Welcome to my world

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Our kids are our legacy to the future.  There are the great days as you watch them growing and some not so great days.  The real trick, especially when visiting my world, is to be prepared.

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I remember that summer well.  I had been inspired by one of the TV fishing shows to purchase a new rod.  This pole was the be all, end all, pro form, composite; made to catch fish!  I used that pole on our opening weekend whenever we trolled.  I caught no fish.  While jigging or bottom bouncing at anchor my little ultra light produced lots of pickeral.  With the new rod and it’s much endorsed powers I caught nothing.  I had my share, maybe more than my share, of strikes.  I couldn’t get a fish into the boat.<o:p></o:p>

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After opening weekend we spent three weekends pickeral fishing with the family.  We ate fish.  My boys caught fish.  My dear wife caught fish.  I couldn’t feed anyone on the strikes I had.  It was turning ugly around our camp.  I was being referred to as the net man.  On shore I was the fish cleaner and cook.  In the boat I was captain and pilot.  As a fisherman I was a bust.  With the boys and the dog along we did very little anchored fishing just because of the noise factor of Ace jumping down from the deck into the boat, and the restless bang boom style of the boys.  When we anchored the fish moved from the neighbourhood.<o:p></o:p>

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It was now the first week of July and the camper was set up at our favourite pickeral spot.  The fist four days of holidays had been great.  The weather was pickeral perfect.  Partly cloudy, low 20s and with a chop to the water.  Even the bugs were co-operating because of the breeze.  We had pickeral to eat anytime we wanted.  There were always three or four in the live trap.  Not one of them was mine.  I had yet to catch a single fish with this nationally advertised magic wand.  I was getting depressed doing what I liked doing best!<o:p></o:p>

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“Tomorrow you should save yourself the trouble of baiting up Dad.�?SPAN>  Our eldest informed me around the campfire that night.  “Just drive the boat, enjoy the scenery and net our fish.  That should be enough to keep you busy.�?lt;o:p></o:p>

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I growled some reply which, in all likelihood, should not be interpreted.  I didn’t get into any better humour as my wife added her thoughts.<o:p></o:p>

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“You did a great job on the beer batter fish tonight dear.  You shouldn’t let this fish thing get you down.  You’ll probably start catching fish in the morning.�?lt;o:p></o:p>

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“Don’t worry Dad we won’t let you go hungry.�?SPAN>  Even the youngest had some thing to say.  The tiny hand covering his ear-to-ear smile did nothing to my deepening gloom.  <o:p></o:p>

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Ace who I had thought would be above this sort of thing had taken to lying beside me and occasionally licking my hand in what I was sure was sympathy.  Then he would put head onto paws, and with mouth partly open and tongue lolling out, laugh at me.  I was dreaming about pickeral in July instead of catching them!<o:p></o:p>

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The next morning had been a replay of all the other mornings so far this year.  We had pickeral, non were mine.  Coming to shore I spotted the bunny first.  Mentally I urged it to leave before the boys or Ace saw him.  The boat was almost to shore when Ace launched himself from the boat.  A split second later a scream of RAAABBIITTT split the air.  Four young feet scrambled to take part in the chase already developing on shore.  A small muddy sneaker descended in slow motion to the bench seat in preparation to jumping from the boat.  My new rod snapped six inches from the tip just before the boy flew from the boat.<o:p></o:p>

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With the chase on in full flight I sat at the back of the boat looking at the tip of my XXX$ dollar rod, dangling by the eye, hanging on the fishing line.  I hadn’t caught a fish and here it was broken, all those dollars flushed down the toilet.  What a waste.<o:p></o:p>

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Ten minutes later, rod in hand I came to the cooking table in front of our camper.   I laid the rod and reel on the table and started making breakfast.  The rabbit would not provide food and soon the boys would be back, starving as only boys can be.  The home fries, bacon and eggs were a delight even in my deflated mood.  The rod still lay on the cook table.  Several hours later silence descended on our campsite as the broken rod was noticed.  I held my peace.<o:p></o:p>

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It was decided to have a campfire super that night so some wood had to be cut and stacked and the five-gallon fire pails had to be filled.  While having a cold beer after the labour I remembered my ‘makin’s box�?  It was a double-sided multi-compartmented box, which held, lure components on one side and spare made lures and spinners on the other side.  There were also a few rod components in there, different size guides, several sizes of eyes and some different glues; maybe just what I needed for this occasion.<o:p></o:p>

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With knife and emery cloth the broken rod was cleaned and squared.  Of the four eyes I had one was a fraction tight.  It didn’t match the beautiful ceramic guides of the miracle stick, but with careful emery cloth work a fit was achieved.  Some supper dupper glue, guarantied to stick to anything except butter, I pushed the eye onto the rod.  A quick sighting through the guides confirmed a perfect true line path.  Ace, resting while the boys had a snooze, gave his one eyed approval to the whole proceedings.  With twine from a non-matching spool of guide wrap and the repair job was almost done.  A very light coating of clear finger nail polish completed the rebirth of the rod.<o:p></o:p>

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In the morning the fish came.  The first strike and a beautiful two-pound pickeral was on the stringer five minutes later.  That was only the first of many.  That was only the first day of many years I used that ugly duckling of a mismatched rod.  It became my favourite trolling rod just as intended.  During it’s years of service there were two more life threatening injuries and both times parts from the ‘makin’s box�?would rejuvenate the aging, colour fading battle stick.  It was a sad day when I retired the old pole, in a blaze of campfire glory; several years after the boys had left home to make their own lives.<o:p></o:p>

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