What I remember about those two fishing trips was him getting mad, yelling at me, and throwing his fishing pole. Then he drove off and left me at the river. On both trips, what I remember is standing there alone, with a fishing pole in my hand, and watching my father drive away.
My father wasn’t around much longer after that second fishing trip. His slow departure from our family picture was well underway by then and concluded not too long afterward.
I did go on one more fishing trip though. I remember it well. It was the first time I went fishing with Grandpa.
It was a Saturday morning during the summer I was eight. Grandpa picked me up after breakfast, and the two of us set out for the James River, which wasn’t too far from where I lived.
We got to the river, found a spot Grandpa thought might be good, and broke out the fishing gear. It was a beautiful day; a great day for fishing, except for one minor detail. More than an hour into our fishing trip, neither of us had so much as a nibble. Every once in a while one of us would say something, but for the most part, we just sat there in silence and “fished.”
As the morning turned to afternoon, I got Grandpa a can of beer from the cooler; a can of root beer for myself. We sat there in silence, sipped our drinks, and fished.
“Grandpa, what is it about fishing you like so much?”
I waited for him to answer, but he didn’t. I thought maybe I had said or done something that upset him, so I asked him, “Grandpa, did I make you mad?”
He smiled, “No son, you didn’t make me mad, I’m just thinking.” After a bit more thinking, he said, “I guess what I like best about fishing, is how much you enjoy it.”
I waited for a while to see if there was anything he was going to add to that. I was sure hoping there was. There wasn’t. So, we sat in silence, sipped our drinks, and fished.
“Grandpa, I think I need to tell you something.”
“What’s that son?”
“Grandpa, I don’t really like fishing very much.”
I sat there for a bit waiting for Grandpa to say something. I thought about the fishing trips with my father. Did I tell him I didn’t like fishing? Is that what made him so mad? I didn’t want to make Grandpa mad.
Grandpa leaned over and put his hand on my shoulder. “Can I tell you something, son? Neither do I,” he said. “So, if you don’t like fishing, and I don’t like fishing, why are we still here? Isn’t there someplace we would both rather be right now?”
I just grinned, because I knew very well where we would both rather be. I cleaned up the fishing gear in record time and into town we went.
Grandpa got a cold beer for himself; a cold root beer for me. He tossed a quarter on the table, “Let’s work on that bank shot of yours.”
It was a quarter per game and that afternoon we went through two dollars. We played pool, we talked, we told jokes, we laughed, and we worked on my bank shot. Most importantly, though, we had fun.
When I got home, my Mom asked, “Where have you two been all afternoon?” I looked at Grandpa, he smiled down at me, and I said, “Fishing with Grandpa.”
I don’t know what Grandpa did with all the fishing gear he had. I never saw it again after that day. That doesn’t mean Grandpa and I didn’t go on more fishing trips, because we did. We went on a lot of them.
“I’m going fishing with Grandpa,” I would yell to Mom as I headed out the door. She knew where we were going. It’s not too difficult to figure out what “fishing with Grandpa” means when the only things in your tackle box are a pool cue and a roll of quarters.
Until next time, take care of yourself, and each other.
