A Wonder of Modern Mother Technology

One day many years ago , I was crossing the creek near our home by way of an old log. It had been placed there by a storm long before my time. The kids in my neighborhood had been crossing it for as long as it had been there. So its branches had been broken off, leaving a smooth bark less surface.

On this particular day, I crossed with hands outstretched to help keep my balance. Then I noticed something dart from under the nature made bridge. It startled me and I almost lost my balance. Frozen in my steps, I scanned the water trying to catch sight of what had caused my panic. Then I saw it! What I now know to be a common creek chub was swimming about six feet from the old weathered log. He stayed there motionless for a few moments, only to swim back under me as if shot from a cannon.

I surrendered to gravity as my legs slowly collapsed from under me. I fell forward onto my hands, leaving me flat on my chest. As I lay there waiting to see if the fish would return, I was carried from the world around me to the world that lay under the old gray log. I’m not sure how long I idled there before the chub swam out from under me and then back under again. I felt comfortable as I slumbered there, fascinated in a way only a five year old boy would be. I don’t know how long I had been laying there, before the log started to motivate me to move. When it did, I knew just where I was going.

I rose slowly, being careful not to fall into the creek in the process, and then crossed to the other shore. All the time looking into the water, hoping to catch another glimpse of the fish. You know, ever since that day I have looked into the water not so much as at the water.

As soon as my feet hit the ground, I was at a full run. I crossed through the wild onion fields and crab apple trees that grow in the low wet land. Then up the ridge, across my neighbors front yard, and into my backyard. As I rounded the front of the house and reached the front door, I was just about out of breath. Opening the old rusty screen door, I again surrendered to gravity. “Dad!”, I called out with urgency, and a little added flavor from five year old whine. Not hearing an answer, I shouted, “Dad! Where are you?” Then to my great disappointment, my mother answered my plea from the other room. “Your father was called into work and left about ten minutes ago. A sigh of agony came from the entrance way, where I sat in disbelief. “OH! NO! MOM! I need his help with something!”

My mother, aware that something was wrong, replied to my sobbing with an offer to help. “Are you sure it isn’t something I can help you with?”

“No! Mom! I needed Dad’s help! Not a girl’s!”

I didn’t like throwing it in her face, but let’s face it, my mom is a girl. How was a girl supposed to make me a fishing pole, to catch the fish, under the log, down in the creek.

Not being one to be discouraged, my mother, the girl, asked again. “Are you sure I can’t help? You might be surprised at what us girls can do.”

Not being the smartest lad, and totally unaware of it at the time. I replied, “ No Mom. I needed Dad to make me a fishing pole and girls can’t do that.”

My mother didn’t answer for what seemed like a long time. But then to my surprise, she said, “ You know what? I know how to make a fishing pole, and I’m a girl. But you probably don’t want to fish with a fishing pole a girl made, do you?”

Truth be told, I was still a bit unsure of my mother’s ability to manufacture the needed device. Still, I asked, “Can you make me one right now Mommy?” In a shameless, childish about face reply.

“Yes, I can. Why don’t you follow me to my bedroom and we’ll get started on it right away.” Her words were infused with all the wisdom, empathy, confidence and love that all mother's words contain.

Gravity having nothing on me now, I rose from my squatted slouch position to my feet without using my hands. I ran through the living room and into the kitchen, where I finally saw my mother finishing the dishes. “Mom, I thought you were going to make me a fishing pole in your bedroom?”

"We are, just let me finish up this last pot.”

“Ooookay! Mom!”

Soon enough we were off to Mom’s bedroom. The very room that I had been banished from not two years earlier. As we crossed into the bedroom, I smelled that Mom and Dad’s bedroom smell. I can smell it to this day, whenever I think of my mother and my father. Some things last forever, I love remembering that smell.

As soon as we walked in, my mother started to gather the items needed to whip up my first fishing rig. First, she took the cardboard tube that is found connecting the wire ends on a coat hanger. Throwing that on the bed, she threw the wire end into the trash can next to her dresser. Then opening her sewing box, she took out an empty thread spool and placed it next to the cardboard tube. Then she took out one spool of thread at a time and tested its strength, until she found what she thought to be the strongest one. It was a black weave type thread, as I recall. She placed the spool next to the cardboard tube, and the empty spool she had retrieved earlier. Next, she took out a pair of scissors and a small needle. She placed them next to the rest of the items on her bed.

Then she cut a piece of thread about four feet long and tied one end to the empty spool and the other to the needle. She picked up the cardboard tube. She held the tube up on one end to feed the needle down and through the tube. It took awhile, but Mom prevailed, dropping the needle through, and holding it with a look of satisfaction, on her beautiful young face.

She then placed the needle ninety degrees to the scissors and pushed the point between the two blades. Taking the scissors in both hands she pressed the needle against the carpeted floor bending it into a hook shape. “There,” she said, “one Mom made fishing pole. See how it works? You just pull the spool when you catch a fish.” Holding the tube in one hand and the spool in the other, she pulled the thread through the tube and let it out with little effort. She then gave my little head a pat and said, “Here you go.” Handing me my very first fishing pole. I held this wonder of modern mother technology in my hands and looked at it with amazement. Even as a small child I was aware of the cleverness and imagination she was able to summon for its creation. Over the years, my mother was able to surprise me with cleverness and imagination for many of my childhood problems, as well as with adult challenges.

I would like to tell you I still have the rig, but like so many childhood items, it exists only in my memory. And now in this story.

Suddenly, I remembered why I wanted a fishing pole in the first place and sprang to my feet, almost falling into the closet in the process. “Mom, I have to go catch the fish down in the creek! Thanks Mom!” With that, out the door I ran hearing my mother calling to be careful and don't fall in the water.

I think in that part of the world, at that time, you could let your five year old go fishing in a shallow creek that was out of your sight. That being said, it was hard to get away with anything. Someone was always watching from one of the houses that overlooked the creek. In that neighborhood, everyone knew everyone. I can’t tell you how many times I arrived home only to find out that a phone call had reached home first. Someone had informed my parents of some mischief that I had gotten into that day. A lot of kids, a lot of moms, in what seemed like the safest place on Earth.

As I ran out the door, I knew just what had to be done next. First, a stop by the old shed in the backyard. Next to it was a pile of lumber that hid a lot of worms under its planks of wood, and a pile of flagstone. Just a short stop there and I was off to the creek to catch my first fish. I only hoped that he was still there.

As I approached the log across the creek, I walked lightly, so I wouldn't scare the fish. A ritual I still practice today. Looking into the water, I noticed right away that my nemesis was still darting back and forth from under the log.

I climbed back to the top of my perch above the fish and pulled the first worm from my pocket. Not having a washer and dryer in those days, my mother was forced to use the laundry mat in the town next to ours. Many times my mother horrified the other mothers there just by pulling out the contents of my pockets and putting it in the trash can next to the washers. She was numb to the filthy habits of three boys in those days. It would be four boys and two girls before she and my father were done, not a lot for those days.

I pierced the worm with my makeshift hook and dropped it slowly in the water. After only a couple of seconds the fish swam out just as slowly and quickly grabbed the worm right off the hook, and returned to his lair under the log.

Reaching into my pocket, I produced another worm. This time I pierced the worms three times to insure that it could not be so easily removed. Again, I slowly dropped the baited hook into the water. The bait disappeared in a flash as the fish darted to it and then back to his home.

This is going to be harder than I thought, thinking to myself. I baited yet another hook and dropped it into the water. This time I was ready like a compressed spring. Ready to pull at the first hint that the fish was going to take the bait. Waiting there, I was locked in battle with a two ounce adversary. Hoping for victory, knowing that the fish could just as easily win. Still, I was determined to catch the small minnow. This time the small fry approached slowly, somehow knowing that this time he was going to have to be even more careful stealing his lunch. He moved cautiously and was entirely focused on my baited hook when a small mouthed bass lunged at the minnow, breaking him nearly in half. The water was filled with light reflecting glitter from the minnows scales. Just as fast, he turned around and ate the chub. Leaving as quickly as he arrived into the weeded shoreline where he had first appeared.

Amazed, and somewhat horrified, I sat frozen and dumbfounded by what I had just seen. Earlier I had been worried if the fish would still be there when I returned. Not ever thinking that another fish would eat him. What the heck was I supposed to do now? I have a brand new fishing rig and a pocket full of worms, and some big fish just ate the fish that I was trying to catch. This really isn’t going to be easy, I thought.

Still, I was determined. It didn’t take long for me to realize that the fish must have some relatives living nearby. I began to scan the water for another minnow. Looking deeper into the water, near the part of the old gray log that dipped into the water, I saw something move. I wasn’t sure how I would know if the fish took the bait, if I couldn’t see for sure if a fish was eating the bait. Still I dropped the baited hook deep into the creek's murky water.

Suddenly, I saw the line move sharply to the left at the same time I felt the fish pull. I pulled on the spool, but the fish pulled back just as hard. So I pulled harder until the fish was in sight. It was another smallmouth bass, but smaller than the one that had just eaten the creek chub. I pulled once more and the fish was now hanging over the water just in front of me. Reaching out with the spool in hand, the fish moved up. I had to transfer the spool to the same hand as the cardboard tube, being careful not to leave the line too long for me to reach the fish. Then, holding the spool and tube in one hand, I reached out with my other hand to clutch my prize. A ten inch smallmouth bass. And that was it. With some people, like myself, when that first fish catches you, you're hooked for life.

You know, over the years, I have caught hundreds, maybe even thousands of fish. Some of respectable size. I have fished some of the best fishing holes in the country, but nothing has been able to match the thrill and sense of accomplishment than that of a ten inch smallmouth bass I caught over fifty years ago. From a log over a creek, with a fishing pole my mother made for me.

I had discovered a world of wonder, under the sparkling vail of the water's surface. I have spent a lifetime trying to understand it better. Where I spent my time fishing off the shores of our country’s lakes, and streams, where God does some of his best work, and it has been an absolute labor of love.

Thanks Mom.