Fishing for memories part 2
My ex-father-in-law was an avid fly fisherman, primarily in the Upper Peninsula. He even wrote a book about his experiences. He tried to teach me how to cast a flyrod. It is a delicate, dancing thing for which I had no patience. I was used to a different kind of fishing, the kind where you don't really catch stuff. No, I'm kidding. I caught my fair share of fish. And, once, I got to meet a guy my brother and I nicknamed "Rock Bass."
The above picture was taken at one of the many lakes in the Black Hills. I mentioned before my first fish was taken at picturesque Sylvan Lake. I'm not sure which lake is in this picture, but you can see the coffee can where I kept my worms. And that green tackle box? I still have it. It has tools in it now, one of two toolboxes I own.
Fishing is often an exercise in patience. Apparently, I used to be a more patient person. That makes sense considering the amount of crap I've put up with in my life. But I was always excited to go fishing. Unfortunately, the one who most often took us fishing — our father — was very busy. My dad promised so many times to take me fishing. I pestered and pestered until I got a promise. Then he repeatedly broke his promises. He rarely took me fishing. I got the feeling he didn't like fishing at all. Or didn't like me. We'll come back to this.
Of course, considering the above photo, showing the kind of fish we caught, who would want to waste an afternoon with the boys for a string of fish like that? And why was I always blinded by the sun? Even today, the sun seems so damn bright. Check out my cowboy boots and apparent love for the Vikings. I have a memory of losing at least one of my boots at the park in Chadron, Neb., once upon a time. Maybe I found them again. It was a rainy day and I probably decided to go barefoot in the rain and splash in the mud while my mom took a nap in the car. That's a strange memory. Get back in the box. You don't belong in my fishing memories.
Anyway, many years went by. Often, my oldest brother would take us fishing at a local fishing hole. I sometimes grabbed leftovers from the fridge to put on my hook: peas and carrots. I remember watching the little sunfish come up to the hook and turn around, disgusted. Incidentally, one time, we came upon some tourist kids fishing on the other side of the lake. They were reeling them in, so we went to see what they were using. They were using sticks with string and paperclips on the end. Homemade fishing rods! And hotdog for bait. They even got some turtles to come up on shore, which was pretty cool. It figures fish prefer junk food over vegetables.
After we moved to Nebraska, I didn't fish much at all. After I got my driver's license, I did. I found every little lake and pond and stream I could, often finding channel catfish in the process. A man who worked for my father recommended I use chicken livers after leaving them to sit in the sun for a day or two and putting them on a treble hook. What a nasty misadventure that was. But it worked! I caught all kinds of 'cats on that sour mess.
This photo was taken at Sylvan Lake years after we moved away from the Black Hills. I had my Evans Plunge t-shirt on, hat askew; I was stylish. And still had no clue how to hold the rod and reel. Thanks for teaching me so well, Dad. Sheesh. About that. Years later, and I mean many years later, my dad felt time was slipping away. He felt regretful, no doubt, about the time he didn't spend with his three sons, and now the last one was set to graduate soon. So, the summer between my junior and senior year of high school, he took me fishing a whole lot. We went to lakes in the Sandhills, most notably Hackberry, which was a pretty shallow lake that allowed an electric motor. It became choked with weeds early in the season, so it was advised to get out early and often while the fishing was good. We caught just about every kind of fish in the lake, but my favorite was Northern Pike, a menacing-looking fish known for its predatory behavior and aggressive strikes.
The above and below pictures show our little jon boat, my brother, also named Jon, me, and my dad with our Hackberry catches (and, curiously, me wearing a Maryland Terrapins hat). I volunteered to drive the first leg of the journey because we had to get up early in the morning. I was so excited, I didn't mind if I lost sleep. Fishing was fun. It looks like Jon was still asleep when we got back. 
One day that summer when my dad was taking me fishing so much, a group of girls came to my house and asked if I could tag along with them. I wasn't home. My mom answered the door and said I was fishing with my dad. That was probably the one time I wish I hadn't been fishing with my dad because one of those girls was Cindy, the one I'm still in love with and, if I can use fishing parlance, the one that got away. You didn't think she would show up in this post, did you? Funny how that happens.
All those years after I pestered him as a little boy, my dad made it up to me and took me fishing — a lot. And I did my own fishing, too. Going fishing was one of my favorite things once upon a time. And, an old friend of mine told me if I move to his town, I already have a fishing buddy. Something to look forward to, perhaps. Maybe I should mention to him he'll have to teach me how to tie a knot.
Thank you for reading. And God bless.
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