“You catch ‘em, you clean ‘em. That’s the rule. Right, dad?”
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I was eight years old the first time I went fishing with Grandpa. We made sure everything was in the tackle box, the poles had string in them and we had the right bait. Ironically, I can’t remember if Grandpa used worms or lures, but I seem to remember squishing the wiggly bodies onto the hook. Guts would squirt onto my fingers making me want to puke, but I did it because that’s what Grandpa did. Another reason I did it was because I didn’t want to get picked on by my Uncle Kevin for being a wimp. Kevin wasn’t much older, probably around 15. He was a smarty pants, laughing when I caught a boot on my hook.
That afternoon, with a bucket full of fish, we all strolled home. The smile on Grandpa’s face was as wide as I’d ever seen it. He was happy, and proud to be with two good boys. Kevin and I joked around a bit, picking back and forth. Grandpa picked too.
At the kitchen sink is where I learned my fate.
“You catch ‘em, you clean ‘em,” Kevin said. “That’s the rule. Right, dad?”
Grandpa nodded with a grin. I froze. Kevin laughed. I was scared, but I wanted to be a “big boy” and clean the fish.
By the time Kevin was done with his fish, I still hadn’t summoned the courage to scoop the fish poop out of my second fish with my thumb. I’d flung the first try onto the floor to the disapproval of Grandpa. But he stayed and calmly helped me finish the rest of my fish.
As I ran out of the kitchen, ready for some television, I remember Grandpa just starting to clean the fish he’d caught that day. No fuss, no worries, just content. He smiled because he’d taught me something I needed and wanted to know.
To this day, that is how I remember Grandpa—happy with his family and proud of them all for trying something new or even trying at all. Maybe one day I’ll tell you how he taught me to cook grits—one of his favorite foods.
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Originally published on The Magill Review
Photo by author: “My maternal grandfather, Karl Conner, going fishing—one of his favorite hobbies.”
I remember the “you catch them, you clean them.” You brought back some great memories from my own childhood and later when I took my own son fishing. I hated cleaning fish. My dad was a fishing fanatic. Our annual fishing trip in Wisconsin (Gooths Landing) a fisherman’s campground, I learned my fate. I cleaned them (his and mine) and dad took them into town to be quick frozen. Ultimately, these are all fond memories.
I love to hear that. It’s all about making good memories with family. I recently got together with my Uncle Kevin to swap stories. Great times.