Fishing

“My father gave me this Pokemon when he died...” My daughter intoned with an Academy Award winning performance.

“Hey! I'm still alive!” Although, counting the most recent hook I'd just jabbed into my finger, I was dangerously close to losing consciousness due to blood loss.

“I know. We're playing.”

For some reason, I thought we were fishing. The three fishing poles and containers of worms lent credence to my thought. The complete lack of fish gave her the upper hand though.

It was a beautiful Sunday in May and we'd decided to brave the wilds of Western Pennsylvania in the never ending search for food. (Actually, I could tell by my wife's not-so-subtle muttering that an afternoon off might be healthy for everyone.) So, we hit WalMart for new poles since they'd both outgrown Sponge Bob. (You're going to have to buy my book on Kindle if you want that reference to make any sense.) Someone had the sense to make a purple fishing pole and reel, so my daughter could not have been happier. My son checked out the little tackle box that came with her rod and searched until he found another that had approximately double the amount she had and then he was ready.

“The last time we came here, I caught 17 fish,” he explained to his wide-eyed sister. (Her last fishing trip had been 3 years ago. Unfortunately, she was not as pokemon-aware then, so she was forced to actually watch her pole...) “With my new bobber (He just had to have a night bobber even though it was noon and the chances of me being able to handle them, sharp hooks, worms and no alcohol until sundown were nil.) I'll probably catch three times as many today.”

After a short drive, we got to the fishing hole (This sounds much more rustic than state-stocked-lake). It seems that there were quite a few mothers that needed a mental-health break, because there were few places left to set up. My daughter pointed to the perfect place and started walking.

“We can't fish there.” I said as I tried to redirect her.

“Why not?”

“There is someone sitting there already.”

“So?”

“They got here first and we need to give them room.”

I could see the thought process as she checked out the situation. There was an easy ten feet between the two people sitting at the bank. In a pinch, she could squeeze down to 2 square feet. He brother, with a little effort and a bat, could be squashed down to 3 square feet, leaving 5 for me. There was no sane reason we couldn't fit in there.

“But...”

“There's a secret place that no one else knows about.” By now, I had the three rods in one hand, the three chairs in the other. I'd also managed to get my tackle box and the two bags of refreshments in the other other hand.

“Secret?” she perked up.

“Yes, follow me.”

Both of them struggled along with their own individual tackle boxes as we made our way down the edge of the lake. The “secret” spot was easy to find. It was the first place that had enough room for my son and daughter to “cast” without risking charges of involuntary man-slaughter. (Since I was a “willing” participant to this, my death would more than likely be classified as suicide or at the most, negligent homicide and they wouldn't get any jail time.)

“I'm cold.” This came out precisely 2.3 seconds after I'd sat down. (For the previous twenty minutes, I'd been setting up their poles, baiting their hooks, casting out, setting up their little chairs, getting them a healthy snack (Pringles and Gatorade).) I looked and they were both huddled up in their chairs as a nice arctic May breeze blew through. I left very clear instructions about hooks and sitting and not moving until I got back. Sure that my two angels would be fine for the minute or two it would take to get back to my car for the jackets, coats and parkas, I got up.

“I got a bite!” my daughter called right as I hit the 30 foot mark. I turned and she was frantically reeling in her purple rod. My son was cheering her on. Any thought of getting the jackets vanished. If there was a fish, I was not going to miss the chance of watching them get it off the hook. If there wasn't as fish, then my daughter was going to cast out and that would be funnier than watching them get the fish off the hook.

Surprisingly, there was nothing on the hook. “That darn fish! He stole my bait!”

“Get a worm.” That was my one rule. I'd put the worm on the hook, but they had to at least get the worm.

“Daddy, can we not use this worm?”

“Why not?”

“He looks scared and he's cute.”

She picked another worm and fixed it with a very determined look. “You better get a fish, or else.” (What or else is worse than getting a hook pushed through you (I know from very person experience) thrown in the water without a life jacket and being reeled in every 23 seconds only to have it repeated, I'm not sure, but from her tone of voice, she had some definite ideas.)

We ended the day with each of them happy. My daughter caught the most fish, my son caught the biggest. They had an epic pokemon battle. I lost all my bobbers. Oh, and we have a new pet, Bob the worm. Once he knew he was safe, I have to admit, he didn't look as scared.