|Drew this in 2004, a symbolic rendition of a Sunfish, which goes with my column:|
As corruption and contention fill or are revealed to have filled church, state, and entertainment with global degeneracy, let us cherish what is local, familial, and wholesome. Like fishing! Let’s tell fish stories.
I’m not a very serious fisherwoman but I go at least a couple times every year. Crappies and sunfish are the target, destined for frying. Once I was fishing off my grandparents’ dock on Cedar. I swung my rod back for a cast and let fly. The line felt heavier and thus flew further than normal. With a splash in the water out in front of the dock appeared a blaze orange baseball cap. I looked back; I had hooked the hat right off my grandfather’s head! Everyone was laughing as I reeled it in and he nonchalantly plopped it back on, still wet.
I’ve only been ice fishing twice; the latter time we caught nothing, the other time was back in the ’90s, in my grandfather’s home-built fish house plated with dented sheet metal and heated by wood stove. That time we encouraged the fish by – but I’ll get to that. Have you ever talked about ice fishing with people who have never been in the north? Amazingly, some of them don’t believe such an activity could exist.Read the rest here.