Fishing was not fun for my younger brother. He spent most of his time while we were at our cottage on the lake in Massachusetts baiting my hook, and removing my fish from its untimely demise. He was a great sport, though, and continued this endeavor for as long as I wanted to fish. He laughed joyfully the times the slimy things would get to close to me.
Carl would be proud of me now, as I have learned as an Arkansan and grandmother of many little fisherpeople, I do not have anyone to bait my hook. “The fishing is serious here,” my son—now the proud owner of a Catfish Farm—has all the fish we can catch for supper. I do bait my hook, but do have a real dislike to being stuck by the catfish trying to release them.
My grandson Jaydon, sits seriously waiting for his catch and, yes, guess who is baiting his hook? That is correct—I am. Nanna does anything within reason for those little guys, the saving grace for me is that catfish like hot dogs, yup, no slimy worms for this lady, my butter bean Logan he removes my fish still, and reminds me of my brother, so pleased to help his Nanna.
My husband has the honor of filleting the tasty treats and, of course, I cook. As a Yankee we baked and broiled our catches, now in the south I can fry you up some mouthwatering catfish, hushpuppies, fried tators, and green tomatoes, oh, and a slice of Vidalia onion.
One day I hope to be able to find my baby brother and bring him to my home and fix this meal for him, as a thank-you for all the times he so patiently sat by my side and let me fish. In the mean time, my grandsons and I will make more fishing tales. When I am looking down watching them from above, they will be telling their children tales about their fishing adventures with their Nanna and Poppop, and so the fishing tales will go on.
There is great peace and joy in this you have to experience it to know, if you want the respect of your grandchildren and to see glee and happiness that does not cost much at all take ’em fishing.