I
waited for Grandpa to take me fishing. I had my homemeade fishing pole and an old loaf of bread from Mom’s cupboard. I felt like a real fisherman. I was ready.
Grandpa took us down to Turtle Lake. He said he used to fish there when he was a boy about my age. I couldn’t imagine Grandpa ever being my age. The thought of it was pretty funny.
When we got to the lake, Grandpa said he had to get ready. He pulled out a pair of rubber hip waders and pulled them on.
Before he pulled up the shoulder straps, Grandpa got out his fishing vest. It had lots of pockets to put things in and hooks to hang things from. Grandpa zipped it up.
His vest and waders snugly in place, Grandpa pulled out his fishing pole. It was slender and graceful and light as a feather. It shimmered bright green in the sunlight. Grandpa expertly made a practice cast out into the field and the line purred out smoothly.
It seemed to me like the fishing line played out forever before it finally hit the ground.
When he reeled in the line, Grandpa reached into the trunk of his car and pulled out his tackle box. It was full to the brim with lures and weights and extra fishing line and fake worms. It had a built-in ruler on the side and a tool to remove hooks.
The box looked pretty heavy.
Then Grandpa got out his fishing hat. It had lots of hooks and lures and bobbers hanging from it.
The hat looked pretty old and comfortable, just like Grandpa.
Finally, Grandpa said he was ready. He seemed to have everything that a real fisherman needs. He had his hip waders. He had his fishing vest. He had his fancy fishing pole. He had his tackle box. He even had his fishing hat. I had to admit that he sure did look like a real fisherman.
But suddenly I didn’t feel like much of a real fisherman anymore.
All I had was a homemade fishing pole and a stale loaf of bread.
I dropped the bait into the water. It sure was quiet out there at the lake. I heard birds chirping and the summer wind rustling softly through the trees. If I really listened, I could hear the faint purr of Grandpa’s fishing line as it played out across the water, making a tiny sploosh! when the lure broke the surface.
I watched Grandpa wade in to Turtle Lake. Soon, he was casting his line into the water in long, graceful arcs. Quietly, I put a piece of stale bread on my own hook.
I listened peacefully with my own line dangling in front of me…
…and I waited.
All of a sudden, I felt something tugging at my pole. I pulled hard and out of the water came a huge fish!
Finally, Grandpa closed his mouth and came over to congratulate me. Together we measured and weighed the fish. Grandpa told me that I’d need to get my picture taken with it that I could frame and put in my room. He said he wanted a copy of that picture, too. I couldn’t keep from smiling the entire time.
Grandpa couldn’t believe his eyes. He stood there with all of his gear — his fishing pole, his vest, his hat, even his hip waders — and just stared at my catch. His mouth was open but no sounds came out.
I could tell that Grandpa was really proud of me.
On the way home, I told Grandpa that I’d show him how to make a homemade fishing pole of his own someday.
Maybe then he’d be a real fisherman…just like me.