The Minnesota Farm Woman

Many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing that it is not fish they  are after.      Henry David Thoreau

As much as I yearn for the summer sun to warm my back as I work in the garden, I yearn for the glorious feeling of a boat rocking beneath my feet while I’m reeling in a fish. In the summer, of course, because I am a fair-weather fisherwoman. If I can’t be in the boat, the end of the dock will do. Each worm placed on the hook and each cast of the line gives one a wonderful sense of anticipation, and there’s nothing else quite like it. Each little tug on the line offers the same sense of anticipation, although more often than not, it is a tiny little sunfish nibbling rather than the monster bass I had pictured. Fishing is one of the few things that HE and I have in common. A few years ago, we were spending a lovely summer Sunday on the lake. It was early enough in the day that I wasn’t yet having that feeling of sadness that the weekend was over. The sun was warm enough, yet not too warm. The breeze was breezy enough to keep those pesky flies from nibbling at my ankles, and Barney the Chihuahua was curled up in my lap, taking an afternoon nap. He likes to go fishing as much as we do. I tossed my line into the perfect spot at the edge of the lily pads when the fish hit. It wasn’t a taste or even a nibble. It took my worm, the line went taut, and the pole bent over nearly double. I’ve been fishing that lake my whole life, and have never, ever had a fish that big on the end of my line. Whoa. “I’ve got a big one,” I said. HE, who rarely pays attention to what is on the end of my line sat up a little straighter. It was a fighter. Barney the Chihuahua woke up from his nap and stayed on my lap, but sat up to see what was going on. The reel of my fishing pole, made for catching small sunfish and crappie, was making noises that I had never heard before as I cranked it in. It fought, I cranked, they watched. I reached my right hand over to adjust the pole. The line snapped. HIM: “You touched the line.” Me (knowing full well that I touched the line): “No, I didn’t.” HIM: “Yes, you did.” Me: “No…I did…..yes, I did.” Shoot. I lost it. I lost the biggest fish I might have ever caught. Perhaps the biggest fish ever caught on that lake. I think he was big enough to have given me bragging rights and a lot of stories, but I touched the line and he became the fish that got away. The biggest fish I almost caught didn’t know this, but we would have taken his picture and let him go, because that’s what we do with great big fish on summer Sunday afternoons. If we catch them. If they get away, it just gives us something to look forward to the next time.