One childhood memory which rushes to mind is my first time fishing with my Dad. I was roughly five years old. The start of a great memory was on a Friday afternoon when my Dad came home with a small, child's fishing pole.
My Mother and sisters were leaving for Rock Eagle for the weekend. During the evening, my Dad instructed me on casting the three-foot long line and tackle using a plastic yellow weight instead of a hook. I must have waved that small stick for hours.
The next morning we arose bright and early to set off for the "lake" which was actually a small pond in my grandfather's cow pasture.
My diminutive heart throbbed with ecstasy. I sprung down from my Dad's seemingly towering truck, wand in hand. Dad worked a cricket onto the barb with his puissant hands and we started casting. I would pull my thin arm back past my head, pause momentarily, press the black button on top of my pole with my petite thumb, and thrust my arm forward. The line, float, fish-hook and cricket would sail through the air and hit the water with a sploosh as the reel spun. After waiting impatiently for about 30 seconds, I would reel in my line and cast off again. After several minutes, I felt a slight tug against my tiny hands. The end of my pole began to nod up and down and the small orange and white ball on the surface of the water began to bounce. Then my pole bent steadily and the ball went under. My dad rushed over to assist me in my struggle. I slowly rotated the miniature crank on the reel, putting all my weight into it. My Dad grabbed the net and scooped up my 6-inch trophy out of the water. I did it! I caught a fish! WOW! I breathed heavily with excitement as I watched my catch dropped into the wire, under-water basket. Once again, I began to fish, but this time with even more enthusiasm.
After several more hours and one more fish, we departed from our marine battleground. We rode home with the thrill of victory in our hearts.
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