BIG MAMA GAVE ME A FISHING POLE

If you try, you probably can recall many fun memories others might take delight in hearing. Here's one of mine. This was many years ago when I was a child. I can still remember the pleasant smell of the old house--my grandmother's place. It reminds me of the many awesome meals she cooked for us there and the joy we had each time we visited her. Her name was Pearl but we called her Big Mama, and Big Mama loved to fish.

Her house sat right close to a river. A tall hill separated her house from the river and as a child, my brothers and sisters and I couldn't wait to go to Big Mama's house to go fishing with her. Climbing that hill was fun. It was mostly made of dirt, with patches of grass here and there. To climb it I had to dig the toes of my sandals into the moist soil to make the climb. Big Mama always had a fishing pole ready for each of us. I learned a lot about fishing from her. Near the muddy river bank, she taught us how to find the soft sticky earthworms we'd fish with. They were long and brown and could move fast in the soft dirt. Sometimes with a stick, we'd dig them out of the ground, squirming and wiggling. They always try to get away. So you have to be quick, to hold on to them--but not too tightly. You could crush them in your hands. Their bodies were not as soft and fragile as a butterfly's but rather moist like Jell-O. Then Big Mama taught us how to drive a hook through their sticky bodies, a sort of pasty goo oozing out on our hands. Then we'd fastening the worm to the line on the fishing pole by a hook.

After that she taught us the best way to cast the line out into the water. It seems there's quite an art to it. You just can't toss it out there like you're throwing a softball. It won't go too far like that. You have to pace your throw and do it with a swing.

On that day, the worms were nasty to hold and the hooks were sharp that we drove into them. Wiggling around in my hands, I ended up dropping most of them before I learned how to grip them. But Big Mama was patient. She'd show us how to press the hook through the worms' shiny thick skin, how to throw the line as far across the water's surface with a slight thrust of your wrist; and she taught us how to wait. This was always the hardest part, the waiting--and the most important part about fishing, too. Unlike what most people think, fish aren't always waiting near the surface; and to be a good fishermen, the waiting part was a skill I personally had to acquire. But to be a good fisherman, patience is a must. A lot of good fishing has been ruined by people who don't know how to slow down to wait for the fish to bite. Fish aren't like people, they have their own agendas and they move according to their own timetables. "So, if you wanna catch 'em," I can still hear Big Mama say, "you'd gotta learn to wait."

Waiting means time, and sooner or later the fish are bounded to bite. It's the wiggling of the worm on the line in the water that attracts them. Still yet, the bright sunlight on the surface of the river often made me sleepy. I rubbed my eyes and propped up my pole against a basket and--waited. It was going to be a long day, I just knew it. Sometimes, we'd sit out on the bank all day and catch only five or six. Then, there were days when every time someone tossed in a line, they'd get a bite (by saying "they", I meant--"them"--Big Mama and my three siblings. I was still new at this. Up until that time, I'd never caught anything. Not a crab. Not a guppy. No catfish. Nothing)... And we didn't do much while we waited. To pass the time, Big Mama would tell us stories about her childhood. She would tell us how her father taught her how to fish or the many times she let the best catch of the day get away. The days would drag on somewhat in a lazy mood, sometimes for hours.

On that day, while we were listening to one of her stories, suddenly the line to my fishing pole sank deep in the water. I could feel a jerking from the other end.

I grabbed the pole and stood up.

I knew a fish somewhere way below the surface was nibbling on the worm, eating it.

"Hold on," Big Mama encouraged, jumping to her feet, throwing down her fishing pole. "Don't--Don't rush it!...."

My pole jerked more and I got a sudden tug, a big one. I froze holding the fishing pole for dear life. Somewhere under the water, the fish was going crazy. It almost jerked the pole right out of my hands. But Big Mama was right there at my side, guiding me, instructing me, telling me to gently wait. I was suddenly breathless and beginning to tremble. Without thinking about it, I knew blood was rushing to my brain because I felt faint. My five-year-old hands were trembling as I held the fishing pole for dear life. Still yet my grip on the pole tightened as it began slipping from my fingers.

There is a roaring in my ears. Sweat was in my eyes. My feet feel weighted down with heavy steel. But over all the commotion inside me I heard Big Mama yelling, "PULL!"

With all my effort, I swung the fishing pole up and backwards with all my might. The line felt suddenly heavy as if stuck on something far away. It was so tight I just knew it was about to break. From my limited knowledge as a fisher-boy, I just knew somewhere at the end of that line was the biggest fish anyone has ever seen. It was a whale, I knew it! Probably the greatest fish anyone has ever caught before. And there I was, new at this, but facing the biggest battle of my young life. I had a fish at the other end that wasn't going to let me pull it from the water without a fight. So the fight was on.

Digging my sandals in the muddy soil, I yanked and pulled and tugged; felt more lightheaded, heaved and pulled more. It was my job to set thing right by reeling this fish in, so I wasn't going to let it go free.

Holding the line steady, yanking at it more, I even ran a distance down the shore. And just when I was about to give up, to let go--to give in, thinking all was lost, I'd lost the fish, I'd lost my fishing pole, I'd lost the respect of my grandmother--I glanced down at my feet and saw the craziest thing-- the fish was lying on the ground next to me in the wet grass. Lying on its side, the fish was flopping like a child throwing a temper tantrum.

Big Mama came running to the fish, picking it up, and she pulled the hook from its mouth. "Great job!" she said to me, holding up the angry creature. It was wiggling all over the place. It was a short, fat, round skinny thing, glittery in most places with sparkles of gold, but short in the face like a pouting kid. It was my first catch ever. I was still trembling and almost about to cry.

My brothers and sisters came running, too. They looked at the fish and they looked at me, patting me on the back, my big brother Chuck, tapping me on the head. It wasn't a bad catch for a 5-year-old they were saying, but I was shaking uncontrollably as though I were cold and could feel I'd wet my pants. I wanted to go someplace to sit down but my legs felt too much like jelly to move.

With a big smile, Big Mama tossed the fish into a basket, picking up my fishing pole and the bucket of worms, and she handed them to me.

"Alright," she said, smiling brightly, a twinkle of pride in her eyes, "Now, let's do it again."