That Fishing Pole

In my last post, I included that photo of me, on my ninth birthday, stylin' with the new fishing pole that Grandpa just gave me (deluxe thumb-release casting reel, quite a bit taller than I was, all fiberglass -- very snazzy for 1965).

As much as the other blog topics I currently have simmering clamor for attention, that picture has brought up a lot of thoughts for me about Grandpa.

So this post will be about Gotthard Danielson (yes, that translates as "Goat Herder, Son of Daniel", which does not describe my Grandfather at all -- he was a plumber by trade, hunter, fisherman, maker of the best pickled herring in the Universe, and a really unique dude in the ways I'm about to describe).

I believe that my Grandpa loved to fish -- I mean, I believe that he adored fishing -- that he was in hog heaven when my family moved to Marion, Kansas -- "The Little Town Between Two Lakes". The county lake to the south of town was full of blue-gill, catfish, and crappie. The much larger reservoir to the north was a new "flood-control" measure, surrounded by scrawny, newly-planted trees, and well-stocked, We didn't fish it much -- but somehow it was comforting to know it was there.

When I got to around age seven or eight, Grandpa started taking me with him on his Sunday after-church fishing trips. My brothers were older, and didn't really seem that interested in fishing. I became the defacto "favored son" for piscean adventures. I have no idea how Grandpa felt about this.

He didn't ever say much -- about fishing, children, or anything else. I've often wondered if fishing was a favorite activity for him precisely because it was a situation where keeping quiet was a valued and necessary skill. It was probably the only time that I ever shut up -- I think we can say that with confidence.

In warm weather, Grandpa and I would fish from the banks of the various arms of the little lake -- me scared of the big catfish he routinely landed, and wary of the spines on the blue-gill that I managed to catch. I "bobber-fished" the top waters for these iridescent little beauties, while he drug a big mass of stink-bait over the bottom, trolling for those whiskery, prehistoric-looking monsters whose enormous mouths gaped as he hauled them to the keeper can or gunny sack. Catfish could sting and perch could spike -- I think I got the impression that the waters beneath the placid surface of that little lake were a treacherous world.

In cold weather, we would go to the indoor fishing dock -- yes really -- a floating dock with a big hole in the middle and old theater seats bolted around its edges -- a small rail in front of the seats all round, and a big expanse in the middle that exposed the lake water. It was completely enclosed, roofed, walled, and heated, and there was a Coke machine and a candy machine inside that dispensed things like those bumpy red candy-covered peanuts.

I don't actually recall if we ever caught anything there, but we would sit in the fold-down seats with all the old farts. I don't remember there ever being any other kids but me at the indoor dock. It was a silent-fishing-fanatic's sort of place, still as the church where we had spent our morning -- the sound of your feet as you walked around the edge of the dock seemed deafening. Not a place to run, skip, or even move quickly. I think the theory was that the fish would be drawn to the heat and the shadow under the dock.

That's the setting for the start of my angling career -- now -- that fishing pole.

My grandfather was a "man's man" -- stoic, big, a football hero in his college days (there's a picture of him in one of those old leather helmets) -- and I imagine, pretty traditional in his thinking (not that he and I ever really discussed his thinking).

I remember though, when we used to watch "All in the Family", how Grandpa would laugh whenever Archie scored a humor point on someone else, Grandma would laugh whenever Edith scored, and my then-hippy brother-in-law would laugh when Michael scored. Judging by his Archie-Bunker-Laugh-O-Meter, I suspect that Grandpa was not particularly "progressive".

But -- he gave me this fishing pole. This dykey/tomboy thing. And he taught me how to fish -- he really taught me how to fish -- he didn't just let me sit by him with my bobber uselessly bouncing away. The times that he did speak on those days were to tell me how to gauge my cast -- where the blue-gill were likely to be -- how deep to set my bobber for crappie -- how to hold my catch and fold the spines down along the fish's back so I didn't get poked -- how to get my line out whole when I hit a snag -- the difference between a nibble and a strike.

He didn't seem to think this was inappropriate stuff to be teaching a girl. In 1965. In Kansas. Maybe in those days the concept of "gayness" was so far out of the collective awareness that being a tomboy wasn't really considered a dangerous sign of things to come. Or, maybe he knew I was a DOT ("Dyke of Tomorrow", like FOF "Fag of the Future") and was just helping me develop the skills I would need to impress my future femmy girlfriends.

I wonder about this.

My uncle (the youngest on my mother's side) reports that his Dad was always willing to drive him to choir practice, even though Grandpa would probably have preferred to have him heading for the football game. I feel sad that I don't really have any clear answers about what, if anything, was going on in Grandpa's head. He was a deep one -- silent, even for a Swede.

I stopped fishing with Grandpa at some point. I don't remember when. Probably around 13 or 14, I think. I don't know if he was disappointed or relieved about this.

When I was 15, we moved away from the town between two lakes, and Grandpa was hard-pressed to find a good fishing hole when he and Grandma visited us in our new abode. Instead, we took to taking long Sunday drives out in the Flint Hills with Grandpa at the wheel, him spying for prairie chicken and pheasant, sussing out probable hunting spots for the coming season.

It was not until I moved out West to Portland that I picked up fishing again. Now in the land of salmon and trout, I equipped myself ridiculously well -- surf-rod, fly-rod, trout-rod, waders, vest, and more tackle than I could possibly carry to a hole.

I induced a curse upon myself, however. After a long day surf-fishing near Lincoln City, in which I filled a five-gallon bucket with surf perch, I filleted them, froze them . . . and never got around to eating them all.

I have not, from that day to this, ever caught another fish. I could take my kids fishing and they would be pulling in trout all around me. I had not a bite. I understood why the curse had befallen me -- I had wasted the bounty. I didn't resist it, really. I knew that it was just.

Weirdly, I kept fishing. Sometimes I would go out and not even bait my hook or set a lure -- just drove out to some likely, lonely spot, and sat with my line in the water, quiet for once, sitting still in the early morning or evening, watching the light change.

I realize now that that little stick of fiberglass with its cork grip was an early symbol of being seen and accepted for what I was, in spite of cultural conventions. I remember when I got it, the feeling of "Mine. My Own. My fishing pole." I remember after this, when we would head off to the lake, Grandpa saying "Well, go get your pole." He never gave me the slightest notion that when the dearest thing to a nine-year-old girl's heart was her fishing rod, something perverse and awful might be lurking.

Looking back, I also think that my Grandfather might have been trying to impart to this wacky, talkative, overactive child something about the value of silence and rest. 40 years later, I'm rarely still, and seldom quiet -- even when it might be the best thing for me.

Okay -- "Mush! Mush! Mush!" you might be saying.

"So what if you think it's mushy", I say, "Drive your dogs to Alaska if you want."

Isn't it strange that the first thing I might really say "Oh, fuck 'em if they don't like it" about is not some radical metaphysical view, not some edgy lesbian diatribe, but a "My Dog Skip" moment in my blog?

It's my blog. Mine. My own.

I'll get mushy and nostalgic about my Grandfather (and fishing -- yes, I said it -- fishing!) if I feel like it.
And apparently, I do feel like it.

This is the end of the entry -- time for the sum-it-up and cap-it-off line.

I'll settle for this:

I think that, if I meet my Grandfather on the other side, I may ask him all these questions about what he thought -- whether taking me fishing was a pain-in-the ass or a delight, whether he actually liked fishing or it was simply a way to escape, whether it occurred to him that I was a big bull-dagger in the making, and if so, whether it mattered to him.

Alternatively, I might just take him fishing, and untangle his line, for once.