Remembering the best days

Winter in 1992 had been cold and much too long – like most winters. Our spring fever finally gave way with the warm weather and my 6-year-old daughter asked me to take her fishing. I happily agreed, and the following Saturday we ventured off to a farm pond loaded with big bluegill, green sunfish and crappie.

Holly, my only child, spent most of her life going from place to place with me. The bright-eyed little squirt did not like to be left at home and seldom was except when I left for work, hunting or fishing trips. I waited until she was old enough to enjoy my world in the outdoors where conditions are not always comfortable for a young child. She was ready.

I bought her a Zebco 33 reel and matching rod the previous fall, the same outfit I used 22 years before. We practiced casting in our backyard that fall, and on winter days when conditions permitted a little girl outdoors. Practice paid off, and soon she started hitting the coffee can every other cast and eventually every cast.

Holly asked many questions during the 45-minute drive. We finally arrived, and the pond surface looked smooth – perfect for loading a stringer with big panfish. I cautioned her to watch out for snakes, and we moved down to the pond bank and settled in at my favorite spot. She insisted on hooking the worm, and I showed her how.

Soon her earthworm and rigging sailed through the air and landed close to an old log. Seconds later the red and white bobber nodded to the right, and rings on the pond surface started appearing. She pulled back on the rod when her bobber disappeared and started reeling her first fish, a decent-sized bluegill.

Her first fish fought well by pulling and turning sideways in the water. She bit her lower lip while reeling. The determined fish made several impressive runs before turning on its side, exhausted and beaten. I watched in amazement as she brought in the bluegill that soon flopped on the shoreline.

We fished that entire morning and caught many fine fish including a couple of green sunfish, bass and crappie. We released most of them. I explained to Holly the need for catch-and-release after we caught enough fish for one meal.

“Those others would be bigger and slightly smarter the next time we visit the pond,” I said. She accepted my explanation and cast to the same spot where a big bluegill engulfed her worm and hook. She wrestled another fine fish to the shore and I noticed a change.

She did not seem to be enjoying fishing like before, and I realized the importance of her quitting for a while. My insisting on her continuing to fish because the fish were biting would have been a huge mistake. After all, this trip was about Holly having fun. Her attention seemed to be drifting toward a nearby shallow cove. I gave her fatherly advice about watching out for snakes and off she went. Soon she was having fun while trying to catch tadpoles. I watched her splashing in the shallow cove and felt thankful that she had a change of clothing.

Holly lunged at a tadpole, and I started drifting back to my youth in the middle 1950s when my dad took me fishing. Like Holly, I sought out the mysteries of our pond. I could clearly see him standing on the shoreline, casting a bass lure while occasionally glancing to make sure I was not going to fall in deep water. I glanced back at Holly and suddenly felt like I was looking through my father’s eyes at my child trying to catch the fleeting tadpoles, frogs and minnows. Then I started finding what I wanted her to see:

A big crane flew past, quickly gaining altitude in the azure sky. I glanced down at a school of minnows feeding on little insects, aquatic vegetation or zooplankton in the shallows while themselves trying to avoid being devoured. A big water snake swam across the pond looking for a fat frog while dragonflies hovered over the water’s surface. Suddenly I was looking at nature through the eyes of a child.

I was roused out of my daydream by a little girl tugging on my shirt. “Hey daddy, why are the little fish in this shallow water instead of the middle where their big fish buddies stay?”

“Why does that big frog make such funny noises?”

“Why is a snapping turtle’s head so ugly?”

She asked several questions, some that I could not answer. I made a mental note to visit the library with her and research each observation.

We took a lunch break and she sat on her blanket with a sandwich while looking across the pond. I watched her studying the mossy shorelines and old rotten lily pads still floating from the previous fall. I knew she had discovered another world – like I had many years before. I understood why my father always took me fishing and wished he could be there. Maybe he was.

Soon Holly returned to patrolling the shoreline, as her fishing trip had become even more of an adventure. A colony of snails was discovered and her fingers were quickly covered in pond mud, slimy moss and snails. She ran over with a big smile and showed me the little shelled critters she had captured and started naming them.

I explained to her that this new groups of friends would no doubt survive better and be happier in the pond. Thankfully she listened. Soon the handful of snails flew through the air and made tiny splashes on the pond’s surface. I washed her hands from a canteen of fresh water we brought and she was off again, running past her fishing rod that laid abandoned on the bank to look for more “neat stuff.”

I started fishing again while watching my amazing daughter. I did not want that day to end.

The wind started blowing. I looked to the west and saw dark clouds moving closer. I yelled at Holly to come on, time to go. She looked disappointed and I was happy that she was, knowing she would want to go fishing with daddy again. Soon we sat in my old pickup and watched big raindrops pelt the pond’s surface. She studied the commotion and asked what the fish, frogs, snails, crawfish and tadpoles did during a storm and several other questions. I gave her explanations and soon we were driving home – or at least I was while she slept a deep, peaceful sleep that only a child can know.

I filleted our succulent bluegill, and that evening we enjoyed the best harvest of a spring day. Holly tasted her fish fillets with fried potatoes and brown beans.

I will cherish those days for the rest of my life. We made many more fishing trips until she discovered other distractions in her remarkable teen years. Now Holly is grown up, calls me “Dad” and is a registered nurse and the mother of my first granddaughter.

She still takes time for a fishing trip with me, but now they are fewer, yet still cherished. I will always see that beautiful little smiling girl holding up a big bluegill or lifting a handful of mud, moss and snails to show me what she caught on that warm, spring day.

How could I ever forget? She still remembers too. Consider taking your child fishing and make memories that will last forever.

Kenneth Kieser, a veteran outdoors writer and member of the Waterfowlers Hall of Fame and National Fresh Water Fishing Hall of Fame, writes a weekly outdoors column for The Examiner. Reach him at kieserkenneth@gmail.com