Fish for Supper

My Uncle Ernie was what my grandmother called "a right serious" fisherman.


Fish for supper, Mother! he told my her cheerfully as he slung his creel over his shoulder, gathered his rods and reels and pulled his old cap over his shaggy hair.  I was allowed to carry our lunch in one hand and a bucket of worms in the other.


Down the gravel driveway we went on a beautiful summer day, walked for just a bit on the road and then turned into the dirt road that led to the lake.  The woods were cool and smelled of evergreen and I remember my uncle whistling - there was a spring in his step all the way.  We settled on a grass covered incline under the shade of a tree, a lazy spot close to the water.  Uncle Ernie baited the hooks and cast both lines in easy, graceful movements then pulled his cap over his eyes and stretched out.  I sat next to him, hugging my knees and rocking back and forth, hoping he might smoke his pipe and feeling ever so lucky that he'd finally agreed to let me come along.  I began to chatter and he gave me a stern look.


Fishing is about being quiet, he told me, and being patient.


I hushed, content to watch the lake ripple and shimmer with colors.


In due time, a fish swam by, snagged the worm and took the bait.  Alerted by a small bell at the end of his fishing rod, Uncle Ernie was instantly upright - there was a brief struggle and the clear water turned grainy with sand - I held my breath and then the fish gave a mighty jerk and was free.


Bugger! my uncle exclaimed and reeled in his line, put a fresh worm on the hook and re-cast.  When my line went suddenly taut and the rod began to spin, he grabbed me and put me behind his knees, holding my hands on the pole with a fierce grip and guiding me through the motions.  Amazingly, the fish was landed and he carefully showed me how to remove the hook - the worms hadn't bothered me much but this made my stomach lurch a little.  He deposited it neatly into the creel, assured me I was "a natural" and gave me a broad smile.


The sleepy afternoon passed.  Warmed by the sun, watching the clouds and listening to the woods, I fell almost asleep, only distantly hearing the occasional Bugger! or Gotcha, you old sonofabitch!


When we had what Uncle Ernie judged was enough fish to feed a small army, we headed home.  Fish were sizzling in Nana's old cast iron skillet in no time while Aunt Norma and I began to set the table.  It was then that my daddy asked me if we'd had a good time and I proudly announced the new words I'd learned - in the abrupt silence that followed my Aunt Norma gave a small, startled shriek, dropped a dinner plate and then looked stunned as it broke into a dozen different pieces.  At the stove, my grandmother abandoned the skillet and fixed my Uncle Ernie with what my mother called her wrath of God look - tight lipped, narrow eyed, and not to be trifled with.


Ernest!  she snapped icily.


Uncle Ernie began to stammer, his handsome good looks went a little pale.  Now, Mother...... he began tentatively, edging toward the dining room, I didn't mean ..I mean I didn't realize what I ...I would never.. 


Feeling the doorway on either side, he turned tail and fled.  


You might catch the fish but you don't always get to eat'em.