A Bamboo Pole. A line. And a What If.
Bamboo.
Laying on a raft in my sister’s pool, I enjoyed the sun and pushed any thoughts of the damage it inflicted on my skin deep into my subconscious. And I heard knocking. A hollow sound.
The wind tossing the bamboo trees into each other.
I began to lazily fixate on the bamboo, how it swayed to-and-fro. Eagerly anticipating the occasional crack of one hitting the other.
We have bamboo in Madison — thankfully across Main Street. As I walk the dog, I take note of it’s green shoots pricking and filling the voids between neighboring lawn.
This bamboo was different. More mature.
Suddenly I had an irrepressible urge to hack one down and tie a line to the narrow end. A line with a hook.
Do any of you remember cane poles?
I am five or six years old standing with my dad amongst the aisles in some hardware store. He’s grabbing a cane pole with his right and a red and white bobber in the left.
Before Zebco, before Shakespeare — before any highfalutin Bass Pro Shop paraphernalia, it was an umber 12-foot stick of bamboo with a line holding a hook tied to the top. The barbs of which bit perfectly into the hole at the end of the pole for easy transportin’ to and from the lake. Funny how God had that all figured out.
That’s how my fishing career started.
Six years old standing on the bank of the little lake in front of my house, cane pole in grasp, line submerged. Eyes trained on the red and white bobber hoping to see it start to dance.
Fishing career you ask? I was quite the fisherman till puberty hit twisting and torquing the life out of a tomboy’s existence. Too bad really but I still love to fish. I’ve just been taking a few decades off.
Mom would give me some molding bread which I would spit, roll and pierce with the hook.
Not much hit my bread lure but panfish, and I caught tons.
But I used to watch the women sitting on buckets at the water’s edge across the pond.
Their dark faces shadowed by straw hats and their legs swathed in bolts of cotton gathered up into skirts. Every now and then, I’d see them haul in a big one. Swinging their cane pole line out of the water so that the catch dropped flippn’ and floppn’ on the sandy bank.
A bass.
I wanted one of those big guys so very badly. Not that I knew what lust was — but I had it for those bass. It was like watching our neighbors every Christmas Day. New bikes. New Walkie Talkies. Even a robust pair of clackers. The toy that my mom knew would knock every tooth from my head.
With no concept of Thou Shalt Not Covet (so was it really a sin?) — I coveted every one of those bass going home as dinner for the women across the lake.
I knew what the difference was. My fellow fishermen didn’t use any sorry spit wad of dried bread.
They used worms. What self-respecting bass would chomp down on a mushy piece of toast? We were talking bass. The king of fish as far as my little lake and my little self was concerned.
And for the life of my young self, I couldn’t figure out how and where to acquire those squirmy devils.
I could have walked over and asked the women. But I was way too timid. They seemed ancient and wise in the ways of fishing and I was just a little white girl who used bread for bait.
I kind of knew that there might be worms lurking in the rich dirt (okay rich sand) under the carpet of Live Oak leaves in our shaded back yard.
But that would have taken finding a shovel. And digging holes. And messing up azalea beds. And my mom would have gone crazy.
The whole acquiring worms process seemed fraught with problems too overwhelming for six-year-old me to solve.
So I sat on the bank with my bread. Hauling in my bluegills. And waiting for the thrill of those unexpected moments, when women across the lake would pull forth a bass.
