We had a small stock pond on our place when I was growing
up. It wasn’t as big as a city block. They dug it to get fill dirt for a Jr. high school. There wasn’t much to it—the pond that is—but square foot for
square foot, it furnished about as much enjoyment as any site you could find
anywhere.
There were fish in it. Fish galore: bream, sunfish, catfish,
and, later, bass. We never fished it out, but oh lord did we try. There were snakes
and turtles, as well. We only swam in it once, and that was when no one was watching,
My mother told the story about how, when I could barely walk, I had seen some people
swimming in a pool, and, I reckon I was impressed because, alerted by our family
dog “Bob,” she caught me next morning “just a high-steppin’ toward the pond.”
My Sainted grandmother would laugh and talk about how she
had taken me there a little later and showed me how to bait a hook and toss it
out. She created a monster, I guess, for she said all I wanted to do thereafter
was to go and “pish” some more. I don’t know if kids have that much fun with
their grandmothers these days.
There are so many lessons one can learn from a small,
postage-stamp, place like that. For one, the cork from a bottle of Garrett Snuff
makes an ideal “bobber.” Bouncing it up and down is supposed to attract fish. And
something that Della Nathaniel taught me, you must spit on your bait if you
want to catch the really good ones. Of course, she dipped snuff, so her spit
was much more potent and effective than mine.
She sought, once, to even the playing field by offering me a
dip. I tied, but decided I’d rather not catch fish than live through that ordeal
again. Bless her heart, she moved to Oakland California later and found equality
of sorts, I’m sure. I’ll bet she missed that old pond, though, from time to
time.
Sometimes, when I was older, and the Hester boys lived close by the pond, we’d start out on Friday after school and fish until Saturday
afternoon. Then the mothers who lived nearby would come over with the “fixin’s”
and fry our catch for the whole neighborhood.
I still recall the day my dad and I went out one Sunday
morning and cut a nice gum tree that we dragged into the pond for a fish
refuge. I think the hooks I lost therein outnumbered the fish I caught from it,
but since Sunday was his only day off, it most wonderful that we spent the time
doing it.
Today, the average teenager has a cell phone that probably
cost more than my father paid for that little spot where the pond was. I’ll
match memories with any of them, though.
 |
Ever notice how things
get less fun as they
get more elaborate? |
