Fishing for memories

The door on old hinges growled at me as I pried it open.  Maybe, just maybe there is one thing I forgot to take from the soon-to-be demolished shed.  No, I thought, as I looked around.  There was an old Schwinn, a milk jug; nothing I really needed. 

Then I looked up. Lying across the rafters, most of them in fact, was a bamboo cane fishing pole.  And with the sight, came a flood of memories. 

Opening of fishing season wasn’t as big a deal in my family back in the ‘70s.  In fact, I don’t recall an “I can’t wait until opener” phases or giddy anticipation like we already feel in Grand Rapids now. 

What I recall is I don’t think Dad really enjoyed going to Woodenfrog that much.  It meant a day away from the farm.  Since he already had to get a “real” job when I was born (because I guess seven is 10 times more expensive than six kids), tending the farm part-time was tough.  But, mom loved the beach and water and we wanted to fish. 

There were no Zebco rods and reels for us. Going fishing meant strapping those cane poles to the side of the station wagon, digging up some worms and heading to Woodenfrog on Lake Kabetogama.  This was just about the time Voyageur’s National Park was born.  The park was still a park with a camp store with the Readers selling ice cream and chips (perhaps another reason dad didn’t want a car load at the beach).  But the Readers were our friends so our pennies went with us. 

Mom set up camp at the picnic site nearest the trail.  The beach faced Bittersweet Island.  But as non-boating farmers, we had only our poles—some line strung on the end, hooks and worms.  To “the rock” we went.  We had no cushions or chairs, just our scrawny bottoms on mossy granite with the poles stretched out eight foot over the water. 

I don’t know if I ever caught a fish.  But I got Dad on a rock for just as long as my patience would hold.  I can’t tell you if that was 10 minutes or an hour, if it was two of us or 10, but I know we sat and fished.

I got my 2024 fishing license last weekend.  My tackle box is cleaned thoroughly.  I still don’t have a boat.  When opener hits I might not be out on the lakes near Grand Rapids right away.  I’ll let the visitors and their big boats take first dibs. I’ll wait for that day when the lakes glimmer, when a frog keeps me company and a crappie teases my line.  I don’t have that cane pole to strap to my Camry but I swear if I’m fishing around 5 p.m., sometimes I hear a voice call “food’s ready” and a tanned strong hand lifts me and my pole up to go leave.