Set The Hook

                   

Anyone who thinks fishing is easy has never fished with my husband, Chad.

When I grew up my dad took weekend trips to Florida to fish with friends and bring home coolers full of fish for my mother to clean and cook for a fish fry. Chad grew up fishing with his father. He told me stories of turning off a farmer's fence so they could cut across the field to get to the "good" fishing spot. Don't worry, they always turned it back on. His father used to say "I'll pay one of you boys $10 to pee on it." Neither Chad nor his brother, Nate, ever took the chance.

Fishing was all around me in pop culture. I watched Laura Ingalls with a pole and sourdough balls for bait on 'Little House on the Prairie'. My sisters told me how they were too scared to swim at the Milford, Connecticut beach for months because the fake blood used to film the bite scenes in 'Jaws' washed up on the shores when they filmed it in New York. And who could forget Norman and Ethel from 'On Golden Pond'?

Fishing was something I had always wanted to do but never had the opportunity to try.

I didn't pick up a fishing pole until I was around 20. My first catch was a three inch sunfish that I caught up in weeds. I couldn't even reel it in. I may have fished three times since then.

About three years ago, Chad said he wanted to find a canoe and start fishing again. We found one on Facebook Marketplace and we made plans for the weekend to go to Sibley Pond in Canaan. That morning, with no knowledge of how to fish, I wound up catching four bass. I thought to myself "This is so easy. You cast a line, reel it in and, lots of times, there will be a fish on the other end."

Little did I know how wrong that was.

That fall, I would find Chad in the living room watching YouTube channels of people fishing, giving tips and reeling in large bass. There were videos with reviews on poles, lures, worms and frogs. I admit it. I laughed. What can you REALLY learn from people who don't even live near you giving you tips on fishing with products that are probably too expensive to buy?

But over the winter...learn he did.

The next year we upgraded from a canoe to a Sundolphin boat. Ok, it's really a plastic dinghy that we found, again, on Marketplace. It's only eight feet long. There's not a lot of room but it does the trick. We have the system down on where the tackle box goes, the oar, life jackets and his four poles and my two. Chad added a trolling motor, some batteries and an anchor….we are able to fish all day. And everyday, Chad would reel in fish after fish while I would catch just a few.

I was getting better though. He showed me how to hold a bass when I caught one so I wouldn't hurt it. He showed me how to take the hook out (you have to push down with a jerk and it comes out) without using a pair of pliers. He showed me how to tie a hook on a line with a uni knot (you have to spit on it because if you tie it dry it will break). He showed me how to Texas rig my worms and crawfish.

He was showing me so many things that it was hard to remember them all. 

1. Spinner baits can navigate through most anything without getting hung up. 

2. Frogs are top water and you have to jerk them along to make them look like they're hopping. 

3. Crank baits have clear plastic lips on the front of the lure that make them sink. You can't use these in areas with vegetation. 

4. A lipless crank bait has two sets of treble hooks that can seriously injure you. Don't use these in vegetation either. 

5. A weedless jig, his least favorite lure, can be used just about anywhere. 

Those are just some of the things I do remember. It's the ones I forget about in the heat of the moment that frustrate me the most. For example:

1. When you catch your lure on a lily pad you have to push down on it to set it free. I, on the other hand, keep reeling and pulling which only makes it worse.

2. When you have a bass that catches you in the weeds, don't keep pulling because it will just break the line. You not only lose your lure...but you lose the lunker.

3. Wear polarized sunglasses. I always forget to grab them. By the time I remember, we are half way across the pond.

4. Look behind you before you cast. The other person's pole, line or the actual person could be there. If Chad had a nickle for every time I have almost hooked him, he could have bought a brand new bass boat…three times over.

And the biggest thing I forget:

He's been fishing for 40 years. I've been fishing for just under three. 

This year I decided to keep a rolling total of the number of bass we have both caught. A little competition makes things exciting. The tally at the present time is Chad 99, me 50.

That's right. He has (almost) twice the amount of bass as I do.

And it's frustrating!!!

Take today for instance. We headed out early and I was the first one with my line in the water. I had one on and totally didn't set the hook. What happens when you don't set the hook?

You lose your fish.

Approximately one minute after my screw up, Chad lands the first bass of the day. What runs through my mind? The same thing he tells me EVERY time we fish:

"Feel the tug. Let 'em take it. Set the hook."

He tells me this EVERY time. Not to belittle me but to remind me. Again.

After I lose my first fish, I take a deep breath and think od that for the rest of the day.

We came into a batch of lily pads and he put on a frog from a new package that came into the mail the day before. He casted and there was a huge fish that came out of the water right next to his lure. He reeled his line back in quickly and said "Watch this!" 

Sure enough he casted in the same spot. His arms were extended as he slowly reeled and he hesitated for a second. We could see the wake behind the frog. "Here she is!" And he yanked his line. That fish was hooked and he reeled her into the boat. 3.5 pounds of pre-spawn bass was scooped up by me in the net. 

And he did it over and over again.

It was like watching a how-to video in "reel" like. 

After seeing his success, I tried to emulate everything he did. 

And couldn't.

I wasn't frustrated…I was down right mad.

What was he doing that I wasn't? We had the same equipment, the same lure, the same spots. I couldn't understand.

I couldn't set the hook.

I'll admit it. I pouted.

A lot.

I caught a final one by trolling back to the truck. That doesn't count. In fact, our totals from today didn't make it on the board. He had probably 25-30 fish.

I had 4.

I was so upset with myself for catching only four fish in four hours.

Fishing takes knowledge. Fishing take finesse. Fishing takes patience. 

Fishing is hard.

I know I post pictures on Facebook and Instagram of the fish we catch. It IS fun (when you're landing them). What you DON'T see is the hard work that is put into catching them. 

• I have a new respect for fishing men and women. It's not just rippin' lips. Like any profession, it takes time, equipment, knowledge, practice and skill to become, not just good, but great. When someone with as much fishing knowledge as Chad has says something to you, you need to listen. They're not saying it to be a know-it-all. They do it to help you become a better fisher. So, we watch the YouTube videos together, pick up better equipment and try and get out in the dinghy more often. 

"Feel the tug. Let 'em take it. Set the hook."

Remember that.

Tight lines everyone. 

The Suit

Hanging on the wall of my parents home is a picture of my father, Raymond. My guess of his age in the photo is eighteen to nineteen years old. In our first home in Milford, Connecticut, the picture hung above a photograph of my parents dancing at a wedding. When we moved to Maine, it was placed in the same arrangement...just a different wall. The same as when my parents moved to Florida for a year then came back to Fairfield, Maine. Their last home is their current home. They’re number thirteen on a dead end street across from a cemetery. Some might find that a little creepy. I think it’s pretty funny, myself.

On Tuesday, my mother had a doctor’s appointment so I volunteered to stay with my father while my sister took mom to see her physician. It was routine stuff. It wouldn’t take long, they said. The roads had been cleared of the snow that had fallen overnight. Dad was always worried about all of us when the weather wasn’t sunny and 75. Come to think of it, he worries about us when it’s that nice out, too.

Dad and I made small talk about the stimulus package the government was looking to pass, the weather for the weekend and how my son, Anderson, was doing in school. I sat in my mom's chair and looked up at the wall of photographs. The one of my father was hanging below a sketch drawing of the church they were married in. He had mentioned to me about six months before that he wanted me to find a tie just like the one in the photo so he could give it to Anderson to wear to church. I looked all over. I scoured the internet, called department stores in Connecticut, to no avail. 

I asked my father “Dad, where did you get that tie?”

And the story began.

“I bought that tie. I bought the suit, too, with my own money.”

He went to tell me exactly how.

My father was thirteen years old in 1949. The family was very poor. There were five sons at that time before the two little sisters came along. The house on Madison Avenue in Bridgeport they grew up in is now a parking lot next to an ice cream shop. His father was a box nailer at the Bridgeport Brass Company. That company, years before my father and his father were born, is credited for spinning the copper wire that made the first long distance telephone line from New York City to Boston possible. His mother, with five boys, worked hard at being a mom. From the stories they have told me...she had her hands full.

On a late winter day his mother, Grace, brought home new clothes. They had saved enough to buy each of the rambunctious boys pants and shirts. They were growing like weeds and hand me downs only lasted so long. She presented my father, who was tall and very lean, a pair of knickers. In the 1940s, it was common for teenage boys to wear “short pants” or knickers. They came just below the knee and sometimes they fastened with a buckle. My father took one look and asked her to return them because he was NOT going to wear them. She wasn’t very happy about the response. They had spent their hard earned money on new clothes for their eldest son only to have them refused by him. His excuse? He wanted to wear pants. Long pants. 

She told him “If you want pants, buy them yourself.” Grace took him and the pants back to the store she had already come from and told the manager her son didn’t want them. The manager asked him “What do you want?” My father perused the clothing and his eyes landed on a suit.

The Suit.

“I want this.” His mother knew she couldn’t afford it and, once again, told him he would have to buy it himself. Raymond walked right up to the suit and looked at the manager and asked him “Will you please hold this suit for me? It may take me awhile to get the money but I will be back for it.” He picked up a tie and asked him to hold it as well. They left the store with no pants and no suit. However, he did leave with a determination and an idea.

Before it became cheaper to buy at grocery stores, milk was delivered in glass containers by the milkman. A man in a white suit and cap would travel by truck with hundreds of bottles of milk to deliver around the city. He would arrive in the early hours of the morning, go to the stoop of a home and pick up the empty containers. He would then leave fresh full bottles in their place. With five growing boys, the family went through a lot of milk. 

Raymond, being the go-getter he was, woke up early the next morning and greeted the milkman. He asked him if he could work for him to earn a few dollars a week. The milkman thought a moment and told him “Well, I would finish earlier every day. Why not?” So they made plans for the next morning for Ray to start delivering milk.

After a month it had turned to Spring and the earning was slow. It was getting closer to Easter and Ray wanted to be able to wear the suit to church on Easter Sunday. The grass had sprouted up so he took the family lawnmower and went around to the houses in their neighborhood and sometimes beyond. On the weekends he went door to door asking to mow lawns. The money started adding up but it still wasn’t enough. He didn’t think he would be able to purchase the suit in time. What could he do?

Go to his favorite uncle, of course.

Howard Holt was born Halvor Fostvet in Eydehamn, Norway. He came through Ellis Island on the ship Stravangerfjord in 1923. A master craftsman who built cabinets, tables, chairs, and even boats, Uncle Howie, as he was lovingly referred to, was a kind man. He and his wife, Dorothy, doted on children. They couldn’t have any of their own so they spoiled all of their nieces and nephews. I can say I was lucky enough to be spoiled by them as well. He was my godfather and I was his only godchild. Never a holiday went by without them sending me a card with a little something stuffed inside whether it be a two dollar bill or a bunch of stickers. When they would visit, a bag of candy was brought with them just for me. Their hugs were the biggest, the warmest and the longest.

After school, Ray went to visit Uncle Howie who was building another project in his workshop. He wasn’t at all surprised at his nephew’s unannounced visit. They lived less than four miles away. Ray would often take the half hour walk to see him and help him with whatever he was working on. It was with him my dad learned to make the cabinets in our home in Milford, put upstairs bathrooms in our homes in Fairfield. He even built a garage. We were always so amazed that he could do all these different things. When we asked where he learned how to do it all he would always answer “Uncle Howie”.

That day Ray started helping like he usually did and tried, as casually as a thirteen year old boy could, to slide into conversation that he was saving money for something special. Uncle Howie, who could read between the lines, mentioned that he could use an extra hand around the workshop. “Some jobs are just too big to handle alone.” Right away Ray asked if he could have the job. How could he say no to his favorite nephew?

In a matter of two months a young man went from having no job to having three all at once. Each day was closer to Easter and he wanted that suit in time. In the mornings he would deliver milk. After school he would mow lawns. In the evenings he would help his uncle.

The Saturday before Easter, Ray counted all his money and headed straight for the store. The tinkling of the bell went off and it announced to the manager the arrival of the young man with whom he made a deal with a few months prior.

“So, I suppose you’re here to pick up your suit.” said the manager.

“And tie.” Ray quipped.

“Hmmph,” was the manager’s response. He went out back and a few minutes later a large cardboard box tied with string was in the man’s hands. Ray counted out the bills and coins to the exact amount. When the manager was satisfied he rushed home to his room. There he untied the string and lifted the cover. It was just like he remembered: Navy blue with a matching tie with an embroidered cross. He resisted the urge to put it on right then and there. He didn’t want to risk a single wrinkle. He hung it in his closet to await the next morning. 

And what a morning it was. Easter Sunday was as big a deal then as it is now. Families getting ready to head to church would see a flurry of activity in order to get there on time. Can you imagine what my grandmother went through to have five boys clean, fed and in their Sunday best before it was time to leave? 

Things came to a standstill when my father walked into the room. There he was in his new suit and tie standing before his mother, father and four brothers. “Raymond! Where did you get that?” 

“You told me to buy it myself so I did.” He told them of everything he did and how much he had saved in order to wear the new suit special for Easter. His parents were so proud of what he had accomplished. His brothers, well, they’d rather wear the knickers.

St John’s Episcopal Church on Fairfield Avenue in Bridgeport was full that day. Each person sitting in the pews had a full view of the choir raising their voices to the Lord in song. In that choir was a tall, young man in a snappy new suit and a big smile on his face. Though no one’s smile could be bigger than the ones of the parents watching their son who had worked for months just to wear a new suit to Easter Sunday service.

Where is the suit now? My parents like to be prepared for everything and that includes the time they pass on. The suit is now in a box and is ready for when my father passes on. The suit he bought as a thirteen year old boy will be the suit he is buried in. 

And tie. Never forget the tie.

Queenie - The Dog Who Would Be Queen

 My mother, Mary, is one of eight children. For a family of ten all under one roof life on Prospect Street in Stamford, Connecticut, wasn’t easy. When I inquired where it was located she told me “the wrong side of the tracks”. I decided to take a look and, well, she was right: it wasn’t in the best part of town. My mother always said they didn’t have much but what they had was enough.

Still, life was good. My grandmother, Fanny, was a stay at home mom while my grandfather, Daniel, worked as a brakeman for the railroad. He assisted the conductor, switched tracks when necessary and applied the brakes to the train when needed. His job was especially important because he worked overnight. My grandparent’s lifestyle bled into my mother’s own adult life when she married my father. He was a night worker who drove trucks. 

When residing in the “bad part of town”, being a woman with eight children and not having your husband home at night in the 1940s was a potentially dangerous situation. Luckily, one day they brought home a new member of the family of the four-legged kind that would provide a little security to the household. 

Queenie was a female, smooth-haired, Whippett-Terrier mix. She was white with a black saddle and very lean. She quickly became the family’s best friend. My mother once said she bit Queenie and the dog bit her back. That’s what she got for biting a dog, she said. Grandmother Fanny felt much safer with a dog in the home. This way the dog could alert them to anything or anyone who shouldn’t be hanging around. She slept better at night because of it.

When my mother was about eight years old she remembers Fanny giving Daniel a kiss goodbye and closing the door as he went off to work with his lunchbox. That night everything was normal. Doors were locked, kids were in bed sleeping and Queenie was snoozing in the living room.

Around midnight a man who had a bit too much to drink (or as my mother said “he was loaded”) mistook their house as someone else’s he knew. Could have been his own. No one really knows for sure. He was pounding on the door. Queenie started barking. Fanny told the man to go away but he persisted. He was yelling for the door to be opened and pounding the door even harder. As you can imagine all nine residents were very frightened. So Fanny did what she thought best.

She opened the door and shouted “Get ‘em, Queenie!” and the dog went after the man!

She could see the man run away as fast as he could but Queenie chased him across the street then across the ball field (which is now the interstate). Fanny lost sight of her in the dark. She anxiously waited for the dog to return. The kids were worried she would never come back.

But come back she did.

With the seat of the man’s pants in her mouth!

That dog was heralded in the house that night as the true “queen” she was! “Good dog!” and “Yay Queenie!” were heard over and over as they petted her in gratitude for the tremendous deed she had done. She wasn’t sure what all the attention was about but she was certainly happy with all the love she was receiving. 

While my mother was at school the next day, Daniel returned from the night shift. Fanny told him what had happened. He couldn’t believe it! Who would have thought the little dog would be such a big protector. The man never returned and no one ever bothered their house again.