Grandpa's Green Little Fisherman

How many of you have, or remember funny, heartwarming, inspirational stories or anecdotes about your grandparents? I'm sure that's a good majority of everyone. I believe I have lived an unordinary life, and have several stories hibernating inside my memory banks. This is one of those stories. The other day at work, while I was being super productive, (daydreaming away and nearly falling asleep while a thin line of drool hung off my chin) a memory of my grandfather popped into my head. Maybe my mental minions were cleaning out the junk drawers of my memory files and wanted me to make an executive decision on this memory. They wanted to know it this one would get sent to the trash file, or the keep for later file? I feel like a lot has been going to the trash without my input, so I decided to keep this little gem.

It was the early 80’s and the one summer I spent with my grandparents. I was about 6 or 7 years old, and my dad decided I needed to spend some time with them. I’m not sure the entire reason why my dad dropped me off there, I never received an explanation. In those days, kids weren’t given explanations for much of anything. Possibly he needed a break from this wild child, but I imagined he was travelling around the world with his new trophy wife, and didn’t want a whiny, self absorbed, trouble making little boy cramping his style. But hey, no hard feelings, I got to run around all by myself, with very little supervision most times at their mini-farm. I say mini because at the time there was a huge pasture (huge to a 7 year old boy) with probably 4 or 5 cows, a few chickens, and a dilapidated barn that held a plethora of kid maiming, rusty, medieval looking, farm tools, loose boards, wild animals, and who knows what other implements of destruction that a bratty kid like me could permanently injure himself on. There was also a creepy, dust and dirt covered garage that held even more treasures and mysterious torture devices that I loved to play around with, and in, with absolutely no regard to my personal safety. Like the drill press that I used to drill whatever I could get my hands on. Safety stops? What the hell is that? The only safety stop it had was screaming bloody murder when you stupidly drilled through your hand when it moved where it didn’t belong. You’d hope someone, probably the next door neighbor, would come running over to see what kind of unholy hell was happening while a quarter inch drill bit made hamburger out of your hand. If the tools didn’t get you, there were shelves of dangerous solutions and chemicals that could kill half the county if they were to somehow get loose. How did my grandfather get these? I don’t know. I just remember seeing long, generic looking labels of tetrahydrocloroxidone, or something similar. When I took Chemistry in high school I recalled these brown, glass bottles with these names and realizing how dangerous some of these chemicals were. If this stuff was to break, or get loose somehow, say a little kid was messing where he shouldn’t and accidentally busted a bottle or two, the contents could set off a chain reaction killing off everything in a football field radius. I’m sure he had unlabeled jars of DDT, or agent orange laying around just in case. This man didn't throw away anything that might be useful later. Maybe he was saving this stuff for when he finally had enough of my grandmother and decided to off her and everyone else in his neighborhood. True love. What a wonderful thing. I never managed to do anything to harm myself though while on these adventures. My fear of the wrath of Granny kept me in line. If I accidentally severed an appendage, I’d rather calmly sew it back on, clean up the blood, and go about my business like nothing had ever happened than to face her unmitigated fury. Ahhh, the innocent glory days. I miss that time! *Scene fades into the distance*

Where was I? Oh yes, memories of grandparents, or my grandfather in particular. He loved to be outdoors, and go fishing, and I’d much rather go with him than to have my grandmother take me shopping for shoes or clothing. That was another traumatizing ordeal in itself. When she wasn’t dragging me around to find respectable clothing we would sit around while she watched the afternoon soaps and talked to the television like the characters could actually hear her. As a fidgety, energetic, curious and mischievous little boy, I wanted to do the things my grandfather did. Such as chopping and gathering firewood, working in the garden, or going fishing. He taught me most of what I know about fishing, though he hardly said a word to me about the nuances of landing the big ones. Most of my education came from shows like Bill Dance, Orlando Wilson, and any other fishing show that came on the tv. We would sit there in silence watching these guys pull in fish after fish using all manner of artificial lures. Grandpa must have known something these men didn’t though. He had multiple tackle boxes bursting full of fishing lures, plastic worms, rattle traps, and spinnerbaits in every color, size, and shape anyone could come up with. One of the activities I enjoyed while with him was examining all the different lures he had, but I never saw him use the first one. He always went with the true classic, nightcrawlers, and usually ones we caught ourselves the night before.

This glorious afternoon, Grandpa was ‘teaching’ me how to baitcast with a spinning reel. If you don’t know what that is, be warned. It’s an evil man's device made to test the limits of patience on people such as the Dalia Lama. Even someone with unlimited reserves of patience and cool collective would want to go back in time and ‘erase’ the vile inventor. As I look back now, I think this was my grandfather’s idea of a prank. Only he wasn’t prepared for the little ball of fire that was about to break forth.

My instructions were crystal clear as Grandpa handed me this implement of my own doom. “Cast this into the pool a bunch of times,” and he walked away. That was it, that was how my grandpa instructed me to do nearly anything. In a few words as humanly possible. He must have been a man of infinite wisdom, a thinker, a true revolutionary, because he was so reticent and stingy with his words. I imagine he forgot more earth shattering, perceptive thoughts than most people gain in their lifetime. Maybe as he watched me he knew that imparting such profound truths upon one so immature would shatter my elementary brain. *Cue scene of a young boy sitting in the dirt, slapping a mud pie with a stick while laughing maniacally.* I mean I’m guessing about the wisdom because over my lifetime I think I might have heard him say about 30 words total. He kept what wisdom he had, locked up tight.

The profound insights my dear grandfather kept to himself during this particular exercise, and what I learned years later, was there was a fine finesse required to cast a spinning reel. The premise is this; you cast the line while your thumb hovers gently over the spinning wheel of fishing line to control the cast. My problem was, the user has to have laser focused precision, otherwise when the line hits the water, the reel continues to spin making what is affectionately called a bird's nest. Which is a fifteen mile tangle of monofilament fishing line balled up into the size of a ping-pong ball, while your hapless bait gets eaten, or falls down into the rocky, weedy, lake bottom where it settles itself between boulders and fallen trees, never to be retrieved again. Rest in peace dear $20 crankbait. I imagine it takes years of study, hundreds of thousands of casts, and some mythic certificate of completion to be proficient at casting this type of reel. If you mess up, the consolation prize is wasting valuable hours of fishing time untangling the horrendous mess. Patience was something this seven year old, ADHD inflicted, instant gratification needing, compressed tankard of anger did not have in the slightest. "Danger Will Robinson."

I had my instructions, I had the reverent fishing rod and reel in my hands, and I knew I was going to make him proud. Later, we would have a grand day of fishing, and catch so many fish the boat would be threatening to sink. I cast the line toward the pool with a herculean toss. The lure zinged through the air, “Look at that hang time!” I thought as the sparkling minnow replica arched down into the deep end of the pool. My little chest swelled with esteem; this is fun I thought. My imagination went wild with thoughts of reeling in a whale sized bass. When cranked on the reel, there was uncharacteristic tension. I knew my imagination was quite vivid, but not so lively that I could feel the imaginary fish fighting against me. I finally looked at the reel and blinked a few times at the horror between my hands. There was a tangled mess of coils so big it looked like the reel had vomited a hairball of fishing line. Where did this come from? Who cast an evil spell on this equipment? “Go back from whence you came, demon!” I was used to closed top reels. Click the button, hold it, rear back, sling the hook so hard it flies in one direction, while the bait careens off in a perpendicular, opposite direction, reel back in, bait the hook again and repeat. Eventually you catch a fish…maybe.

For a brief second I contemplated taking the malfunctioning piece of equipment to Grandpa, but I soon quashed that thought. He would be so embarrassed to have such a putz for a grandson. I might never get to go fishing with him again if I didn’t know how to cast a simple reel, or fix it when it messed up. He might disown me, drop me off on the side of the road, or worse…make me go shopping with GrandmaI *Gasp!* I had to show him I was a man of thought, a master of my own domain and full of ingenuity. I couldn’t let some inanimate object show me up. I did what I had to do, I spent what felt like hours untangling this knot that was as tight as the mysteries of the universe. My brow was furrowed in absolute concentration, sweat dripped off my face, one wrong move and it could blow up half the neighborhood. *tick-tock, tick-tock.* I looked around because it felt like I was being watched. There was no one around, but when I looked to the fence my eyes met the judging, disapproving glare of a cow chewing its cud. I could feel my face grow red as a plum as it stared at me with those cold, brown eyes. I could almost hear the cow’s thoughts as it relentlessly berated me for totally screwing up this reel. I gave the cow a glare, “Keep staring buddy,” I thought. “Soon you’ll be a ground patty on my plate.” Feeling superior once again, I turned my back on the cow and continued to fiddle with the new nemesis in my life. I knew it was going to take several eternities to untangle this mess, and the sun was going to set on me before I cleared this level. The reality was closer to three and a half minutes, but in kid time that was a freaking eternity. I didn’t feel the uplifting sense of accomplishment or the satisfaction of a job well done at untangling such an ungodly mess, no I was more aggravated that I had to untangle it to begin with. How dare this thing misbehave on me. That’s unjust. I was a brat…

I wiped the sweat off my brow, as the frustration took a seat in the middle of my mind and made itself at home. The poor plastic bait had marinated in the chlorinated water so long, I imagined it must have absorbed at least half the pool. Finally, everything was reset, and I was ready to cast again. I still had grandiose plans of mastering this technique and catching more and bigger fish than my grandpa had his entire life. He would be so proud. In fact, I knew I’d land a whopper bigger than the bass mounted on his wall. It would get the taxidermy treatment as well and his would look like a baitfish next to my monster catch. Yes, I was going to be THE Master Fisherman. Filled with new, profound exuberance and ‘humility’, I cast the reel again. Surely lightning never strikes the same place twice. Despite all my childish ignorance, and arrogance, the reel misbehaved again, growling like a demon spawn from the depths of hell. I couldn’t believe it. My eyes were transfixed on the abomination growing in front of me as the translucent blue line swelled, expanded like spray insulation foam, then cracked a sinister, blood curdling smile as the line snarled all around the still spinning reel. I could feel my seven year old anger growing like an impending volcanic explosion. Mount Vesuvius had nothing on me. “Mazzle-frazzle, murken-furken, stoopid, derkin, jerkin piece of crap,” I muttered as I set about frantically yanking on the mess of strings again.

After a second lifetime of unraveling the entire DNA sequence of monofilament fishing line I hesitantly threw the line out again. I was nothing if not a glutton for self inflicted punishment. I think there’s a word for that, but it escapes me at the moment. This time I didn’t fling it out there like I was trying to cast into the next county. I was the epitome of restraint, yet it still started boiling over. Light bulb! I had an idea for the third cast. I would pop my thumb on the reel when my lure was out far enough to prevent the soul crushing tangle of disastrous disappointment. My seven year old brain was awash with supergenius enthusiasm. I had figured out this conundrum, next, I would conquer time travel. Look out Stephen Hawking, you finally have some competition. I cast the reel, I stamped my thumb on the reel, and it came to a speeding halt. *Cue screeching tires* The lure sailed majestically over the horizon, then stopped mid arch and zipped straight down like a lightning bolt. ‘Kerplunk’ went the lure approximately eight feet in front of me.

“Grrrrr!” I gritted my teeth, tensed up so hard my entire body shook, and began to feel my semi-tanned skin start to take on a slightly greenish hue. Huffing and snarling at the rod and reel, because clearly it was NOT acting properly. I tried it a few more times, each time the same result. To the untrained ear, one would hear the kerplunk of rocks being tossed into a pond each time I launched the lure from the fishing rod. If I consistently repeated those sounds while on the lake with my grandfather, I would spook the fish and ruin the trip. I could hear him now, “I might as well throw you in there with all the noise you’re making.” I just could not get the hang of this torture device. My already paranoid young brain knew my grandfather was watching through the window, laughing his prankster ass off at my struggles out here. The cow had finished the wad of cud, but still watched me with laughing eyes. “Go ahead, laugh cow. When you fall asleep tonight, I’m going You tipping.” Frustration was joined by the fire of Temper Tantrum in my mental living room. I was now breathing like I was having an asmatic fit, I gritted my teeth, cursed out the rod and reel, it had better behave this time, “Or else.” One last monumental cast. I’ve seen enough movies to know this cast would magically become the perfect cast. Once the hero reached the boiling point, the next action was absolutely flawless. I had reached that magical turning point, this was my miracle moment! *Cue slow motion throw and Bionic Man sound effect…tangtangtangtangtangtang.*

It sailed beautifully through the air, the lure sparkled like gold, my heart began to soar with the arching lure. As it begins to fall at the far end of the pool, I attempt to gauge when to stop it, but suddenly the lure speeds down at the speed of light and my slow reflexes can’t catch the reel in time. I watch in horror as the monofilament bursts out of the reel in an angry scribbled mess of tangled line. *Slow motion, deep sound, “Nooooooo.”* The cheerful smile on my face fell like the Looney Tunes Coyote sailing off a mile high cliff. The pressure cooker in my head goes off and I start yanking furiously on the tangled bird’s nest. It only gets tighter and messier, I can’t untangle the shambled disaster this time. I feel the green menace inside push his way out. The defective design on this ridiculous reel has ruined my entire day and it shall reap old testament style punishment. Without cognizant thought, except to hurt this reel like it has pained my pride, and to pay it back for the wasted time of my youth. The hulking green menace erupted from the depths of my being and took its overpowered wrath out on the fishing pole. I slam it hard and repeatedly on the concrete. Thinking of nothing except the righteous punishment I am exacting on this reel, I hope it breaks into a thousand pieces. The judging cow’s eyes pop out of its long head at this sudden eruption of anger. To prevent itself becoming a statistic, the cow stuck her tail into the air, turned and ran for dear life.

My grandpa must have been watching me struggle with the defective product. I can only imagine the surprise on his face when I went full Psycho on the fishing rod. He thought he had an innocent little grandson that would grant some cheap entertainment. He didn’t count on the little beelzebub hidden below the surface of the blue eyed, sandy blonde headed little boy. In an attempt to save the precious fishing rod, he teleported out of the house, because after the third slam on the concrete he instantly appeared at the end of the pool. “Boy!” he yelled.

The effect was instantaneous. My blood went liquid nitrogen and my entire body froze. I stared at him like a deer in headlights. I hoped he was like a T-rex. If I didn’t move a muscle, maybe he wouldn’t see me. I had never seen my mild mannered grandfather looking so frightening. His six foot tall frame was as rigid as poured concrete. His fists were clenched into dual sledgehammers, and the walnut sized jaw muscles pulsed as he gritted his teeth. The oversized glasses didn’t hide the flashing fire behind his eyes as he stared me down like a hungry tiger. Grandpa pissed would scare the fight out of Rambo. My hulking, green, anger-buddy shriveled up, peaced out, and made tracks because I was left all alone, with a scratched and mangled fishing rod held securely in my mitts.

“What the hell are you doing?” He screeched at me.

Shit! He’s not a T-Rex, he saw me and my short life was forfeit. I had no recourse, no excuse. I was caught red-handed. To make matters worse, I could tell by the veins popping out around his neck he was clearly biased to take the rod and reel’s side of the story. He would never listen to me and my complaints at how this inanimate object had ridiculed me, laughed at me, and completely owned me.

Fearing for my young life, I took off like an amped up gazelle. I ran out of the pool area like the Flash, leaving a flaming streak of burned shoe rubber. I didn’t know where I was going but I knew I had to get out of the country. The United States was no longer safe, I was about to be a wanted man and on the run. Maybe I could run to New Zealand, I should be safe there among the kiwis.

With my destination plotted, I was gone like the Roadrunner. Beep Beep! The wind whistled through my ears and my hair whipped behind me. There's no way this ancient, creaky-boned, old man was going to catch this youthful Usain Bolt. Only I could not have imagined Grandpa Bolt was an even faster version. Again, I swear he had a secret identity. He was the inspiration for X-Men’s Nightcrawler, because I hadn’t even made it around the corner of the house before I was yoinked up off the ground by the scruff of my neck. I saw the ground shrink away from me as my feet still pedaled the air. He didn’t say a word as he punished me exactly as I had done to the rod and reel. I don’t know what he had in his hand, or where it came from but it sure felt like he had the fishing rod, a riding crop, or maybe he ‘magicked’ a broken broom handle as he whooped me. It was at this moment that I wondered if along with all his other accolades, he was some international pinata breaking champion, because I was dangling from one clenched fist and while the other was trying to break candy out of my ass.

As I look back now, I understand my grandpa’s actions. I’d do the same if anyone messed with my Harley Quinn collection. Or my books, or my video games, or… Well, you get the idea.

We still went fishing a few times later, but my grandpa never handed me an expensive rod and reel again, nor did he use me as a prop for his pranks. I think he learned a lesson as much as I did that day. And I found out that even though he was old as Methuselah, Grandpa could move like a hungry cheetah, and I never forgot that.

Disclaimer: I don’t condone violence at all. I have taken literary liberties with this story because it is meant to be lighthearted and humorous. This story is based in truth, I actually did all the above, and I was punished by my grandfather, I know I deserved it. I should not have lost my temper over something so trivial. But we all grow and learn by making dumb mistakes. I have nothing but the utmost respect for him, and loved him dearly all his life. I look upon our few adventures together as some of the happiest times in my life. Rest in peace Papaw.

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