Angling with Opal
In Grandma Opal’s world, Tuesday is fishing day.
But again, so is Thursday, Friday, and, if you’re
Extremely fortunate, Saturday and Sunday as well.
Any day of the week, around Grandma’s farm and
The environs, there is good fishing. Those bluegill
Don’t stand a chance. The time of departure is
Always six a.m.
Daybreak unfolds the way it always does on Grandma’s
Farm, with the sun peeping through shredded clouds and
Laying on lacquers of vermilion, rose-pink, and orange.
Rays of early sunlight first caressed the base of the
Clouds, then speared through their fluffy, cottony
Fabric like flaming lances. Next, from the top spilled
Out a kaleidoscopic layer of magenta, like a fiery
Volcanic explosion of raspberry jam,
When all of this is going on at four thirty to five a.m.,
It is still dark, but more dusky than black. at that hour.
In the morning, normally exuberant dogs won’t bark.
They, too, are enjoying the majesty of the sunrise. But
The birds: the seeming millions of sparrows, cocky
Blue jays, gorgeous cardinals, fat starlings, ladderback
Woodpeckers and a hundred other avian varieties,
Loud, chirping and tweeting and singing their songs of
Life. And, even now, in the middle of summer, there
Are no mosquitoes. They, too, have their own hours.
By six a.m., they’ll be out and about, but not yet.
The electric power lines are starkly visible in the
Expanding light. They stand out and like thick black
Garlands adorning a room where a party will be held.
Countless birds are already perched along their lengths,
Solemnly observing the earth below. As it grows lighter,
The grass turns from black to gray to blue. It rained last
Night. It rains every night during the summer, for exactly
Ten minutes, not a gullywasher but a steady sprinkle,
Depositing just enough moisture to soften the soil so you
can dig for earthworms for bait. That’s Grandpa’s job.
By quarter to six, Grandpa comes lumbering in,
Squinting through his Coke-bottle-thick spectacles,
Huffing up the back porch stairs while carrying a metal
Bucket containing at least six million worms, newly dug.
Grandma growls, “Jap, you smell like worms!” He
Snorts, looking up. “Be still, old woman,” he replies in
Mock rebuke. But he takes himself off to the bathroom,
Where he avails himself of the Hai Karate cologne
That one of the grandkids gifted him at Christmas.
While Grandpa has been digging bait, Grandma and the rest
Of us have been gathering provisions: fishing poles, rods,
Reels, heavy blue tackle boxes, stringers, creels, scalers,
Fillet knives, fishing knives, at least ten thousand complex
And exotic fishing lures, extra lines, fish hooks, lead sinkers,
Corks—you name it, we take it. We pack all this stuff, along
With five people and one dog, into my grandma’s newest
Buick.Muscle Car. It has a.351 engine, I think; The lady
Loves to lay rubber, even on a dirt road.
After driving endless miles and conversing with every living
Resident of Franklin County, we arrive at our destination.
We had already passed it at least an hour before. For
Grandma, fishing is like any other excursion: she always
Comes clad in a perfectly proper, albeit comfortable, dress.
Usually a red print. And Grandpa is always attired in his
Tan Dickies work clothes, a can of Skoal tucked away in his
Shirt pocket.
And Grandma is a smoker. Before I enter kindergarten,
She tries to teach me the alphabet by referencing the back of
A pack of Lucky Strikes: “Can you say these letters, Sugar?”
She asks, turning over the pack to reveal LSMFT.
Embossed on the back. “That means, ‘Lucky Strikes Means
Fine tobacco!’ ” She explained. And she grins eerily. I nod
My head vigorously and, a little freaked out, I walk over to
Stand by my mother.
We fish all day, I get sunburned, and Mom gets a headache–
It happens every time—and Grandma yanks the head off.
A turtle. Say what? Well, it happens this way: Grandma
Uses one of her best fishing lures, a large red thing, and
The turtle has the mendacity to swallow it. I still don’t see how
He goes it down his tiny throat. Grandma hoists the large
Reptile into the air by the fishing line he’d swallowed, and she
Beats him, muttering, “That lure cost me nine dollars, and you
Won’t need it wherever you’re going.”
At length, frustrated by reckoning with the uncooperative turtle,
Grandma slams his carapace against the muddy bank and
Placing one booted foot onto his back, she tugs with all her
Might. The turtle’s head snaps off and swings by the fishing line,
Mesmerizing me. I think I’m going to be sick. “I told you
I’d get that lure back,” she intones gravely to the bodiless turtle
Head. I go to stand by my mom again.
Throughout the long day, fish are snatched from the lake like
Nobody’s business. Grandpa says at one point that we’ve caught
More than a hundred bluegill. A while later, I approach Grandma and
find her taking her hook out of a large, incredibly ugly fish. “What’s
That?” I ask, pointing to the creature. She snorts. “Carp,” she says.
Dismissively. I look at her questioningly. “Ain’t nothin’ But bones,
Sugar,” she tells me, and she leaves the fish to die on the bank.
The fishing trip concludes with us speeding back into town in the
Buick, not much the worse for wear. Arriving back at the little farm,
Grandpa immediately appropriates the catch and repairs to the
Garden house, out beyond the vegetable garden. There he
Proceeds to whack the heads off the exhausted, oxygen-starved
Bluegill and eviscerate them. And he isn’t wasteful of time, running.
Through the fish like a Ginzu chef. At length he returns to the kitchen
With what must be twenty pounds of fish. Grandma rapidly disposes
Of them, wrapping most in white freezer paper and trundling them
Off to the deep freeze.
But she selects at least five pounds of bluegill for supper. She
Dips the fillets in milk and eggs, then dredges them in seasoned
Flour. Next, she dips them into the milk mix again, and finally,
Through an intensely seasoned concoction of corn meal. They go
Into the iron skillet. The oil crackles vigorously.
But I see none of this. While the cooking is proceeding apace,
My mom and I are assessing the damage to my person: several
Ticks are removed from my hair; both knees are scuffed.
And we discover an infestation of the dreaded chigger. The only
Known cure for chiggers is a liberal application of fingernail
Polish remover, preferably in a neutral scent. So I skulk around
For the rest of the evening, smelling like a fingernail salon. By now
The little house is filled with the heady, intoxicating aroma of frying
Fish. My mouth waters.
Supper is almost ready. Grandma places a large platter of perfectly
Fried bluegill on the kitchen table. We all dig in as if we had never
Tasted fish before. And we haven’t, either. At least not this good.
“That’s a mess of fish, Jap,” remarks Grandma, matter-of-
Factly. “Sure is, Ope,” agrees, Grandpa, talking around a face full
Of fish. Corn meal dribbles down his shirt and his glasses have
Grease on them, but he pays this no mind.
Outside the kitchen door, the crickets begin to sing. The sun is down
Now, and it gets notably cooler in the kitchen. In the distance, a dog
Barks at a full moon. Grandma looks my way. “Get enough to eat,
Sugar?” I nod enthusiastically. I don’t suppose that at that instant. I
wondered if, sixty years later, I would remember every detail of that
Magical, wonderful day.
