February 29, 2008 04:06 pm
—
By Annette Sleyman Szymula
It seemed like an innocuous way to spend an afternoon with my daughter.
She wanted to go fishing along the canal. It was a pleasant summer day. We had no particular plans. The water in the canal looked so murky, that it doubtless had smothered all life forms long ago. She’d cast a line, wait until she got bored, ask for an ice cream cone, and we’d head home before her father’s golf game was over. She would never catch anything, right? Wrong!
To set the stage for this adventure, the reader must be informed that yours truly is a born and bred, city girl. The closest I ever came to communing with nature, was cutting grass and raking leaves on a medium sized urban lot. My father’s idea of athletic prowess, was serving a tennis ball to the far end of the court. The only fish I met personally were deep fried or fishsticked.
It was my dear husband, who planted the idea in my eight-year-old daughter’s brain. Each summer he’d wax poetic about his youthful visits to various lakes with his family or friends. He assured us that nothing tasted better than fresh caught trout grilled over an open fire. This was all that our daughter Vicky needed to hear. Her tomboy soul rose to the challenge: She would learn to fish.
At first, it was heartwarming to stand back and watch father and daughter bond at Johnson’s Country Store, choosing rods and testing reels. My husband imparted his considerable knowledge to the only one of his female offspring who seemed remotely interested this quintessential man’s sport. Unfortunately, his work schedule and a series of weekend golf tournaments postponed the fishing expedition they had planned. Thus, it fell to me to take my daughter to the canal bank that fateful day.
Vicky asked if her buddy, Johnny, could tag along with us, and I agreed. One more ice cream treat would not break the bank. The children piled into the minivan with their rods and tackle boxes in tow. During the short drive to the other side of town, they managed to not poke out each other’s eyes. So far, so good.
I pulled into the gravel lined parking lot near the section of the canal known as Wide Waters. The three of us hiked along the towpath into the park. Then we strolled over to a couple of inviting boulders near the shore. I held the rods so the junior anglers could rummage through their packs of lures and make their selections. I smiled with pride as Vicky carefully attached her imitation worm to the hook, sprayed it with some essence, and declared like an expert, “This spray is guaranteed to attract bass. Johnny, I recommend that you try it, too.”
The children sat on separate boulders. They cast their lines, waited, reeled them in, discussed the pros and cons of their models and lures, and whether they had chosen their spot wisely. They sipped cans of root beer and waited. They were having a ball.
Whenever I ventured to give my opinion, my daughter shot me a condescending look and explained that she slinked back to my lawn chair, chagrined. After all, who wanted to listen to someone whose only experience with a fishing pole was in a wading pool at the church bazaar?
I confined myself to admonishments about getting too close to the edge, and sat back to enjoy the scenery and wave as boaters sailed by. The Erie Barge Canal is so peaceful, that I love to sit by its cobblestone banks and meditate. It certainly is one of the more enjoyable perks of living upstate.
Suddenly my reverie was pierced by a delighted squeal.
“Mom, I think I caught one!” Vicky yelled, as she frantically reeled in the line.
Copyright © 1999-2008 cnhi, inc.