Pictures or it didn’t happen

The summers were the best part. Most days I can remember waking up and looking out the window for Grandpa’s little red truck. It may seem like much more often that it really was in my head, but I bet there were several years there that we went at least once a week in the summer. Now we went fishing other places too, but the pond was consistent, and right next to my parent’s house, which made it a pretty solid choice among the places we could go. Both grandfathers would harvest fish there for a fish fry from time to time. I loved watching a catfish pull one of those bobbers down, or watching Papaw catch the bluegill two at a time with a fly rod.

I remember the first time I had figured out how to trick the catfish. I learned that if you grabbed a handful of gravel from the road, and chunked it in the area we fed, you could trick the fish into thinking it was the pellets. You could smell them coming from all around the pond over to eat. My grandparents were over for dinner that evening, and like any eager boy would, I finished my food quickly and went fishing. The first order of business was to grab a bigger spinning rod that had a bobber, a split shot, and a hook. Check. Now we needed to find proper bait. Dad had mentioned that the tomatoes were getting eaten by some kind of tomato worm or something so to the garden. With our plump tomato worm nicely harpooned onto the hook, we need to get the catfish going with a couple of handfuls of gravel. I can smell em coming. Now we need to plop that tomato worm out in the middle and wait. Bobber sinks to the bottom of Davie Jone’s Locker and I set the hook. Snap. It’s all over. The tears begin. I did learn a valuable lesson from the men that could see me from the dinner table. You are not supposed to slam the rod on the ground no matter how upset you are at the rod. It is always the rod’s fault.

Through the tutelage of my grandpa Jerry, I learned a myriad of ways to catch large mouth. We would use Texas rigged worms, beetle spins, jerk baits, poppers and the whole bit. I finally got to the point that I was able to pull a couple fish off of a couple of different places consistently. Now I was after the bigger ones. I heard Brian O’keefe talk about a camera that he got when he was young man played a huge role in proving that he really was catching big fish when no one believed him. I certainly felt the same way when I was a kid. “I caught a huge one today.” I’m not saying that no one believed me necessarily, but it felt better when they could see the fish I was catching.

One summer morning, while the parents were getting ready for work, I found myself down on the bank throwing jerk baits for bigger bass, and BANG. I had a giant one on, and he came right off of the stump that Grandpa told me I should always check. For 5- or 6-year-old me, it was a giant, but in reality, it was more like a fat 4 pounder. I got my first taste of the tug and have had the itch basically ever since. Well, I didn’t have a camera, I wanted people to see the fish, and there were people getting ready for work at the house, perfect. So I grab my fish and hold him the in water for a few seconds, then I grab him up and run toward the house.

The place I caught the fish was probably 50 yards or more from the front door of the house and also filled with 20-year-old oak trees that needed to be dodged. I made it to the door in record time and just kept running. I went straight for my parents' bedroom where they were getting ready. My dad was in the shower, and I just barged right in. “I caught a giant!” He laughed and said something about me putting the fish in the shower with him. We ran water over his gills and dad said, “Now hurry put him back he is going to die.” Like lightning I’m full sprint down the hill to the pond and start reviving my trophy. Much to my surprise now the fish was fine and kicked off right away. Apparently, this sort of fish bragging happened several times. I do really only remember the one “big bass,” but the story had spread pretty quickly. At some point in time after that Grandpa Jerry and I were talking about how good the fishing was down at the pond with someone, and he said, “Well yeah it's good fishing at the pond, but most of the big ones are brain dead.” “How did that happen?” “Well Kalyn here runs them all up to the house to show em off.”

I’m not sure if there is a moral to this story. Maybe the moral is that you should pass on your passions to kids. You never know, one of those kids may grow up with a crippling fly fishing addiction. Maybe the moral is that kids need a way to learn, grow, and be creative on their own. I want to think that the pond was good for me. Maybe the moral is that people should be less uptight about sharing their catches, and more consumed with being in the moment. It seems like there are many of us that are guilty of creating a little fish jealousy, but unless it's how you make a living, it's probably healthier just to thank the trophies and let them go. Just keep in mind that none of us will ever believe you. Pictures or it didn’t happen.