Fish Tales

My father taught me to fish when I was barely three years old. My first fish was landed through a hole in the ice and it was nearly as tall as I was. I carried it proudly across the ice and each time it flopped, I flopped right along with it, and fell down. I probably don't really remember this incident, but the black and white photo of my first prize catch has been ingrained in my memory.

My dad was a drunk, and when he was under the influence of alcohol he was just plain mean. But on the days when he was sober, he taught me everything I know about hunting and fishing, including how to bait my own hook and clean and cook whatever I caught. These are some of the very rare and very precious memories I have of an otherwise hellish childhood. Because of this, the love of the outdoors and the ability to hunt and fish is the one gift he left me and I treasure it.

A good psychiatrist would probably tell you that I've spent my entire life trying to find a mate just like my dad (minus the drinking of course). And they might be right. Up until now, I've been unsuccessful. I thought that age brought wisdom, so I chose older men. I imagined that ego meant self confidence, so I wasted years with self centered ego maniacs. It's hard to find a real outdoors man in the heart of Cleveland so I settled for the Urban Cowboys who only pretended to like the outdoors as much as I did. They couldn't name the varieties of trees, birds or any other kind of wildlife. I ended up spending weekends alone hiking, biking and occasionally kayaking throughout the metro parks. I had discovered the real truth in life is that: "It is better to be alone than to wish that you were."

Then I met Rudy. A slightly red necked Italian who actually knows more about the outdoors than I do. He can spot a deer hidden in the woods long before I can. When I couldn't name a particular bird he simply said it was a Junco. Truthfully, I doubted his knowledge and when I got home that day I looked up the bird on the Internet. I'd never heard of a Junco but I had heard a lot of BS answers from wanna be woodsmen. Sure enough there was the bird we'd seen; and it was called a Junco. I became a believer.

A couple of weeks ago, Rudy took me fishing at Mogador lake. I hadn't been fishing in over fifteen years and to say that I was excited would have been an understatement. We got up before dawn, loaded the pick up with gear and bait that he'd purchased the day before, and headed out to the lake. Arriving just as the sun was coming up, we had the entire place to ourselves. We parked the truck and began hiking through the woods along the shore, searching for one of the many good fishing sites he knew of.

We ended up on a point of land which gave us clear access to the lake. The water was like glass; the only ripples coming from the fish which rose to the surface all around us. Then we baited up and cast our lines. I was amazed when we both landed our first fish of the day on that very first cast. We spent the next three hours in fish heaven hooking bluegill, crappie, and sunfish. I know that because he named every one of them for me. In all, we ended up with sixty seven pan fish. We carried our prize back to the truck and headed home to yet one more surprise.

My dad taught me to clean fish and that meant scaling the little buggers, gutting them, cutting off their heads, and removing the fins. With sixty seven pan fish that's one long tedious chore and I fully expected to participate. However, Rudy knew another way to clean fish; a better way. He set up an outdoor cleaning table, and went to work filleting even the smallest of our catch. He handed each fillet to me and I used a second fillet knife to slice the meat from the skin. Together we laughed and completed the task in record time. Men in the neighborhood came to stare in amazement at the procedure. They all wanted to learn the technique and Rudy modestly showed them. Once again, I became a believer.That night we had a fantastic fish fry. We both took turns in the kitchen preparing the meal, washing it down with wine and laughter.

Looks like I've found someone who makes it more fun to be with than to be alone. Someone who really loves the same things I do. Is he my father? Hell no. He's younger and cuter and kinder. Best of all, we are creating new memories, good memories, which are no longer tainted with the dark side of alcoholism. I've always dreamed of growing old with someone, but was beginning to think it was too late. After all I am already old, and time has become a precious commodity. I have learned however, that as long as one doesn't give up on life and on love, there is always a second chance waiting for us.