water colored

DH and I took The Collective fishing, Sunday after church.

A quiet lake, in the middle of the woods, no one in sight.

Funny how one simple movement, can cause such a flood of memories.

First off, taking a 3 and 5 year old fishing with hooks is not for the faint of heart.

It will give you a heart attack. As a Mother, and someone appearently with a pessimistic streak. I kept imagining eyes with hooks in them, flesh wounds and the like. All of that worry for not, no injuries to speak of. I think DH got a hook to his flank, but I think he caught it before it did too much damage.

I came from a fishing family. No beer in the boat fishing people. Food in the boat, sure, enough to feed anyone within 30 miles, but no booze, it was the rule.

Fishing was serious business.

Mostly crappie, bass and walleye. Drum and Northern, fun to catch, but no good to eat and they were thrown back promptly.

I have spent hours fishing. I watched so many fish being cleaned in my day, that when I could handle a knife, I could clean fish, with no instruction. (well too) In fact I cleaned a fish for speech class and got an A! Now that is funny, only in the sticks could a teenager clean a fish for a speech class. Someone might call PETA now.

My Father spent a lot of his 20's and 30's fishing sans my Mother. I forget when it happenned. (Probably when she had to stop watching kids) , but some place in there she became my Dad's fishing buddy. Any chance they got, they would have the boat at the lake, and they would fish.

My Father is one of those men, that thinks his way is the ONLY way, and when my Mother started fishing with him, she about drove him nuts. He would try and try to instruct her on how to jig for crappie.

Dad: "Don't mess with your line so much"

Mom: "Mind your own business."

Ha, it is funny now, because, my Mom was not a sitter. You could not sit across from a table from her for a chat and a cup of coffee without her wiping the table, cleaning, or doodling. As the oldest daughter of a brood of wild farm kids, she was a born dooer. Or maybe it was German guilt. Never rested. If she was awake, she was doing. So when she started fishing with my Father, she would run that jig crazy. It drove him nuts.

The funny part, her technique worked.

My Motherm the recipient of many angler awards. The mounts are in the basement to prove it. I think most of them bigger than my Dads!

I, on the other hand, loved to fish, but would grow tired of getting snagged, and listening to my Dad bitch, so I graduated to reading and sunning in the boat.

My Mother, learned to outfish my Dad.

It was hilarious.

Mom, became such a grand fisherman, she had even convinced my Dad to turn in his old Lund, and buy a Ranger. A bright burgandy and silver Ranger. And she outfished him from Nebraska, to Lake Erie, to Canada, they might have even fished in Iceland. (I cannot recall)

They had lots of plans for retirement. I am sure they would have fished their way across the United States and elsewhere. It was sweet watching them.

And it satisfied me to hear my Mother call from Lake Erie one day, giggling. It seems as though my Dear Father had slipped on the dock and hurt his back, and was down. Well that did not stop my Mother. There has to be a photo someplace around here. My Mother standing next to a table with 24 Walleye, BIG walleye.

Upon taking The Collective to fish, I noted the spirit of my Mother working through Pink Ninja. It was almost frightening, the style and moves this 3 year old possesses.

Pink Ninja, pink pole and all, casting and casting over and over. Mad, that she had a "bobber" set up.

The girl is going to be able to work a jig like no ones business.

Sir Rowland is patient, he will let his line sit. I will have to pack him a book.

The girl, she wants to fish.

I had to call my Dad today and warn him.

"I swear it was like watching Mom fish".....

I wish my Mom was here to see her.