s u m m e r
When I was ten my grandfather showed me the use of fishing tackle. That one piece I'd no knowledge of, the lure. I'd done my time with worms and can still control a jig as good as any angler in addition to being able to put a cast just about anywhere I want. Especially under the left front corner post of Ray Fleming's pier. There's a crappy for me there every time, except when it's overly hot and the fish have all gone deep.
The lure was different. Three boxes of wooden hooked shapes, rusty and well used. Mixed in were silver spoons and spinners and rubber worms that smelled like carp dough and felt good rolled on your face. One box was mine. I'd bought with my allowance countless lures and never caught a thing with them. I'd bought hula poppers and deep water plugs only good for trolling and snap plugs or may flies for the surface. I played with these more than I fished with them and so it was then my grandfather decided to show me their proper use.
We climbed into the battleship gray boat by the shore. This of course was years before it became necessary to chain the boat to the birch by the pier. This was when the boat belonged to my Uncle, who had yet to be killed in a logging accident, and was the summer I was to learn to duck hunt. It was before my grandparents became unspeakably dependent upon each other, and before they had settled into the complacency of their aging. Before the boat was cut loose one night and allowed to drift quietly out to the center of the lake where the Johnson motor was cut loose and heaved onto another craft by the greasy hands of a thief.
Back in those days no one locked the door but the guns were always loaded. And you never went fishing without a gun. Mine was a 410 gauge. A snake hunter.
As we pulled away from the shore with the gun and my tackle and the bright orange life vest strapped around my neck I felt good. I felt good all that day even though I still caught nothing. I felt good right up until the moment I learned about belief and trust in that old man I call my grandfather. You'd think learning you could always belief at least one person in the world would be comforting at ten but it really simply pissed me off. It was my own arrogance. I should have known better than to question, than to do anything but accept, but I was always taught there were no dumb questions and you should always stand up for what you believe in and not to be gullible or naive.
I've since learned that no amount of concentration or paranoia or awareness can keep you from being naive. You are or you are not, and I, most certainly am.
So when my grandfather told me to cast over by that pile of brush I asked why.
"'Cause buddy, that's where the fish are."
Bullshit I thought. That's where the branches are that'll snag my line and then I'll have to chase down a lure while thinking about all the snakes waiting to bite my ankles deep in the water safe from the 410 back in the boat.
"I don't know..."
"You don't believe your Po Po," he said.
"No."
"Come here."
I climbed over the bench seats and went to the back of the boat where my grandfather had one arm resting on the Johnson motor and the other around slack reel.
"Don't ever doubt me boy, ya here."
It was one of those life lesson tones that he seldom took with me but I'd rather face him than the snakes so I said, "Okay," hoping that would be the end of it.
"Don't ever doubt me or I'll spit tobacco juice in your eye sure as your standing here."
The words actually came out this time, "Bullshit."
Levi Garrett burns.
goodnight 8.04.99