A Key Ingredient

The actual name of the lake is Lake Cleburne, but we always called it Aunt Sally's Lake. She was my aunt who owned a cabin on this private lake that had no more than ten cabins on it's shores. Her cabin was quaint and rested about half way around the lake, just off the main dirt road. There was a hill that led down to the covered docks that housed two Jon Boats. The wasps nests were plenty and snakes were sometimes sunbathing on the homemade, concrete and stone steps. Spider webs were ritually and methodically jabbed at with a broom to clear the passage to the dock and the boats.

At thirty-three acres, the lake was just the right size for a large amount of bass and bream. It would take over an hour for our trolling motor to putter us completely around. I don't remember ever making a round without at least a couple of fish on the stringer. It was where my father caught his nine-pounder and where my mom took a direct hit from a chugger right at dusk. We thought the doctor was going to have to cut it out for a while, but I think the ER doctors finally pushed it through and clipped it off. My mom said she could feel the meat inside her leg being pulled around. This made me want to fish with weedless worms. I can still see the towel she had in her lap being cut away and my dad undoing the tiny screws so the weight of the lure wouldn't hurt her on the way to the doctor. I don't remember her crying, not much anyway.

Not nearly as much as when I put the baby frog down the back of her shirt. That was a dropped bag of groceries and a spanking. Still funny though.

At the bottom of the hill, near the waters edge, there was a board fixed between two trees. A very important board. This was a line of communication between generations, although I didn't see it at the time. This was the board where I began learning how to clean a fish. Maybe not the most important thing in life for some, but to a young fisherman, it was a rite of passage. It was handed down to me, slowly and with care, so I didn't go missing any digits.

We were not about catch and release. We were about fried bass and bream with homefry potatoes and grits. The act of enjoying this delicacy was all because of a very special skill that my dad wielded. To further explain the importance of the catch, this wasn't something you can get in the grocery store. They serve catfish by the millions every year, but not bass and bream. Why? Because they're not as stupid as catfish. You have to outsmart them. This may sound funny to a non-fisherman, but let me take them fishing a few times and we'll see how they fare against this cold-blooded and illusive cuisine. The temperature of the water, the color of the lure for daytime or nighttime, and how you work the bait while fishing, all very important. Knowledge that would be passed on to me, secrets of the tribe that only the special, chosen ones are allowed to learn.

Then there's the knot that holds the lure on the line. The two-twist and double-back-through-again knots (those are my terms) are the only sure way to not find your lure floating in the lake or stolen by a hungry fish. Not the easiest to learn, though it seems simple now. It took years of half paying attention to catch on. Someone was always there if I chose not to remember. The importance also sunk in when I had to buy my own lure for the first time. I had no idea the small fortune I was carelessly slinging around the lake.

It wasn't until later years, while talking with my dad, that I realized something. He had learned from trial and error. He'd had many a slice and bloody jab as well as a good bit of wasted meat. This is what happens when you're self taught. Then it hit me. He didn't have to show me. He never had to take me along at such a young age and listen to me whine about having to poop halfway around the lake. He didn't have to constantly paddle to the bank and untangle me from the tree branches I had thrown into while learning to cast. Constantly ducking to not get hooked from a careless eight year old who has no concept of "things behind me". Lost lures, tangled lines, backlash when I started casting open face, the list goes on.

The only time my dad really yelled at me on the lake was when I had a decent sized bass on the line one evening. It was about two pounds. As I reeled it slowly in, a much, much larger bass knocked it out of the water. I started reeling with all my might, horsing the fish in as quickly as possible with my dad yelling at me to give the line some slack. But there was no way this fish was getting mine. And it didn't.

We measured our success afterwards by holding our thumbs up and comparing. The small ridges of the bass's mouth tears slightly into the skin with each catch. If our thumbs were properly scuffed, we had a good dinner that night. If the fingerprint was no longer visible, you had enough for a week and bragging rights.

When my aunt Sally passed and other family members took over the cabin, I lost my boyhood paradise. But I still remember how to clean a fish. And as a result, my kids have never eaten a fish that hasn't been carefully filleted and picked free of bones. I can pass this knowledge to my son and daughter so they don't slice off a finger while providing a safe meal for their family. A meal that, even before it's prepared, has already had one key ingredient added.