Going After the Lure
When we lived in Montpelier, the Father's and Sons campout was held next to a small winding river (under the reservoir if I remember correctly). The first thing I wanted to do when we got there was pick out my favorite lure and get straight to fishing.
Dad would tell me that the good fishing wouldn't be for a few more hours, but it didn't matter to me. I wanted to be the first to come back to camp with a fish to eat.
I would carefully examine my dad's tackle box for the perfect lure. I wasn't much of a bait guy (boring!). Nor was I too concerned with examining the natural habitat for what the fish my jump at naturally. None of those logical approaches were quite my style. I was all about Flash and Superstition.
The flashy lures were the colorful minnows and the shiny Mepps spinners. Fortunately for me, these were also the ones that I had built up into my head were the luckiest, (thus the role of Superstition). I also knew which lures my dad liked to fish, so these played into the superstition as well.
On this particular hike (I must have been 9 or 10), I chose a colorful minnow. My dad insisted that this wasn't the right lure for the small river, nor would it attract the fish I was trying to catch. I insisted, and my dad only relented after I promised I would go into the river and pull it out if it got stuck.
Of course, it got stuck.
Here's where things get fuzzy, because I've gotten LOTS of lures stuck, and after such a long time, all the stories run together. If I had to piece this particular story together one last time, I'd bet I went in the river all the way up to my neck (or at least my armpits) until I realized I wouldn't be able to reach it (the lure always looks closer than it really is). After getting all wet, I probably tugged on the line a few more times. Maybe it came out (I may have bent the hook), but it probably didn't. I would have left my rod on the bank, and gone for my dad to help me. After his obligatory yanks on the rod, he may or may not have gone in after it. I doubt he would have sent me in again after I already tried. In all likelihood, he probably just pulled out his ever-present fingernail clippers and crushed my spirit by giving up on a $2.00 lure.
I sure feel bad for all of my dad's lures I lost. Hopefully, they weren't too many.
Other Montpelier memories:
- Superman!
- walking home after church
- Asteroids, Space Invaders and the Atari 7800
- half time at the high school football games
- The Unfair Primary President
- cool Deacons sitting by themselves
- cool Blazers singing harmony
Dad would tell me that the good fishing wouldn't be for a few more hours, but it didn't matter to me. I wanted to be the first to come back to camp with a fish to eat.
I would carefully examine my dad's tackle box for the perfect lure. I wasn't much of a bait guy (boring!). Nor was I too concerned with examining the natural habitat for what the fish my jump at naturally. None of those logical approaches were quite my style. I was all about Flash and Superstition.
The flashy lures were the colorful minnows and the shiny Mepps spinners. Fortunately for me, these were also the ones that I had built up into my head were the luckiest, (thus the role of Superstition). I also knew which lures my dad liked to fish, so these played into the superstition as well.
On this particular hike (I must have been 9 or 10), I chose a colorful minnow. My dad insisted that this wasn't the right lure for the small river, nor would it attract the fish I was trying to catch. I insisted, and my dad only relented after I promised I would go into the river and pull it out if it got stuck.
Of course, it got stuck.
Here's where things get fuzzy, because I've gotten LOTS of lures stuck, and after such a long time, all the stories run together. If I had to piece this particular story together one last time, I'd bet I went in the river all the way up to my neck (or at least my armpits) until I realized I wouldn't be able to reach it (the lure always looks closer than it really is). After getting all wet, I probably tugged on the line a few more times. Maybe it came out (I may have bent the hook), but it probably didn't. I would have left my rod on the bank, and gone for my dad to help me. After his obligatory yanks on the rod, he may or may not have gone in after it. I doubt he would have sent me in again after I already tried. In all likelihood, he probably just pulled out his ever-present fingernail clippers and crushed my spirit by giving up on a $2.00 lure.
I sure feel bad for all of my dad's lures I lost. Hopefully, they weren't too many.
Other Montpelier memories:
- Superman!
- walking home after church
- Asteroids, Space Invaders and the Atari 7800
- half time at the high school football games
- The Unfair Primary President
- cool Deacons sitting by themselves
- cool Blazers singing harmony
Labels: Montpelier
posted by ronny at 20:42
1 Comments:
What about your baby sister's birth? Doesn't that count as a Montpelier memory? Where's the love?
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