FISH
HUGS
In 1976 while others ran Old Glory up the flagpole and contemplated our nation’s
Bi-Centennial, my brother Hollis and I contemplated fishing poles and big
Bass. We shared a cottage at Chippewa Lake that year. The crack of dawn would
frequently find my insomniac fishaholic brother sitting on a log at the end
of our street wetting a line before he went to work. We grew up in a fishing
family. I was not as excited about fishing as Hollis. However, fishing fever
is highly contagious.
I came home from work one day, and I all I could think about was how good
a hot bath would feel. I came in the back door, kicked off my shoes and saw
I had the house to myself. I started shedding my clothes on my way to the
tub. I pulled back the shower curtain and bent down for the water taps, half
paying attention to what I was doing. There was a loud "fwap" from
the water standing in the tub. I almost screamed out loud, unsure of what
was going on for a brief moment. I blinked in incredulity and wrinkled my
nose at the smell. There in my bathtub! was the biggest Large Mouth Bass I
have ever seen, and it was alive. Admittedly not doing too well, but still
kicking. I looked down at my watch and saw that Hollis would be home soon.
I couldn’t wait to hear this fish story.
The minute he walked in the back door I could tell he was still excited even
after putting in 8 hours at the garage. I knew he had been telling the story
all day. "Did you see it?" he asked with a grin so big he looked
like Howdy Doody. "I caught it this morning just as I was winding up
my line to call it quits so I could get to work on time. Boy, what a fight!
I was fishing over in the outlet of the lake when I hooked it and I almost
lost it in the tree roots by the bank. It was too late to do anything with
it except drop it in the tub." He acted as if keeping a Bass in the bathtub
was the most natural thing in the world. "Hungry? Let’s have a
fish fry."
Hollis called around to brag and invite people to the fish fry. Friends stopped
by to marvel at the fish and to eat the fish. It seemed I fried fish forever
and still there was more fish and more people dropping by to admire it. Hollis
had filleted the meat off its side so it was still quite an impressive sight,
even half eaten.
Jack, an avid fellow fisherman, stopped by and looked at the fish and said,
"I’ll bet you took a whole roll of film of this beauty. You gotta
enter it in Fish Ohio. I’ll bet you could win a prize. What did it weigh?"
My brother and I looked at each other dumbfounded. Our jaws dropped to our
chests. I saw him trying to work up enough spit to swallow again.
We forgot to take a picture. In all the excitement we forgot to take a picture.
We could have taken it down to the local bait and tackle and they would have
even weighed it but, no, we ate it. My brother sat down hard on the nearby
kitchen chair and ran his hands through his hair. "How could I be so
stupid?" He slapped his forehead with the heal of his hand repeatedly
chanting, "Dumb, dumb, dumb."
I figured I better say something before he knocked himself unconscious. "It’ll
be all right, we’ll catch another one. It’s spawning time. The
big ones are all up in the tree roots by the bank spawning. I’ll go
down with you."
Bright and early the next morning-- well actually, just before bright and
early-- my brother and I were huddled on drywall buckets shivering at the
exact spot where he caught last night’s dinner. We were bundled up,
but it was still cold.
"I swear it feels like there is still ice on the lake." I whined.
"Shh," my serious fisherman brother hissed.
The cool air prickled my nostrils. I could see my breath. I had my hands in
my armpits to keep them warm. We each had two fishing poles in the water,
propped up on forked sticks. I sat there watching the bobbers getting bored
because nothing was happening.
Then suddenly Hollis’s bobber disappeared. He jumped up and grabbed
his pole from the stick with the speed only a 20-year-old possesses. His bucket
went over with a clunk. He jerked his pole so hard and high I thought he was
going to wind up with just fish’s lips on his hook. He began to work
it in. The outlet was very shallow and clear and when he got it up close we
could see it. It was a beauty. This Bass was probably as big as the last one,
maybe bigger.
I was prancing up and down on the bank shouting instructions. "Don’t
let it go into the tree roots, come on, get it over here so I can net it,
this way." I shouted.
Suddenly his line snapped and went flying back up over his head. As soon as
he felt the tension go out the line he threw the pole down and dove into the
water with a smack. I swear I saw the fish shoot out of his arms as he tried
to stand up with it. He stood there dripping and covered in gray muck and
cried, "I had it, I felt it right here on my belly. It was so big and
it squirmed out of my arms. I had it." He stood there hugging himself
as if the fish were still there against his chest. He was so incensed he didn’t
even feel the cold. I would not have been surprised to see steam rising from
his ! hot head.
I was laughing so hard I was no help as he tried to scramble back up the bank
with his sweat shirt all sagging and stretched out with the weight of all
the water it had soaked up. All he could do was rant and stomp around, and
growl, "I had it, I had it."
I finally got a grip on myself and realized that if I didn’t get my
little brother home pronto all he’d catch today was pneumonia. "Go
on, run home, I’ll pack up the stuff," I told him.
All these years later we still have not seen a Bass like that one but the
memory of that summer at the lake is more precious than any trophy fish.
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