I was eight years old the first time dad took me fishing. Few people owned fishing rods in 1950 and neither of us owned one. “Don’t need them,” dad said.
At the lake he selected a heavy stone, wrapped and knotted one end of a 25 lb. test line around it. Then he tied on a silver spoon lure, with wicked looking treble hooks. He was careful not to step on the circle of loose line at his feet.
Dad measured off about two feet of line from the lure then began twirling a slow circle. After gaining proper momentum he gave a mighty fling. And the spoon went skipping across the lake surface, sinking with a very loud splash.
Then he retrieved the line, pulling it in hand over hand. “Hopefully,” he said, “a pike will bite into the shiny metal, that looks like a baby minnow.” It looked simple enough, and I was anxious to take my turn.
Dad watched me carefully as I tried to remember every step. To my surprise a forceful fling sent my lure streaking beyond where dad’s had landed.
“Oh, oh. I forgot to anchor the line around my rock!” I hollered.
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© Richard L. Provencher 2004