Bernie and I spent last weekend visiting my parents down south. We had an absolutely wonderful time. We live many miles away from both sets of our parents, so we don’t get to spend as much time with them as we’d like. It really makes me sad, but it does make us appreciate and enjoy them even more when we do get to visit with them.
Daddy took us out in his boat fishing the first day we were there. Fisherman and hunters are cut from the same cloth, and any self respecting “outdoors man” starts the day at obnoxiously early morning hours for reasons that completely escape me. Perhaps making it to that deer stand or fishing hole at 5AM increases the chances that the intended prey will be groggy and confused and walk/swim right up to that Early Bird holding the gun/fishing pole. I’m not sure.
All I know is that we were on the boat, flying down the river, before the sun came up and it was COLD. Mom and I were wearing every piece of cold weather gear we could find and still sat there with teeth chattering as daddy had that boat screaming down the river. Bernie sat with his hands in his pockets and beard flapping, seemingly oblivious to the fact that we were experiencing a wind chill that I’m sure is typically found only in the Arctic.
The fishing spot my dad had in mind was 24 miles from the dock where we put in. At roughly 35 – 40 miles an hour, it took a little while and by the time we arrived my mom looked like a popsicle. Even though we could no longer feel our hands, we grabbed some fishing poles and got started.
Bernie caught a nice sized trout right away, and dad and mom quickly followed. They soon began feeling sorry for my no-fish-catching-self and everyone became focused on giving me fishing tips. “Penny, throw over here”. “Penny, change your bait”. Finally, I announced “Well, I know what’s wrong. You’ve got to talk to those fish and tell them it’s ok to jump on that hook.” They began snickering, but watched intently as I announced “If I was a fish, I would live right there” as I pitched my plug into a fish inhabiting looking spot. “And I would jump right on that hook right now” and BAM – a fish grabbed that hook! We all got a good chuckle out of that and my dad assured me I could not do that again. But even before he could finish his sentence, I was talking to the fish, casting my line, and catching another fish! I did that eight times in a row – seriously, eight times! It was a hoot and the absurdity of it had us laughing hysterically.
Fisherman tend to be a rather superstitious lot, and my dad is the ultimate fisherman. So when he called me last night to tell me that he and his friend, Bobby, had returned to that fishing spot yesterday and quickly caught their limit, I had to ask “Daddy, did you talk to the fish?”. He rather sheepishly answered “Well…. just a little”. As I began laughing he quickly attempted to divert the attention from himself and added “Well, I had Bobby talking to them, too!” I get a chuckle out of visualizing two grown men, in the middle of the river, casting their lines and chanting “Here fishy, fishy”.
Yes, you can just call me the Fish Whisperer. And as proud as I am of that, I am even more proud to be the daughter of wonderful, loving parents. It amazes me that even at 50 years old, I revert to being my parents’ little girl when I’m around them. I don’t mind. And they don’t seem to mind either.
We’re back at the homestead now and busy, as always. Bernie’s chopping and splitting wood, and I’m messing with those chickens and making hot sauce from Tabasco peppers. I’ll post another blog update soon and include the recipes for hot sauce and pickled eggs. Now that’s some fine eating there!
Bee Free,
Penny
