Once upon a time, long ago, it used to be summer and the days were long and slow. The grass was green and all the world rejoiced, fed and grew fat off the bounty of the land, including the fish. I fiercely miss those days.
On the proclaimed day, the children were jittering in anticipation and we adults spoke of how we would prepare our first fish fry, although we didn't actually buy oil to fry with nor breading or batter for the fish. (Obviously, the fish fry was theoretical.) My mother and I sent off the fathers and children to go fish, fully expecting them to return in ten minutes. In that exact amount of time, the first child returned and, before the sorrowful details of the fruitless expedition could be requested, he blurted out that they had caught three fish and had another on the line. Wordless, my mother and I turned to each other, wide-eyes communicating the puzzle of what to do with the fish.
They're actually still in my freezer. Except we ended that day with five fish.
And that is how we started the tradition of fish Fridays and the subsequent fish fry. Oh, and we never did buy new fishing rods; we, and our guests, fished on two children rods the rest of the summer and fall.
Our ponds are stocked with a self-sustaining population of large-mouth bass, blue gill, channel catfish and grass carp. The latter you don't eat, but the three previous are all easy to catch during the warm months. Right now they are hibernating in the watery depths and will resurface for food in March.
You'd better believe Butterscotch, the Terribly Clever Mouser, was keeping close that day. She was just a small kitten then.
That's my dream of a husband walking with our daughter out to the ponds. Upper pond is to the left and Lower is to the right.
That's my father, or "Guelo" which is short for "Abuelo", showing my son how real fisherman can rock it with a children's rod.
Upper pond. I used only minor editing.
Not bad, son, not bad. But let's give Mom a try, shall we?
My husband's fish on the left; my fish on the right. I'll promise you today and tomorrow and all the days after, first time I've ever fished. (The real first time doesn't count because my dad got so frustrated with my sister and I running all over the dock and tangling the lines that he threw everything away after 30 minutes and we went home before I got a chance to hold a pole.) Beginner's luck can be deceptive because I didn't catch another fish the rest of the summer.
I'm not totally sure about this, but, judging from this photo, I think this guy may have been prehistoric.
That would be the old, leaky bucket we found and used to rinse off the fish. The Terribly Clever Mouser is clever as always.
That gray building above, to the left of the barn, is my new chicken coop. It's probably better described as a chicken cottage.
And like all good things, summer came to an end. The morning mist continued through fall, slowly burning off with the daylight.
Seeing the geese migrating south in formation amazed me every time I saw it. With the children back in school and the weather getting cooler, it felt like they left with our happy, carefree times.
It was my daughter's picture day at school. We were taking a pre-school photo when she had to rescue the clever one from Demeter. I haven't introduced Demeter yet. I'm not sure where to begin; Demeter is a dog we rescued and the problems began before we even arrived home. Basically, Demeter is a menace, a menace to society, to small animals, to children, to feathered fowl…a complete menace. Demeter was never a cute puppy really, just a baby menace.
Then we had family from Utah come visit after Labor Day. Despite the cooler weather, the fish were still biting. They were catching with practically every cast. We only did catch and release to give the fish population a rest.
We fished the Upper pond this time, which is a deeper pond. My neighbor, who used to live here, says it might be 17 feet deep and her brothers would swim in it during the summer. Months later, I'm still processing this; there is a smell in that particular pond that I can't imagine wanting to put my nose anywhere near.
Our nieces are so adorable and their uncle is a pretty fab guy.
Feeding your family from the land is hard, sweaty work. It means tilling, digging, weeding, hauling, mucking, feeding, dumping, hoeing, scraping, milking (which I technically haven't done yet) and just so, so, sooo much work. But fishing is different. You become part of the stillness and quiet and just…do nothing else. You stay that way until your line gets pulled. What a wonderful concept, working by not working! I've decided that time for being still is a moral imperative and should be regularly incorporated into work routines. For that reason we, and everyone really, need a sign that says, "Gone Fishing".
