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John N. Felsher's Zany Adventures
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My Daddy always used to say, “You can either go fishing or take a kid
fishing. You can’t do both at the same time. Decide what you are going to
do and stick with it.”
An original axiom or not, his words proved profound, as anyone who
ever fished with small children can attest! Obviously, he learned something
from raising four children of his own.
Put these ingredients together: a new boat with lots of fancy
thingamajigs; a gusty, stormy day; millions of people on the lake; a cage of
frisky crickets; a wife deathly afraid of crickets who won’t touch anything
and two small boys who won’t leave anything alone, especially if it looks
expensive, fragile or dangerous. What do you get? A totally frazzled, gray-
haired man more rapidly approaching middle age by the minute.
We somehow found a quiet cove out of the wind and away from the
“Power Armada.” It held much promise with tempting cover in about five
feet of water. The bottom gently sloped up to a sandy, wooded beach.
“Aren’t you going to fish, Honey?” innocently asked my wife, Sweetums.
“Sure. I just need to tidy up a few things here, like untangle these two
nets with the sticks interwoven in the mesh. What a mess!”
“You don’t own two nets,” she reminded me. “You don’t even own one.
Don’t you remember? Daniel dropped the net over the side last week
because he wanted to see if it floated. It didn’t. Isn’t that clump the boys’
fishing rods?”
My inquisitive son, Daniel, then 5, always conducted such experiments.
My dictatorial other son, Steven, then 3, insisted on loading the fishing rods
in “his” boat earlier. “My pole, my pole, my pole NOOOOOW,” he screamed
with all the patience of a killer bee around honey.
My first mistake, untangling Sweetums’s rod first. She could cast it, but
refused to put on bait or touch fish. Pretty helpless at unhooking snags,
she demonstrated extreme proficiency in hooking them.
Daniel, my studious son, examined the crickets with the same intense
scrutiny that space aliens study captured earthlings. He also named them.
While Daniel decided which of his “pets” to honor as his next bait,
Sweetums started shouting. “I got one. I got one. Get a net. It’s a
whopper. Hurry, hurry, you are going to make me lose it. It’s a whale; it’s a
shark. It’s Jaws. Get a harpoon, but don’t hurt it.”
Thinking I needed to head back for a bigger boat, then remembering
how scarce sharks were in this landlocked reservoir, I noticed my wife used
shiners for bait. “What fish? I don’t see anything except your bait. By the
way, I don’t remember buying shiners. Where did you get that?”
“That’s not bait, that my fish,” she emphatically explained. “Get him off.
Hurry! There are lots more out there. Give me another cricket. Move,
move, move. I’ve got fish to catch.”
“Oh, yeah, there is a bluegill under that cricket. I almost didn’t see it
with the cricket’s foot in the way.”
About that time, Daniel reasoned that if he dumped the cage over, his
potential cricket pool increased dramatically. He tested his theory with
great success at his mother’s feet.
“EEEEEECCCCCCKKKKKK” Her feet shot into orbit. “I’m being
attacked by a herd of carnivorous crickets. Get a gun. Get me out of
here,” she screamed, contemplating whether to leap all the way to shore or
run over the water surface. Only the thought that she might encounter
snakes or even worse – spiders – prevented her from actually attempting it!
“Hurry up with my pole, Daddy. I want to fish NOW. I never get to fish.
You’re not doing it right. You messed up my pole, Daddy,” barked Stevie.
“Daddy, don’t hurt Fred or Barney or any of my pet crickets so I can put
them on my hook,” Daniel warned.
Meanwhile, a herd of stampeding crickets in full revolt unceremoniously
stomped the fish flapping in the bottom of the boat.
“Now, I got a pet fish! Can I keep him, Daddy? Can I sleep with him,
Mommy? Please? Please?”
Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled ominously. Oddly, it sounds
almost as if my father fell off his rocking chair while laughing in Heaven.
Finally, we headed off the Great Cricket Stampede at the pass between
the gas tank and the tackle box and rounded up most of the mavericks.
Two of the more troublesome ringleaders met their fate on hooks.
Now, I turned my attention to Stevie’s tangled heap of plastic and
monofilament. As I untangled it, I made the mistake of suggesting that I
might cast it for him. Wrong move. Mr. “I DO IT MYSELF” snatched the tiny
Mickey Mouse rod from my hand. For a tiny tot whose major muscles were
mostly in his mouth and lungs, he achieved amazing distance on the cast.
That rod could really sail. With splendid aim, it landed in “fishy” spot.
Only one problem. When I cast a rod, I usually don’t CAST A ROD!
Drowning fast, Mickey succumbed to the now swelling, black waves.
Fortunately, the hook steadfastly punctured into my neck, preventing
Mickey from ending in a watery grave – like Stevie’s last rod! I extracted
the hook from only marginally critical areas with minimal loss of blood and
tissue before pulling in the wayward rod.
“Daddy, Daddy, I got a fish. Help me reel him in,” Daniel proclaimed as
he dropped his rod and began hauling in the whopper hand over hand.
Much too slow, reels take too much work. Nothing compares to bringing in
a whopper by hand. Unfortunately, the line piled into a huge, slimy tangle
in the bottom of the boat.
“Honey, I’m stuck in a tree,” Sweetums pleaded. “Pull the boat over to
shore and get it off for me, paaaallllllllleesssse! I’ve got more fish to catch.
Hurry before the spiders crawl out on the line to get me!”
“Daddy, I didn’t even get to fish yet. Everybody’s catching fish but me
and it’s YOUR fault. I didn’t get nothing. Hurry up and fix my pole. I want to
fish,” Stevie ordered.
“Can I stop the bleeding first and put the pieces of my neck back in the
right places?”
“NO!” they yelled in unison.
“Daddy, I’ll help get Mommy’s line.”
“No, Daniel, don’t touch …” BRRROOOOMMMMMM “that!”
“Daddy, the motor is really loud when it is not in the water.”
“Yes, Daniel. That’s true. That’s why I USUALLY LIKE TO START IT
WHEN IT IS IN THE WATER!”
“I got a fish. I got a fish. Daddy, don’t mess it up this time. Get him in
right and give me another cricket.”
“Yes, Master Stevie.”
“Honey, why are you walking like Igor in an old monster movie? Quit
fooling around. I’m still stuck. I don’t have all day. There are fish to catch.
When are you going to get me loose, but don’t get too close to that tree
because there might be jumping spiders there. And don’t get any of your
blood on my new outfit. If you get blood on one part, it won’t match
anymore and you’ll have to buy me another one,” my understanding wife
remarked.
After landing Daniel’s fish and Stevie’s fish, unsnagging my wife’s line,
rebaiting hooks, unhooking fish, putting fish in the livewell, keeping tiny
hands away from Daddy’s gadgets, reanchoring the boat in position,
rounding up several more stray crickets, taking more hooks from my skin,
dodging when all three would cast, praying that nobody stepped on MY
rods, untangling lines, extracting hooks from Gordian tangles that I could
not conquer and retying them, Sweetums asked, “Honey, why aren’t you
fishing? I thought you liked to fish.”
“GRRRRRRRRRRRR”
“Okay, Honey, I can take a hint. I’ll take care of the boys while you fish,
but I’m not touching any crickets or fish or messing with anything in the boat
and I don’t know how to get the lines untangled or rerigged – AND I’M NOT
GOING ANYWHERE NEAR SPIDERS,” she offered.
With that hopeful thought, I finally picked up my rod and reached for
my own cricket. Just then, nearby thunder cracked.
“Honey, we’ve got to go now. I don’t want to be out in this storm.”
“Mommy, guess what. We outfished Daddy again!” those two lovable
varmints boastfully proclaimed.
But, it was family (ugh!) “fun.” Right? Well, maybe Daddy didn’t catch
any fish, but I did catch one thing. I sure filled a boat with wonderful
memories. Next time, though, I think I’ll heed my Dad’s sage advice and
decide to GO fishing and stick with it!
fishing. You can’t do both at the same time. Decide what you are going to
do and stick with it.”
An original axiom or not, his words proved profound, as anyone who
ever fished with small children can attest! Obviously, he learned something
from raising four children of his own.
Put these ingredients together: a new boat with lots of fancy
thingamajigs; a gusty, stormy day; millions of people on the lake; a cage of
frisky crickets; a wife deathly afraid of crickets who won’t touch anything
and two small boys who won’t leave anything alone, especially if it looks
expensive, fragile or dangerous. What do you get? A totally frazzled, gray-
haired man more rapidly approaching middle age by the minute.
We somehow found a quiet cove out of the wind and away from the
“Power Armada.” It held much promise with tempting cover in about five
feet of water. The bottom gently sloped up to a sandy, wooded beach.
“Aren’t you going to fish, Honey?” innocently asked my wife, Sweetums.
“Sure. I just need to tidy up a few things here, like untangle these two
nets with the sticks interwoven in the mesh. What a mess!”
“You don’t own two nets,” she reminded me. “You don’t even own one.
Don’t you remember? Daniel dropped the net over the side last week
because he wanted to see if it floated. It didn’t. Isn’t that clump the boys’
fishing rods?”
My inquisitive son, Daniel, then 5, always conducted such experiments.
My dictatorial other son, Steven, then 3, insisted on loading the fishing rods
in “his” boat earlier. “My pole, my pole, my pole NOOOOOW,” he screamed
with all the patience of a killer bee around honey.
My first mistake, untangling Sweetums’s rod first. She could cast it, but
refused to put on bait or touch fish. Pretty helpless at unhooking snags,
she demonstrated extreme proficiency in hooking them.
Daniel, my studious son, examined the crickets with the same intense
scrutiny that space aliens study captured earthlings. He also named them.
While Daniel decided which of his “pets” to honor as his next bait,
Sweetums started shouting. “I got one. I got one. Get a net. It’s a
whopper. Hurry, hurry, you are going to make me lose it. It’s a whale; it’s a
shark. It’s Jaws. Get a harpoon, but don’t hurt it.”
Thinking I needed to head back for a bigger boat, then remembering
how scarce sharks were in this landlocked reservoir, I noticed my wife used
shiners for bait. “What fish? I don’t see anything except your bait. By the
way, I don’t remember buying shiners. Where did you get that?”
“That’s not bait, that my fish,” she emphatically explained. “Get him off.
Hurry! There are lots more out there. Give me another cricket. Move,
move, move. I’ve got fish to catch.”
“Oh, yeah, there is a bluegill under that cricket. I almost didn’t see it
with the cricket’s foot in the way.”
About that time, Daniel reasoned that if he dumped the cage over, his
potential cricket pool increased dramatically. He tested his theory with
great success at his mother’s feet.
“EEEEEECCCCCCKKKKKK” Her feet shot into orbit. “I’m being
attacked by a herd of carnivorous crickets. Get a gun. Get me out of
here,” she screamed, contemplating whether to leap all the way to shore or
run over the water surface. Only the thought that she might encounter
snakes or even worse – spiders – prevented her from actually attempting it!
“Hurry up with my pole, Daddy. I want to fish NOW. I never get to fish.
You’re not doing it right. You messed up my pole, Daddy,” barked Stevie.
“Daddy, don’t hurt Fred or Barney or any of my pet crickets so I can put
them on my hook,” Daniel warned.
Meanwhile, a herd of stampeding crickets in full revolt unceremoniously
stomped the fish flapping in the bottom of the boat.
“Now, I got a pet fish! Can I keep him, Daddy? Can I sleep with him,
Mommy? Please? Please?”
Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled ominously. Oddly, it sounds
almost as if my father fell off his rocking chair while laughing in Heaven.
Finally, we headed off the Great Cricket Stampede at the pass between
the gas tank and the tackle box and rounded up most of the mavericks.
Two of the more troublesome ringleaders met their fate on hooks.
Now, I turned my attention to Stevie’s tangled heap of plastic and
monofilament. As I untangled it, I made the mistake of suggesting that I
might cast it for him. Wrong move. Mr. “I DO IT MYSELF” snatched the tiny
Mickey Mouse rod from my hand. For a tiny tot whose major muscles were
mostly in his mouth and lungs, he achieved amazing distance on the cast.
That rod could really sail. With splendid aim, it landed in “fishy” spot.
Only one problem. When I cast a rod, I usually don’t CAST A ROD!
Drowning fast, Mickey succumbed to the now swelling, black waves.
Fortunately, the hook steadfastly punctured into my neck, preventing
Mickey from ending in a watery grave – like Stevie’s last rod! I extracted
the hook from only marginally critical areas with minimal loss of blood and
tissue before pulling in the wayward rod.
“Daddy, Daddy, I got a fish. Help me reel him in,” Daniel proclaimed as
he dropped his rod and began hauling in the whopper hand over hand.
Much too slow, reels take too much work. Nothing compares to bringing in
a whopper by hand. Unfortunately, the line piled into a huge, slimy tangle
in the bottom of the boat.
“Honey, I’m stuck in a tree,” Sweetums pleaded. “Pull the boat over to
shore and get it off for me, paaaallllllllleesssse! I’ve got more fish to catch.
Hurry before the spiders crawl out on the line to get me!”
“Daddy, I didn’t even get to fish yet. Everybody’s catching fish but me
and it’s YOUR fault. I didn’t get nothing. Hurry up and fix my pole. I want to
fish,” Stevie ordered.
“Can I stop the bleeding first and put the pieces of my neck back in the
right places?”
“NO!” they yelled in unison.
“Daddy, I’ll help get Mommy’s line.”
“No, Daniel, don’t touch …” BRRROOOOMMMMMM “that!”
“Daddy, the motor is really loud when it is not in the water.”
“Yes, Daniel. That’s true. That’s why I USUALLY LIKE TO START IT
WHEN IT IS IN THE WATER!”
“I got a fish. I got a fish. Daddy, don’t mess it up this time. Get him in
right and give me another cricket.”
“Yes, Master Stevie.”
“Honey, why are you walking like Igor in an old monster movie? Quit
fooling around. I’m still stuck. I don’t have all day. There are fish to catch.
When are you going to get me loose, but don’t get too close to that tree
because there might be jumping spiders there. And don’t get any of your
blood on my new outfit. If you get blood on one part, it won’t match
anymore and you’ll have to buy me another one,” my understanding wife
remarked.
After landing Daniel’s fish and Stevie’s fish, unsnagging my wife’s line,
rebaiting hooks, unhooking fish, putting fish in the livewell, keeping tiny
hands away from Daddy’s gadgets, reanchoring the boat in position,
rounding up several more stray crickets, taking more hooks from my skin,
dodging when all three would cast, praying that nobody stepped on MY
rods, untangling lines, extracting hooks from Gordian tangles that I could
not conquer and retying them, Sweetums asked, “Honey, why aren’t you
fishing? I thought you liked to fish.”
“GRRRRRRRRRRRR”
“Okay, Honey, I can take a hint. I’ll take care of the boys while you fish,
but I’m not touching any crickets or fish or messing with anything in the boat
and I don’t know how to get the lines untangled or rerigged – AND I’M NOT
GOING ANYWHERE NEAR SPIDERS,” she offered.
With that hopeful thought, I finally picked up my rod and reached for
my own cricket. Just then, nearby thunder cracked.
“Honey, we’ve got to go now. I don’t want to be out in this storm.”
“Mommy, guess what. We outfished Daddy again!” those two lovable
varmints boastfully proclaimed.
But, it was family (ugh!) “fun.” Right? Well, maybe Daddy didn’t catch
any fish, but I did catch one thing. I sure filled a boat with wonderful
memories. Next time, though, I think I’ll heed my Dad’s sage advice and
decide to GO fishing and stick with it!
Parents can either go fishing
or take children fishing, not both
or take children fishing, not both
Steven Felsher shows off his first bass, caught while fishing with
his father in a marsh near Sulphur, La.
his father in a marsh near Sulphur, La.