Turning Three

When I was two years old, my dad would go fishing with his best friend every Sunday morning.  Dad wasn't big on church going, and somehow was able to escape the hard pews and badly sung hymns.  So, I'd watch him leave with his pole, tackle box, and huge grin.  Just seeing how happy he was made me want to go too, even though I had no idea of what fishin' meant.

I started bugging my dad to take me with him, and he'd say "When you're older son" every time.  That wasn't good enough for me, and somehow, with my limited vocabulary, I got him to commit to taking me when I turned three.  I had no real concept of time, but it sounded good to me.  Full of excitement, I now started nagging my mom to help me get ready for the big day.  I got a stick, some yarn, and dug up a worm to make myself a practice fishing pole.

Me at 3 in Lando Mines

I'd get my mom to tie the worm onto the yarn, and away I'd go in search of water.  Mud puddles were my favorite targets, and I'd dangle the worm in the water, and watch it wriggle for a bit, and then pretend a big fish had taken the bait.  I'd yank that pole as hard as I could, pretending to set the hook...and watch as the worm and yarn went flying off into the weeds somewhere.  I'd find both, and then take it all back to my mom to get her to fix it again.  I did this over and over, and I'm sure must have driven my mom crazy.

Well, the big day finally came.  I turned three, and I was totally excited waiting for Sunday when I'd get to go fishing with dad, and I'd officially be not only a big boy, but my dad's fishing buddy.  My mom fixed us some lunch, and we loaded all our gear in the car.  I was now the proud owner of a real fishing pole with a reel full of line, and a sharp hook with sinkers on the end.

We went to a local fishing pond where they stocked fish.  Dad wanted to make sure that I had a good chance at catching something, so he paid the 25 cent fee for both of us to fish there.  He showed me how to put the bait on the hook (no worms this time - just little balls of dough with some cheese mixed in).  Then he cast the line out for me, and showed me how to turn the crank on the reel to wind it in.  Must have looked pretty funny.  I was always a very small kid, and the fishing pole was at least three times taller than me.

It didn't take long before I felt a big yank on line, and I yanked back.  All that mud puddle practice paid off, and I pulled so hard I fell backwards right onto my butt.  I was shocked for a second, but scrambled up and started running up the bank holding the pole high.  My dad yelled at me to stop...I'd forgotten about the reel, and that I could wind the line back in.  So, I started cranking away as fast as I could, and noticed after awhile that something was wrong.

I was turning the crank the wrong direction, and the fishing line was piling up all over the reel into what I later learned is called a bird's nest.  Well, I made a fine mess out of it, and dad was not a bit happy when he saw what I'd done.  So he set about trying to get it all untangled, while all this time my fish was swimming around out there wondering what the heck was going on.  Dad eventually got the mess cleaned up, and this time I cranked it the right way.  That fish looked like Jonah's whale to me when I got my first glimpse of it, and I'd never felt so proud as when I pulled him out of the water.  I was grinning from ear to ear, just like the way my dad had grinned every Sunday morning when he set out to go fishing.  It was a great moment, and I'll never forget having that time with my dad.

Feeling pretty good that I was a "real guy" now, and having notched my first fish...I realized I was very hungry.  Dad opened up the lunch bag, and pulled out two bologna sandwiches.  He handed me mine, and I gladly took a big bite, and then spit it out.  Ugh!  My mom had put mustard on my sandwich, and I hated mustard.  My dad took note of me spitting, and asked me what was wrong.  I showed him the mustard, and he laughed and said "Eat it anyway - it won't kill you son".

Well!  Being the accomplished fisherman that I was, and feeling pretty darn self important, I decided that I was not about to stoop to eating a sandwich ruined by mustard.  My feelings were so strong, that I knew a simple "No!" would not adequately express my extreme displeasure.  So, I stepped to the waters edge, and triumphantly hurled my sandwich into the pond.  Then I crossed my arms, put a bit of a sneer on my face, and turned to my dad.  He looked at me, then looked at ripples on the water where my sandwich had disappeared, and then back to me again.

I knew there was a snack shack just up the hill from us.  I was absolutely sure that my dad would be sympathetic to my manly display of anger, and buy me something suitable to eat.  So, as I looked at him expectantly, he just started to smile.  I smiled too, at least until he said "I'm sure the fish will enjoy your lunch more than you did son."  I waited for him to say more, but he was silent, and still smiling.  I said I was hungry, and he only responded "Then maybe you should have thought about that before you threw your lunch away."  Then he took a big bite out of his sandwich, and just smiled some more.  He didn't offer any of it to me, and I was too proud to ask for a bite.

I looked back at where my sandwich had disappeared, and thought that maybe a little mustard wasn't so bad after all.  We fished for a couple of more hours, and I had plenty of time to think about the rewards of my tantrum.  As we rode home, my stomach was grumbling, but my mind was clear.  I'd had a wonderful day with my dad, learned about fishing, and especially learned about life and being responsible for my actions.

Lesson Learned:  When life gives you a little unwanted mustard, smile and enjoy it anyway.