The best I can recollect, my Daddy first started teaching me to fish when I was three years old. He took a tiny toy fishing pole and strung it with actual line. Then Dad caught a bucket of pan fish up the river and dumped them in the creek that ran through our property. He stood beside me and explained all about casting and reeling. All I knew was how exciting it was when I finally got a tiny red eye into the bank. My Mom always said a smile broke out that went ear to ear. That experience started a lifetime love of fishing. Most importantly, it led to many grand adventures with my Dad.
As I grew older, Dad taught me the fine art of setting the hook, recognizing when you were getting a bite, knowing where the best place to catch fish was, and so much more. We spent hours pouring through In-Fisherman magazines studying what color of lures walleyes prefer. We loved to watch Bill Dance reel in fish every Saturday. My Mom wasn’t quite as thrilled about the situation. She kept discovering all the canned corn missing because we took it for carp bait. She never stayed mad long when she saw how happy catching a big one made us.
RELATED: Take a look at our other memories of the past in Summers County
Dad always loved to test the drag on his outfits before we went fishing. He had practice lures to use so that nothing got accidentally hooked. I always had to pretend to be the carp running off with the bait and fighting being reeled in. What fun those simple things were. Dad always got the gear ready the night before and set it all in one place. I had a Zebco 33 outfit he bought me as a surprise. I still use that reel to this day. Dad’s pride and joy was a World War Two medical bag he used for his extra gear. He would always wonder if his Dad used anything similar in the war.
I think one of the most memorable fishing trips happened when I was around 10. The water was low, so I was standing on a rock out in the river. Suddenly I felt the familiar tug that signaled a fish was biting. I took the steps to set the hook and proceeded to reel it in. What I saw at the end of the line looked like a monster. It was about a foot long and brown with feet and a square head. I squalled like a banshee and threw the pole to Dad. He laughed so hard he could barely speak, but he told me it was what locals called a water dog. I didn’t know what that was, but I knew I never wanted to see one again.
The next best adventure happened a year later. My Aunt Ruth and Uncle Bob came up to fish with us. We probably caught 25 carp between us that weekend. As soon as you threw out a line, you got another bite. We even caught a white one, which none of us had seen before. The highlight of the weekend had to be when my Uncle Bob fell and had to scoot down the hill on his backside. Since no one was hurt, we all had a good laugh.
We had many more great fishing adventures and so many wonderful memories. Now my youngest child and I carry on the tradition. Here’s to you, Dad. Thanks for the memories and the knowledge.
