Blog

by Tom Anselm

Protests in the streets, statues knocked down, unstable lunatics with nuclear weapons. This is today’s reality. But let’s talk about something really important, something that is seldom given its due. Let’s all go fishing. Why not?

All the protesters with their silly masks. All the nut-job dictators who want to blow everyone up. All the crazies who now want to take down every monument because they don’t agree with something that monument represents.

Just dust off the old rod and reel and stroll down to the lake for awhile.

Now fishing can be seen from two extremes. One is that it is a 38 billion dollar industry. That is $38,000,000,000. This includes boats and gear and apparel and tackle and bait and… well, plenty of cash goes into snatching little old Mr. Bass. My brand of angling is way down at the lower end of that number, more like the last two place values.

My guess is that I have a whopping $50 worth of swag. A couple of 20 buck rod and reels, a tackle box with some of my dad’s old lures, couple of bobbers and hooks, a few bags of plastic worms and catfish chewies. All of which serve in my noble quest to snag those elusive little swimmers that populate the lakes by my house.

There is something Zen-like about this style of fishing. Just sitting on the bank, Zebco reel in hand, red and white bobber and worm on the hook. Picture this: easy ripples roll on the water as a soft wind drifts in, sun and clouds mix the sky. It is the primeval search for that which we cannot see, cannot hear, cannot smell or touch or taste. Just below the surface, lurking, sliding to and fro, maybe glancing casually at our offering, becoming interested. Or maybe simply laughing at us, asking the question…“Do I LOOK stupid?

Do you really expect me to chomp on that sharp thing and put a hole in my mouth, just so you can yell ‘hip hooray, I got dinner? Or, adding insult to injury, toss me back because I am not too small?”

In this endeavor, sometimes we are the winner. More often, we are not.

But still we try. Something about being quiet by haunting waters that soothes the anxious soul. My dad used to take us to this little spot in West Alton, really just a backwater off the Mississippi. He would bait our hooks, smoke his cigar. We would snag a few, toss them back, and head home. It was good, nothing big, just hanging out. Zen-ish, in its own way.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   Years past, I took my kids out to little ponds. Most of my time was spent untangling lines and, yep, baiting worms. Our goal was to find that one spot where they were biting. Maybe catch a bluegill, drink a soda, eat some chips. Hang out for just awhile.

Years later, there was this one time at St. Ferdinand Park with grandkids Weesie and Bubba. Our bait of the day was cut-up frankfurters. Bubba, maybe about 6, was certain his bait was gone. He reeled in his line. It wasn’t. Weesie, the precocious little sister, took this all in.

“Oh, look,” said she. “Bubba caught a hotdog.” We still crack up at that one.

So here is some simple advice to all those would-be-bombers and wild-in-the-streeters and statue-tipper-overers. And to you as well, in these days of thunder.

Relax for a bit. Go fishing. You might just catch a hotdog.

Share on Facebook

Tweet

Follow us