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Caribbean Fish Tale we would catch. Dad carried the cane poles and a bait bucket full of swimming minnows. When the perch were biting, we couldn’t keep up with them. Every time we put our hooks in the water, we pulled up a fish. When they weren’t, I had fun playing with the minnows, catching them with the little dip net that was attached with a string to the bucket handle. Fish or no fish, Dad bought me a popsicle on the way home. The second memory is probably the reason I didn’t fish again until I was an adult. My parents and grandparents used to rent a cottage on a lake for a few weeks every summer, and the cottage came with a 12-foot rowboat. Grampa deSchipper was a quiet and thoughtful Dutchman who had the calloused and scarred hands of his trade as a carpenter. He always smelled of tobacco, and his face was wreathed in smoke. As the oldest grandchild, I was the designated rower and Grampa’s earlymorning companion. I would row us out onto the lake to a spot Grampa

The bow of the Princess as we depart the harbor. liked, and he would drop the “anchor” made of an old coffee can filled with cement with a ringbolt set in the top and fastened to the boat with a long length of clothesline. There we would sit and fish. Grampa loved to fish, but I think he loved the solitude more. When the fish were not biting, which was often, he would be at peace, quietly puffing on his pipe for what seemed like hours. We couldn’t talk in the boat “because that would scare the fish away.” There we would sit, and sit, and sit. The sun would come up and the other kids from the nearby cottages would be playing ball on

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March 2017 ttimes web magazine  

Tidewater Times March 2017

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