Sometimes, I wish I did. I don't hunt, either, but I have no desire to do that. Honestly, I can't foresee myself ever picking up a gun again, let alone squeezing the trigger. It's a personal choice. You're free to make up your mind. I won't go into why I've made my choice, but a lot of reasons are the same as those that others who don't appreciate the merits of guns would cite. But a fishing pole, that's different. Not sure why, but it just is to me. Maybe, it's because I don't read all that many stories of someone arming themselves with a fishing pole to rob a bank or commit a drive-by shooting or hold a country's worth of citizens prisoners. I don't recall too many news stories that read "Disgruntled Employee Kills 12 With Fishing Pole" or "Man Arms Self With Rod & Reel To Kill President." Nah, a fishing pole is a leisurely device, well, at least for the fisherman. I think the fish would offer a different opinion.
Which brings me to why I stopped fishing. It happened sometime when I was around 16. I just couldn't stand the thought anymore of yanking a hook through a fish's mouth. Pretty much the same thing happened with the first bird I plugged with lead or the day I watched my dad do in a beaver he'd caught in one of his traps. The lust for animal blood never ran deep in me, and I'm more than fine with that. Oddly, I have no problem with putting the dukes up and letting them fly man-to-man if need by, but guns, eh, that's another story.
I'm know my tune would change if someone was threatening my family, but owning guns just for the sake of owning them has never appealed to me. I have no idea where the guns I did have as a kid even are. I suppose they're tucked safely somewhere in my parents' house. I don't miss them, and I haven't thought about them in, well, ever. But my fishing pole. I do miss it.
I had a great one, too. It had a green, foam-cushioned handle that fit my hand perfectly, and it was just the right weight. I wasn't a great fisherman, but I knew what I was doing. I had that pole for years and years, and I loved picking it back up every spring and practicing my casts. I wished I had gotten a chance to use it more often down along the Wahoo and Silver Creeks. I wish I had made more trips down that stretch of railroad out near the Guard Camp in Ashland, underneath that train bridge, casting a line, and sitting and waiting. Some days, the thought of sitting once again on the old concrete landing at Memphis Lake under those overhanging trees really appeals to me. When I've taken my own kids there over the years to camp, it seems so much smaller than it did years ago when my dad and I would sit there and watch our bobbers dance in the waves. We didn't bother with bobbers when we fished behind my grandfather's house, sitting on that dirt where the creeks converged on either side. There we just loaded a hooked sponge up with stink bait and waited for the catfish to nibble.
I can't remember exactly which was the last time I ever fished. I know it was when I was 16 or so. I'm pretty sure I was with my cousin. I remember there had been storms in our part of the state off and on for weeks, including one that morning. The water keep rising and rising, faster and faster, and we keep moving further and further up the bank until there wasn't much of a bank left. We were in awe, and a little bit scared. We didn't catch anything, either, but we rarely did. It wasn't really about how many fish we caught, though. It was about getting away from town. Away from responsibilities. Away from all the chatter. It was about just being there.
Over the years, all of my children have fished, including my four-year-old daughter who fished for the first time this summer at day camp, and by all accounts, she did incredibly well. For months, she'd been asking me to take her, and all those times I tried to explain to her why I could go with her but it would probably be her grandpa who actually did the fishing with her. She doesn't really understand why this so, but she will one day. In the meantime, I want to let her fish all she wants, and later on when she can, I want her to make up her own mind about whether it's something she wants to do or not the rest of her life. Just like with the other kids, I don't want to say a word to try to influence her not to. I don't want to tell her what she should do.
Fishing gave me a lot of good times, including a lot I shared with my dad, mom, sister, friends, and other family. I don't plan on doing anything to not make the same possible for my daughter. But fishing also helped me rethink a few of my own ethics and ideas, and I have to say, fishing was responsible for making me see things differently, and I'm just as thankful for that. But, man, some days, the thought of sitting along some serene stream or corner of a lake and feeling the anticipation of wanting the tip of that rod to dip downward toward the water has a definite pull. The thought of just sitting and listening and partaking in life without any need for words along a bank of water is pretty damn appealing.
Which brings me to why I stopped fishing. It happened sometime when I was around 16. I just couldn't stand the thought anymore of yanking a hook through a fish's mouth. Pretty much the same thing happened with the first bird I plugged with lead or the day I watched my dad do in a beaver he'd caught in one of his traps. The lust for animal blood never ran deep in me, and I'm more than fine with that. Oddly, I have no problem with putting the dukes up and letting them fly man-to-man if need by, but guns, eh, that's another story.
I'm know my tune would change if someone was threatening my family, but owning guns just for the sake of owning them has never appealed to me. I have no idea where the guns I did have as a kid even are. I suppose they're tucked safely somewhere in my parents' house. I don't miss them, and I haven't thought about them in, well, ever. But my fishing pole. I do miss it.
I had a great one, too. It had a green, foam-cushioned handle that fit my hand perfectly, and it was just the right weight. I wasn't a great fisherman, but I knew what I was doing. I had that pole for years and years, and I loved picking it back up every spring and practicing my casts. I wished I had gotten a chance to use it more often down along the Wahoo and Silver Creeks. I wish I had made more trips down that stretch of railroad out near the Guard Camp in Ashland, underneath that train bridge, casting a line, and sitting and waiting. Some days, the thought of sitting once again on the old concrete landing at Memphis Lake under those overhanging trees really appeals to me. When I've taken my own kids there over the years to camp, it seems so much smaller than it did years ago when my dad and I would sit there and watch our bobbers dance in the waves. We didn't bother with bobbers when we fished behind my grandfather's house, sitting on that dirt where the creeks converged on either side. There we just loaded a hooked sponge up with stink bait and waited for the catfish to nibble.
I can't remember exactly which was the last time I ever fished. I know it was when I was 16 or so. I'm pretty sure I was with my cousin. I remember there had been storms in our part of the state off and on for weeks, including one that morning. The water keep rising and rising, faster and faster, and we keep moving further and further up the bank until there wasn't much of a bank left. We were in awe, and a little bit scared. We didn't catch anything, either, but we rarely did. It wasn't really about how many fish we caught, though. It was about getting away from town. Away from responsibilities. Away from all the chatter. It was about just being there.
Over the years, all of my children have fished, including my four-year-old daughter who fished for the first time this summer at day camp, and by all accounts, she did incredibly well. For months, she'd been asking me to take her, and all those times I tried to explain to her why I could go with her but it would probably be her grandpa who actually did the fishing with her. She doesn't really understand why this so, but she will one day. In the meantime, I want to let her fish all she wants, and later on when she can, I want her to make up her own mind about whether it's something she wants to do or not the rest of her life. Just like with the other kids, I don't want to say a word to try to influence her not to. I don't want to tell her what she should do.
Fishing gave me a lot of good times, including a lot I shared with my dad, mom, sister, friends, and other family. I don't plan on doing anything to not make the same possible for my daughter. But fishing also helped me rethink a few of my own ethics and ideas, and I have to say, fishing was responsible for making me see things differently, and I'm just as thankful for that. But, man, some days, the thought of sitting along some serene stream or corner of a lake and feeling the anticipation of wanting the tip of that rod to dip downward toward the water has a definite pull. The thought of just sitting and listening and partaking in life without any need for words along a bank of water is pretty damn appealing.
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