Gone Fishin’

My grandparent’s relatives lived on Opossum Creek near the tri-cities of Bristol, Virginia; Kingsport, and Johnson City, Tennessee. As a child it was an outdoor playground for me. I would swing above the cold, tranquil creek on an old tire hanging from a tree. At night I watched the fireflies light up the darkness while sitting on the wide front porch of the old, white farmhouse. The men would play horseshoes while the women were in the kitchen canning and baking, and I played hide and seek with distant cousins in the corn stalks. We ran through the garden jumping over the beans, cucumbers and tomatoes. It was the first time that I really understood that vegetables come from somewhere besides a grocery store.

Memories of Opossum Creek included many firsts for me. At the ripe “old” age of 8 was the first time a boy tried to kiss me. Sheree helped hide me behind the green metal glider on the screened-in back porch so he was unsuccessful. My uncle worked for Eastman Kodak. One day he took me to his office. It was the first time I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up—a photographer and develop photos in the dark room, hopefully not with the little boy who tried to kiss me.

But the “first” that really sticks out in my mind is asking Granddad if he would take me fishing. He was busy catching up with the relatives, but he said he’d help me make a fishing pole.

We found a couple of sticks that were just the right length. He showed me how to whittle the end and create a notch to tie the fishing line. Then he attached a bright red bobber and fish hook. He handed me the worm, but I squeamishly turned away. He put it on the hook and sent me to the small stream that emptied into Opossum Creek.

As I sat under a tree on the bank by the water, I felt like little Opie on the Andy Griffith Show. Then, I felt a tug on my pole. I pulled back and suddenly it started pulling me towards the water. I yanked. It tugged. It was a test of wills. Finally, I fell back on the grass and pulled it out of the creek. Granddad hadn’t told me what to do if I caught something.

I ran as fast as I could with the fish flopping back and forth on the end of the fishing line. I darted in the front door of the house, through the living room and dining room screaming, “I caught a fish. I caught a fish.” Everyone was in the screened-in porch at the back of the house. The room fell silent as the fish wiggled and dripped on the floor.

They told me that no one had ever caught a fish in that creek. I guess I could have won some kind of award, but all I got was, “Get that thing out of here!”
I was reminded of this when I found my old fly fishing rod from many years ago. But that fishing experience didn’t go as well. Even after taking lessons, my fishing line seemed to always be wrapped around the tree limb and not in the water.

Today’s gift was to give the fishing pole to Goodwill so that some other budding young fisherman can experience the joy of fishing. Regardless of whether they catch anything or not, I’m sure they will have fish tales to tell.

In Giving,
Robin