Written by: Karen Howington
Fishing, one of my favorite pastimes, has provided countless hours of pure joy in my life since childhood. I am not sure at exactly what age that I got hooked on this peaceful recreation (pun absolutely intended), but I know it was in late elementary school. Back when I was growing up in the 1970’s, the world was a totally different place than it is today, and much safer for kids to roam around the neighborhood at will. In the summer, my friends and I stayed outside from early morning until the mosquitos started biting at dusk. Living in Louisiana gave many mosquitoes a tasty meal on our delicate southern skin.
Fishing Near the Pecan Bayou
I spent my formative years living in a subdivision called Pecan Bayou (pronounced by-you, not by-o, by the way). It was a pecan orchard, and it had a swampy cypress tree studded marshland just a street over from my house. Let me tell you fancy anglers out there, with your big bass boats and sophisticated tackle, there is nothing like riding your bike to the shore, digging up your own huge, thick snake-like worms, tearing them in half as their guts spurt out, and threading them on a hook that is at the end of a long cane pole (sometimes, if the worm crop was failing, I would sneak some hotdogs or cheese from the refrigerator). And the best part? Getting to watch a red and white cork float for hours on end. My excitement couldn’t be contained to see that bobber get totally submerged under the murky waters.
To complete the magical experience, I fished off of a long dock. I prefer fishing this exact way over casting a rod from a boat and the cork going out of sight makes my heart race. In fact, I only started learning (STARTED is the operative word here, y’all) how to cast as an adult – mostly in the past few years. And my talent? Getting the line tangled 100% of the time in one form or another. My long-suffering husband goes with me, mostly to fix up another rod for me (we usually bring at least two, so he can be fixing one while I use the other one). In fact, if I ever win the lottery, I will hire a fishing assistant for the express reason to take over this tedious job.
Making my Catch
I caught small bream, white perch, and the occasional hissing catfish that the average angler might discard. But I would go home and clean it on the red picnic table. The occasional snapping turtle would appear on the hook, too. These tended to add up after a long summer on the bayou. Afterwards, I would get a Tupperware dish or plastic bag and freeze them. My parents actually had no clue because they were both at work when the magic happened (this WAS the 70’s, after all, when it was safe for a couple of sisters to stay home alone).
One day, at the end of a successful summer of catching small fish, I proudly announced to my mother that I wanted fried fish for supper. She looked surprised as we usually didn’t go out to eat in those days, and that was the only way we would normally have fried fish to eat. So I took her by the hand and led her out to the big deep freezer, and let her behold the sight of countless small frozen fish that I had hidden. She was very surprised. But she proceeded to fry up this mess of fish (we call it a MESS to describe a bunch of fish down here in the south). I am sure that we didn’t get much edible meat from these bony creatures, but it WAS a meal. And she had a lot of French fries to completely fill us up!
First Dash Out of the Box, Marie!
My grandparents owned a small camper and basic fishing boat for most of my childhood into my adulthood. I would spend wonderful summer weeks with them at various campgrounds around Louisiana and Arkansas. I must have inherited my talent with messing up rods and reels from my grandmother. As my grandfather would locate what looked like finned creatures on his rudimentary fish finder, we would all grab our respective rods or cane pole, set our mouths right (in the south, if you don’t catch any fish, you just blame it on not having your mouth set correctly), and wait for bites. Then my grandmother would get hung up on something and my grandfather would say in an irritated voice, “first dash out of the box, Marie, and you done got fouled up!” To this day, when I imitate her, my husband and I repeat that phrase and howl with laughter.
We now own that old fishing boat and several of their tackle boxes. Ah, how the memories flow through my mind of spending time with them on many waters. To this day, we take the boat out and also use the tackle. I think it would make them proud. Holy carp, those were the good old days! Any-fin was possible. Literally!
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Great content! Keep up the good work!
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