"Go Fish"

I admit it, I can't catch a fish to save my life. Not that I haven't tried - it's just that I never could quite get the hang of it. There must be some sort of finesse and talent to be able to do it that I just don't possess. My brothers both know how to fish, my dad fished, even my mom was known to throw in a hook or two. Then there was me.

I remember as a youngster, my dad would patiently put the worm on a hook for me because I wasn't about to touch one of those squirmy things. I didn't mind digging in the dirt for them and putting them in a cup, but after that, they were on their own. He'd stand there proudly, handing over the the rod, only to watch me drop the line into the water and lose the worm and the hook within seconds of it breaking the surface. We'd spend hours out on the boat on the weekends my father had us and my brothers and he would catch fish left and right. Nope, not me. On those rare occasions that I didn't lose the hook at the get go, I'd catch a big patch of seaweed or some piece of trash that made its way into the lake. Otherwise, I'd just stick my nose in a book and relish the sun baking down on my neck.

Back on the homefront, during the summers, my younger brother and I would take our fishing poles and head over to Axehead Lake near our home. Since I still wouldn't touch worms, we used Velveeta cheese as bait and believe it or not, once in a while, Kenny would come up with a fish. Talk about dumb luck. I'd be standing inches from him and catch nada, zilch, zippo, nothing. But it didn't really matter because we'd just throw them back and enjoy the peacefulness of the scenery anyway.

As I got older and had a son (whose pet name ironically was "fish"), I wanted him to experience the tranquility of spending time by the water immersed in the calmness and peacefulness of the sport. Even though I still had never caught a fish, I was determined to not let that stand in the way of trying to teach my son. I finally got over my affinity to not touch worms (its' amazing what we'll do for our kids) and decided that by a quiet river in Wisconsin we'd set out on our virgin fishing voyage on the banks of a small river.

I meticulously baited the hook as I had watched those far more experienced than I do countless times. Danny watched but really wasn't interested in having any part of that. He didn't mind playing in the dirt looking for worms, it's just that he wasn't too keen on spearing them with a hook. Hmmm, guess that nut didn't fall far from the tree. Finally with hook baited and lure tied to the line, my son wisely standing behind a tree to watch - a very large oak tree, I drew the rod back and went to cast the line into the water. All seemed to be going picture perfectly until, for some reason, the line kicked back at me and the hook managed to imbed itself right into my armpit. Dang that hurt. Somewhere down the bank, my yelp was heard and help was on its way.

Between fits of laughter and feigned concern, Oliver and Danny came to my rescue and pulled the blasted little thing out of my armpit, leaving not one, but two holes in its place. Neither of them ever teased me again about keeping a roll of toilet paper in the glove compartment of the car. It sure came in handy that day. Needless to say, fishing lesson number one was over for the day. As a matter of fact, we never did try that again and Danny never did show any interest in learning as he was growing up. Sigh. Oh well, at least I tried. Guess I took that whole "be ye fishers of men" part of the Bible a little too literally.

So here I am living near the Tennessee river, surrounded by fishing people of all sorts. Menfolk, womenfolk, little tot-like folk. They talk lures in a language that I am yet to understand and about fish that I have no idea what they look like. I still love the water and everything else that goes with fishing - except the fishing part. For some reason I just can't bring myself to take it up again. Perhaps one day, but for now I have a small scar in my armpit that reminds me of my limitations and skill when it comes to doing it.

Bless the hearts of the fisher-people everywhere who do it for sport and for a living. Your secret spots are safe from me and if you do by some chance see me coming up on you - fear not, I won'd be casting any lines or going after your fish. I'm 54 years old and the biggest thing I've ever caught fishing was myself - and that's not one of those stories that I want to brag about how big it was, because after all, it would be my own butt I'd be talking about.

It's almost that time of year where I'll be grabbing a book and heading down by the river - to read, to daydream, to watch, to learn, and to stay far away from hooks that can bite me. In the meantime, if you hear me say "go fish", you can bet that it'll be because I'm playing a childhood card game or cheering my son on at a ballgame. Happy spring everyone.