Essay
LIFE LESSONS
A Memory
“Diamonds on the water,” murmurs Grandmother. She bends at the hip to tie the puffy orange lifejacket at my throat. We’re toe to toe on Keuka Lake’s shady shale beach; her polished black shoes nearly bump my stubby bare toes.
I twist and squirm to look. I think “diamonds — pointy red shapes on poker cards” — my brothers taught me.
“I don’t see,” I whine. “I want to see.”
A wind puff riffles the smooth water. Sunlight glints on the wavelets, shoots sparkles into our eyes.
“There…see the twinkles,” she says. “Like diamonds… Are you ready?… Be careful.”
At four years old, I don’t know the meaning of careful…yet. I tug the skirt of her ever-present apron — it smells like bacon. “OK. You’re not coming?”
“No, sweetheart. I stay on shore, in the shade.”
I skip to the dock where Grandfather pokes around in a coffee can full of nightcrawlers. I see my brothers rowing the wooden skiff a stone’s throw from the dock. They’re allowed to row, but they must stay in sight of the cottage’s wide front porch — Grandmother’s watchtower.
My new green fishing pole lies on the dock next to Grandfather, its barbed hook safely latched on the reel. I bounce up to him, pull on his pant leg.
“Here…” he hands me the can of worms… If you’re going to fish, you have to put your own bait on the hook. I’ll show you how.”
He squats next to me.
I dig my fingers into the moist dirt; grasp a toddler-sized handful of slippery, writhing life.
“Just one,” says Grandfather. “Hold it firm…on the dock…near your fishing pole.”
I squeeze the worm with two fingers, hold it up. “Where’s his head?”
“See the fat ring around the body — that short end is the head.”
I plop the creature on the white-painted board, already hot from the morning sun. It writhes harder.
“Hold it still with one hand. Carefully grab your hook by its shaft with your other hand.” He detaches the hook from my fishing reel, puts it carefully between my thumb and forefinger, but doesn’t let go. His big hand covers mine.
“You must push the hook through the worm’s body, at least three times.”
I hesitate. “Won’t it hurt?”
He doesn’t answer, just guides my hand, pierces the worm all the way through, then turns the hook to impale the frantically looping body again.
We sit on the end of the dock. Grandfather shows me how to release the bail, lower the wiggling worm into the water.
“Won’t he drown?”
“You want to catch fish, don’t you?”
The sunnies and yellow perch and rock bass that live under this dock hover just below the water surface. They expect a steady supply of worms from children with fishing poles.
I see green-speckled and tiger-striped bodies. Mouths slowly open and close; fins gently scull. The fish have this routine down. They take turns — dart forward to snatch a quick bite of worm, dash away again.
I feel nibbles…jerk the line.
“Keep still,” says Grandfather. “Let them take the bait. One will get greedy and bite big. It’ll get more than worm, it’ll get hook.”
“I caught one! I caught one!” A ruby-eyed rock bass pulls hard on the line, rushes to safety under the dock.
“Don’t let him go under there. Reel him in.”
I wind the handle fast as I can. The green fish soon twists and trembles in the air.
“Bring it close. You must wet your hand before you touch the fish — then you won’t hurt its skin or scales — in case you want to let it go. Slide your hand from mouth to tail as you slowly grab its body — that way the fins will lie against its body and won’t stab you.”
The fish disappears behind his curling fingers — I see only the line leading to the hook leading to the gasping mouth.
“Go get the bucket.”
Grandfather works the hook free from rigid lips, drops the fish into the bucket.
“Can I keep him?”
“We need lots more so Grandmother can make her famous fish fry. Get another worm.”
Oh.
I stare into the bucket. The little fish swims round and round.
I tip the bucket; pour the fish into the lake.
Cheryl Thomas 2024
