I'm no stranger to fishing. My grandfather was an avid fisherman, and I spent numerous summers trolling Oregon's rivers and lakes with him. I loved fishing then, although it wasn't the fish I loved so much as the time with my grandpa. He had a little boat he would navigate easily down the river. He'd point out all the wild blackberry bushes, and the best spots to fish. He'd help me bait the hook, rolling the pseudo-cheese into little balls. He'd help me land any fish I caught, and even gutted and cleaned them.
My grandpa loved helping me, but also wanted me to learn the beauty of fishing for myself. So he warned that when I turned 12, I'd have to gut and clean my own fish. I never caught another fish after I turned 12, but I still enjoyed the boat rides along the river.
My brothers fished too, although they weren't all that successful. They caught more salamanders along the dock than fish from the lake. Tim once swore he'd landed a giant fish, and pulled up a rusty iron instead. And he even hooked me once, in the cheek, as I played along the river bank. Adding insult to injury, I got in trouble for that, but my Grandma Audrey soothed me and plied me with ginger snaps, which I made sure Tim could see me eating from the window.
So when I announced to Mark I was buying him a fishing pole, I thought he'd be excited. Instead, the first words out of his mouth were, "I am NOT touching any worms!"
"You can use other bait," I told him, but he remained doubtful.
"I just don't like to touch worms," he said, and started shivering at the mere thought of it.
My brother Scott pointed me to the local sporting goods store, where I found myself in the middle of the fishing pole section. I stood there among the myriad poles and lures, completely out of my element. Finally, a salesman took pity on me and offered up a basic pole with a small tackle box included.
I then made my way to the bait section. The first jar I picked was full of worms, and I could almost hear Mark screaming, "NOOOOOOO!" I put it down quickly.
The next jar contained bright red dots -- fish eggs. I knew once Mark read the label, there was no way he'd actually touch those.
The next few jars surprised me. They contained an assortment of brightly colored marshmallows dipped in glitter. Who knew fish had ADD, and can't pass up anything bright and shiny?
Unfortunately, that bait would work on another little fish as well -- I could see Mark sampling them, unable to resist any marshmallow (even pink, glittery ones).
Finally, overwhelmed at the choices, I grabbed a jar of neon striped nuggets, and headed toward the cashier. As she was ringing up the pole, I noticed they were actually trout nuggets.
"Will these work on any fish, or just trout?" I asked.
"I dunno," she shrugged. "I really have no idea."
Luckily, her co-worker stepped in and assured me it was fine.
On the way out, I realized the hooks weren't attached to the pole. There were instructions on the back for knotting them onto the fishing line, and for wrapping a pink rubber grub onto the hook as well. This time I shivered.
Mark was excited at the new purchases, shaking the bait jar around for a better look at the little neon nuggets.
"Can people eat these, too?" he asked, confirming my suspicions that he'd taste them.
"No!" I answered. "See, it says 'Not for human consumption' here, which means DO NOT EAT THEM!"
He frowned, and I'm still not convinced he won't try it.
And so tomorrow, if everything works out, he'll be casting into the lake with the other Cub Scouts (or surreptitiously eating trout nuggets by their side). I'm not sure which will be worse: if he doesn't catch a fish, or if he does, and I have to help him unhook and clean it.
Then he'll learn there are more disgusting things than worms to touch -- namely, fish guts. Or live fish parts, as we struggle to unhook and release the little guy back into the lake.
I'm already pretty sure I'll like fishing better as a granddaughter than as a mom.
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