Another Fishing Story: Why I Don't Fish

FICTION Another Fishing Story: Why I Don't Fish Walter Lane WHEN GRANDPA WAS YOUNG the creek was clearer and the fish were bigger. Grandpa lost two fingers fishing—a short fuse on the dynamite. He would drop dynamite in the creek, the plentiful fish would be stunned, and they would float on top. He would net them. My mom fished with a pole—she was a woman. I didn't fish. I got poison ivy in the weeds. My cousin stole some of Grandpa's fishing "supplies" when he was fourteen. He and a neighbor blew driftwood clear onto the state highway. My cousin continued the traditional family way of fishing. Then, having delusions of being a writer, so the psychiatrist says (if editors publish your writings, I ain't figured out why that don't count), I wrote a story about my cousin dynamiting fish—not for Field and Stream. Well, I never realized game wardens could read. And my cousin got paranoid, too. The psychiatrist says all them people from the federal, state and local government that ask questions about me and my acquaintances is called paranoia. You get really paranoid even when the health department comes out and checks your septic tank pipe discharge. My cousin wasn't really concerned about the game warden, but that fellow supposedly from the A.T.F. had him upset. He told me that me being the one "they" was really interested in, I should invite the A.T.F. man boat fishing at the lake with us. I had never been in a boat, but I dutifully asked the guy we all knew was from the A.T.F. to go early morning fishing. I learned when I visited the city, those guys who run around in trenchcoats in warm weather, like Inspectors Clouseau and Colombo, always seem receptive to talking to me. One Saturday morning, he met us where my cousin kept his boat docked. It took a while to get launched because I insisted on a life jacket—my cousin said a life jacket would not make a difference. The reputed A.T.F. man was dressed like a fisherman in sporting goods magazine—suspicious to us. When we got in a secluded part of the lake, my cousin pulled out a long-fused stick of dynamite, lit it and calmly handed it to the A.T.F. man, who screamed, "Don't you know this is illegal?" 62 He didn't get us blowed up—he fished! I don't fish anymore. If some experienced A.T.F. man takes a dangerously long time to fish, I'm afraid I'll lose more than two fingers like Grandpa did. My cousin will be angry with me again. He doesn't understand why a writer's politics should interfere with his family's fishing. The A.T.F. don't understand—dynamite don't kill people—guns do. Now a license is required to get access to fishing "supplies" regularly. Another fishing story not for Field and Stream—another delusion— when the psychiatrist examines me again. Redbuds Redbuds edge the field Just above the leaf-filled spring Soft pastel with brown. Around the road's curve Florescent lavender against Bleached sycamore bones. Vases of redbud Elegant spring recompense For snowstorm wreckage. On Narrow Gap Road Faded lavender dances With shiny young green. By the muddy footpath Winding through fire-charred woods Emerging redbud shoot. Dark limbs of redbud Bow after the morning rain Silver glistens on green. —Barbara Wade 63 ...