Everybody Has A Fish Story
by Terrence G. ClarkI am often brought to tears when I remember one particular fish story. Across the street, from the house, where I grew up in, sitting on my grandfather’s farm was a lake. Actually, it was a pond, an irrigation waterhole, a ditch. Things always seem bigger than they are when you are a child. My uncle, who lived with my grandparents, had the reservoir dug for the purpose of supplying water for the farm.
At its first creation, when the water was clear and clean, we---cousins and clan, swam in that country pool. And not only was it the splashing place of siblings and kin, the little lagoon was stocked with fish---largemouth bass, catfish, bluegill, calico, sunfish, and more. I think greater than the chance of being able to dip in that water was the challenge of catching fish out of it. And, a challenge it was. We could see the fish, huge monsters some of them. Everything seemed bigger as a child. It was catching them was fleeting. The movie, Jaws, was long from a story at that time. Still, each giant fish that passed by us standing at the shore, indeed passed by with its own foreboding theme music. They seemed to mock us with our every attempt to snare them with our rods, hooks, and lures. Nothing was effective. We would catch a few shining sunfish, but the big prizes were far from us. |
It was Johnny, Sonny’s brother, my cousin, not my uncle, who broke the curse. He was from Paulsboro, not many towns away. Set along the river---A community mixed with country, suburbs, and city. But there were no lakes or ponds. Sonny came to ours. He had a tackle box. We had them too. Ours filled with hooks, line, and catfish eggs. My cousin may have had them too, but he brought none of them out---just purple, long, jelly worms. They weren’t even alive. He stood under one huge oak that grew near the bank. He mounted and flicked his fiberglass rod, four times towards the center of the pond. The test line strung the air, and the funny worm, twitching, plucked the waters. Each time, before he could draw the line back, his rod bent with a lustrous leviathan fighting back, all weighing in at around four to five pounds.
How dare he intimidated us at our own lake with his city tools? He did share the fish. Most of The fishermen and boys of the town went out and invested in purple, orange, and even flavored worms. From that day forth all of us were conquers of prize fish using our new found method from our suburban brother. And not just imitation worms, but spoon lures, poppers, and other fake fish items like little wooden handmade fish teasers, some with big eyes, feathers and rubber band strings. The common thing were the hooks---whether single, two, or three. After the fish bit, something had to hold them until.
Still, Dad, and his brother, Uncle Henry, didn’t believe in the artificial stuff. Occasionally, dad would find time out of his work stacked life to go across the street and cast in his line. He was successful, from his point of view, usually filling his converted five-gallon paint bucket with lake water and a few sunnies.
It was more like bringing home, new residents for the fish tank. But no, dad would filet every one of the tiny creatures. Mom would fry them up for him. I must admit the little hor devours were tasty. They were probably precursors to a modern day fast food restaurant’s menu special. But what they weren’t were the big, tasty, meaty, monster fish that we had now come to enjoy. And nothing tastes as good as your own catch. It was something that accented the meal that tantalized the taste buds, with a spice called Thine---this is mine.
Buy These great Books on amazon
It was even more wonderful to see dad and his brother fellowshipping together. Uncle had some issues, as we would say today. I had experienced my dad on many occasion rebuke his older sibling who had got drunk from a taste too many---Sometimes in a stupor, drunker than a fish.
But there were those moments. Those breaks in the clouds that made you enjoy the good times more. So my father and his brother were together. Just like when they were children, I suppose. We, my cousin and best friend Daniel, tagged along.
Hours had passed, so it seemed. Dad and uncle at peace with each other and life. All only thinking about one thing---catching fish. I don’t think my father was really engulfed by the thought of catching the big one. It would have been fine, but a one pound calico may have sufficed.
Again hours passed, so it seemed. Dan and I hadn’t really seen the bait our elders were using. We knew it wasn’t artificial. Dad would use worms, crickets on occasion. He would use anything that once had some similitude of life. Finally, when they pulled out one of their lines, we saw. It was a concoction made of cornmeal and some other ingredient that made the mixture insoluble.
We had seen tugs on their line and bobber dip several times, but nothing more. I suppose, something under the surface, liked the meal. I supposed fish like cornbread, after all for us humans, fish and cornbread were what we enjoyed.
But it wasn’t the recipe. It was the size of the ball. Dad and uncle had scooped and formed orbs of dough the size of golf balls on to the hooks buried within. The fish weren’t coming to be caught they were coming to dinner.
But there were those moments. Those breaks in the clouds that made you enjoy the good times more. So my father and his brother were together. Just like when they were children, I suppose. We, my cousin and best friend Daniel, tagged along.
Hours had passed, so it seemed. Dad and uncle at peace with each other and life. All only thinking about one thing---catching fish. I don’t think my father was really engulfed by the thought of catching the big one. It would have been fine, but a one pound calico may have sufficed.
Again hours passed, so it seemed. Dan and I hadn’t really seen the bait our elders were using. We knew it wasn’t artificial. Dad would use worms, crickets on occasion. He would use anything that once had some similitude of life. Finally, when they pulled out one of their lines, we saw. It was a concoction made of cornmeal and some other ingredient that made the mixture insoluble.
We had seen tugs on their line and bobber dip several times, but nothing more. I suppose, something under the surface, liked the meal. I supposed fish like cornbread, after all for us humans, fish and cornbread were what we enjoyed.
But it wasn’t the recipe. It was the size of the ball. Dad and uncle had scooped and formed orbs of dough the size of golf balls on to the hooks buried within. The fish weren’t coming to be caught they were coming to dinner.
It started with a smile, then a grin. I don’t think my father ever knew the reason for me and my cousin’s now roar of laughter. I would never disrespect dad by laughing at him. Even retelling this story, I do so with all honor.
Perhaps he was trying to teach me a lesson. Perhaps it wasn’t about the sunfish, catfish, bluegill or bass. Perhaps he knew that the fish, even the larger mouths weren’t going to swallow the hook (line or sinker). Maybe the extra-large ball of meal was to extend the fellowship time with him and his brother. A good laugh, with tears streaming, can clean the gut of a man better than any filet knife, on a fish of any kind. But in the life story, the hook is the message of what type of bait that is needed to win souls. Fake lures can catch men as well as fish. Although, the cleaning is still the same. Men clean fish to ready them for the table, but its God who cleans men, who have been caught in his name, to set them at his table. |
I hadn’t seen my cousin Pat for a while, at least not to hold a conversation. I was driving through Paulsboro when I almost passed him on his bike. I stopped. It took him a moment to recognize me. When he did, he made me get out of the car, and come around. He grabbed me and hugged me.
We talked about a half an hour. In that short, moment of time, He shared things about my father, his uncle, things I didn’t know. The conversation shifted. He was elated. Him sharing what he had heard of me. He seemed to have followed my life. He knew I was a writer and a publisher. So what is your story, I asked? He answered quickly and confidently. I was surprised without explanation.
Pat told me how he loved to cook. He said he had wanted to write a book---A cookbook. His favorite recipe was a fish dish. Sonny lived around the corner---Johnny’s brother with the artificial worms that caught our fish, out of Uncle Sonny’s lake---the pond, the ditch. Things seemed bigger sometimes when you’re a kid.
I made a promise to Pat that I would help him tell his story. We’d start with a recipe or two. Write an article. I’d publish it in my magazine. Sonny was to help Pat get his recipes in order for the printing. I will keep that promise now that he is gone on.
Everybody has a story, not just for the shelves of libraries, or to boast upon as a check off the old bucket list. Stories were meant to reach people, talk to people, and make people think. Stories were made to make people smile, forget their moment, and enter another. Stories were written to motivate, educate, strengthen, encourage.
There was a young man in the bible who had but two fish and five loaves of bread. With it, he had a story to tell. It was a story of fish who caught men. He had to complete his story. His agents thought it too small for a book. Conversely, the size would be his hook. Alone, on the market, he’d reach a family or two.
The young man brought his fish dinner to the Jesus, the Master. Miraculously, one person’s story blessed over 5000, then, and in the years to come tens of thousands more. Graciously, his story is multiplied, when his obedience, in sharing his story, becomes God’s will and not just the story itself.
I shifted in my story between cousins and brothers, fishermen and fish, times and places. If you listened carefully, you would have caught the connections. Although my lure is not what you’re used to, it is by far artificial. I’ve taken some time.
So what’s your story? I asked Pat that day, on the streets of Paulsboro, just a few weeks ago. He smiled and shared. I promised him I would help him tell his. Today, I ask you, what’s yours?
It wasn’t a coincidence.
We talked about a half an hour. In that short, moment of time, He shared things about my father, his uncle, things I didn’t know. The conversation shifted. He was elated. Him sharing what he had heard of me. He seemed to have followed my life. He knew I was a writer and a publisher. So what is your story, I asked? He answered quickly and confidently. I was surprised without explanation.
Pat told me how he loved to cook. He said he had wanted to write a book---A cookbook. His favorite recipe was a fish dish. Sonny lived around the corner---Johnny’s brother with the artificial worms that caught our fish, out of Uncle Sonny’s lake---the pond, the ditch. Things seemed bigger sometimes when you’re a kid.
I made a promise to Pat that I would help him tell his story. We’d start with a recipe or two. Write an article. I’d publish it in my magazine. Sonny was to help Pat get his recipes in order for the printing. I will keep that promise now that he is gone on.
Everybody has a story, not just for the shelves of libraries, or to boast upon as a check off the old bucket list. Stories were meant to reach people, talk to people, and make people think. Stories were made to make people smile, forget their moment, and enter another. Stories were written to motivate, educate, strengthen, encourage.
There was a young man in the bible who had but two fish and five loaves of bread. With it, he had a story to tell. It was a story of fish who caught men. He had to complete his story. His agents thought it too small for a book. Conversely, the size would be his hook. Alone, on the market, he’d reach a family or two.
The young man brought his fish dinner to the Jesus, the Master. Miraculously, one person’s story blessed over 5000, then, and in the years to come tens of thousands more. Graciously, his story is multiplied, when his obedience, in sharing his story, becomes God’s will and not just the story itself.
I shifted in my story between cousins and brothers, fishermen and fish, times and places. If you listened carefully, you would have caught the connections. Although my lure is not what you’re used to, it is by far artificial. I’ve taken some time.
So what’s your story? I asked Pat that day, on the streets of Paulsboro, just a few weeks ago. He smiled and shared. I promised him I would help him tell his. Today, I ask you, what’s yours?
It wasn’t a coincidence.