| Grandfathers will always be there to create fond fishing memories |
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| Opinion | |||
| Written by Larry McGee | |||
| Tuesday, 10 November 2009 08:00 | |||
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Some of my early remembrances of my grandfather involved fishing. He lived a few miles from the Solomon River, and when we visited him in his later years, my dad would take him down to the river. Of course, in the river we fished for channel cat. Chicken guts were our common bait since we had earlier killed a chicken to fry for our Sunday lunch. My first pole was a cane pole long enough to allow me to get the line into the middle of the river. I don’t have a memorable catch, but do remember bringing what we caught home in a gunny sack. Watching my grandfather clean his catch was always exciting. My dad preferred fishing for bass. His favorite haunts were the local farm ponds that had been stocked for years but saw little action. During the summer months, I could count on him taking me fishing on Sunday evening. We always fished in the late afternoon and early evening. My dad used one lure, a jitterbug. Jitterbugs were a top water lure that wiggled as you retrieved them. In the quiet of the evening, you could hear the lure, “popping” across the pound as he retrieved it. We seldom came home empty handed. When my children came along, I felt compelled to instill in them the love of fishing. Each of them learned at an early age to bait their own hooks and to cast a spinning reel. They soon learned the difference between species of edible fish. As my grandchildren came along, they were included in our fishing expeditions. Like my father before me, farm ponds became the easiest place to take children to fish. Now, I have my own pond in my backyard. Unfortunately, my children and grandchildren live far enough away that the pond isn’t used as much as I would like. Somehow the catching of fish isn’t nearly as much fun by myself as it is with a young one by my side. My wife has a three-year-old granddaughter. We have the pleasure of babysitting her one day a week. We meet her mother at her workplace and bring Lola to the “farm.” Since she has been old enough to sit in the golf cart, we have been acquainting her with the excitement of the farm. Our first stop each week begins at the dairy farm. Here we feed hay to the cows that have just been milked. Lola insists on petting all the animals. She isn’t content to just look. The newborn calves are kept separate from the herd until they are big enough to forage for themselves. They are kept tied beside their private shelters. Most are not friendly to a young lady who wants to hug them. We found a young Guernsey calf that enjoys being fussed over. Each week Lola looks forward to hugging the “brown calf.” He has become a real friend and she even rubs noses with him. The dairy also raises laying chickens. Early this spring, we purchased a new brood of chicks. Lola wasn’t content to look into the chicken house. She had to go inside and pick them up. She chased them around and around the chicken house until she finally trapped a chick in a corner. What she doesn’t understand is how quickly chicks mature into full grown chickens. Seeing them only once a week, they soon grew so large they began to chase her around the chicken coop. Now we only check on them from outside the coop. We usually return to our pond to feed the fish. I have several catfish that will rise to the surface to scarf down food pellets. This always entertains her for a while. This past week, out of the blue, Lola wanted to go fishing. So I got the kids’ poles out and baited them with night crawlers and a bobber. I didn’t expect much action since it was the middle of the day. Suddenly, her grandmother had a bluegill on her line and Lola was immediately hooked on fishing. We caught ten or twelve and each one she had to hold and touch. Worms are not a problem for her. She loves bugs and worms of all kinds, so much of her time was spent playing with the worms; but, we have her hooked. Now grandpa is hooked on teaching another grandchild to fish. I can’t wait until next week.
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