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Reflections
of a
Fisherman
TWO TYPES OF PEOPLE pursue
fish. On one hand are those
who go with the sole purpose of
catching fish; on the other hand are
those who go for the enjoyment of
it. The latter are fishermen, and they
alone go fishing.
Fishing is sights, and sounds, and
smells. It is planning, and memories.
It is exciting and relaxing, fulfilling'
and frustrating, all at once.
An old man, with catfish stacked
like cordwood around him, smiles at
the boatload of his youngsters, as
they ask him the where, how, when,
and why about the fish he did, and
"they didn't, catch. There is a sound
of grease popping and a smell of fish
frying and cornpone with butter
melting on it, and the night sounds
of summer close in about an old man
as he explains the ways of the big
cats.
True fishing is found in a cove off
a big lake when it is neither day or
night. The surface is like a mirror
with mist rising off it so that the other
bank is hidden. Feeding bass swirl
and snap just past the line of sight.
Fingers tremble as they tie on the
first lure and cast it toward where
the stump should be, and wait. The
rod twitches once, twice; then the
swirl, and the rod doubles. You try
to set the hook, adjust the drag, and
keep him out of the roots and snags.
But you know it's no good, you know
he is one of the many that got
away.
On the first warm spring day after
a long winter, a boy lies back in a
boat, lets his bait drift, and watches
by JAMES GARRY
the tufts of cotton clouds float
lazily by. The boat rocks gently as
the wavelets plock softly against it.
A southern breeze drifts and mixes
the sounds of grasshoppers with the
smell of wildflowers. Off in one of
the sloughs a granddaddy bullfrog
brags to the tadpoles, and the willows
whisper their age-old secrets.
Summer afternoon becomes a summer
evening. The sun ends its daylong
vigil, reaches out with its last
warmth and touches large rolling
boisterous thunderheads with the
finger of Midas. Then day dies like a
watchfire with the last coal glowing
dimly, and sinks into the purple of
night. While this happens the activities
of the day ceases. Crows wheel
upstream to their roost and small
birds turn homeward, to be replaced
by bullbats and owls. Stars appear,
slowly at first then more rapidly, as
the sun loses her grip. A full moon
slides up over the hill, night sounds
become more clear; hounds bay in
the distance, crickets rasp their melodies.
Realizations arise about the
smallness of man, and the greatness
of God and His universe.
Fishing, it has been said, can be
enjoyed by all ages. This is not true
for when one is fishing he has no
age. Boys are men and men are boys.
The man has the eager anticipation
of a child at Christmas and the boy
the patience and understanding of
age. There is the chance to hold perfection
in your hand while fishing,
and to better understand just what
it is that you are doing here on this
fair earth. **
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