Cranberry Red: A Novel

36. Fishing with Lars

149 The weather had been pleasantly warm for late September in Wisconsin. The trees had begun turning color: brilliant red maples, bright yellow aspens . The sweet corn harvest was in full swing; semi-load after semi-load rolled through Willow River on the way to Markesan and the big canning plant there. Potato farmers hurried to dig their hundreds of acres of potatoes and haul them to the huge potato warehouses scattered throughout western Ames County. Farmers, those with beef or dairy cattle, were cutting field corn for silage and filling long white plastic tubes that several years ago began replacing upright silos. Home gardeners busied themselves picking the final crop of green beans, cutting broccoli, slicing the heads off cabbage, digging late potatoes , gathering up squash and pumpkins, and otherwise preparing for frost, which, if the season was like other years, might come any night now. When Friday night arrived, Ben Wesley was exhausted, both physically and emotionally. Slowly he had adjusted to the heavy schedule of field visits, office calls, and speaking engagements. But the work tired him, wore him down to a frazzle. Beth was not sympathetic when he came home complaining about how tired he felt. “Now you know a little of how I feel when I come home from the hospital after standing up all day,” she said when he arrived home and commented on the challenges of his week. “You should be so pleased you have such a good job and with such a prestigious university.” Fishing with Lars 36 “I am glad I have a job,” Ben said. “And I work hard, too, if you haven’t noticed,” Ben remarked, a bit put-off from his wife’s nagging. Ben opened the fridge, pulled out a Point Special, and settled down in his favorite chair. He flipped open his cell phone, scrolled his contact list, and punched the number for his old friend Lars Olson. After Lars quickly answered, he said, “Lars, this is Ben. How are ya?” “Fair to middling. How are things with you?” “Could be better. But I’m muddling through,” said Ben. “Yup, what I always say is you do the best you can with what you got,” Lars said. “Say, Lars, the reason I’m calling. What do you say we go fishing tomorrow? The bluegills ought to be biting on Mt. Morris Lake. A mess of bluegills cooked on the grill would sure go good.” “Well, let me check my busy schedule,” Lars said, laughing. “Sure, let’s go fishing. You gonna pick me up?” “I will. How about, say, 7:30 tomorrow morning? I’ll hitch my old boat to the pickup and bring along a bunch of worms and little minnows. All you need to bring is yourself and your fishing poles.” “Deal,” said Lars. “See you in the morning.” Like the several days before, Saturday dawned clear and warm, an ideal day for fishing or doing just about anything else. Ben backed his old twelve-foot Sears Aluminum boat down the concrete ramp at the Mt. Morris Lake boat landing, while Lars Olson, with hand signals, directed the exercise. With the battery, electric motor, fishing rods, life preservers, fishing boxes, and bait in place, the two old friends pointed the boat toward what the locals referred to as the second lake in the chain that made up Mt. Morris Lake. Some years ago Ben had purchased an electric motor. Although it was much less powerful than the gasoline models, and considerably slower as well, Ben appreciated the motor’s light weight, its quiet operation, and its nonpolluting qualities. “Should be a good day for bluegills,” Lars said as he readied his spinning rod with the new Johnson reel he had gotten for his birthday. He carefully knotted a hook on his line and dug through his rather messy 150 Fishing with Lars 151 Fishing with Lars fishing box for a red and white bobber, which he snapped on the line. He then threaded a fat night crawler on the hook. They motored by mostly empty cottages owned by folks who spent summer vacations on the lake, people from Milwaukee and Madison, from Oshkosh and Fond du Lac, and several from the Chicago area as well. A handful of people lived full time on the lake, maybe three or four families, among the more than fifty cottages that lined the banks. “I...