 My cats are there as well, surveying the scene. They probably think
they've died and gone to cat heaven. I can see it on their
bewhiskered faces: "There are so many feathered fritters here, I
can't decide which one is going to be my breakfast!"
Which reminds me, I need to feed the cats.
Soon, my children will rise and begin foraging for worms as well.
Not to eat, of course. I do have Froot Loops in the cupboard. The
reason they want the worms is because they want to go fishing.
This is where I begin rooting for the birds. "Eat, you little
feathered feasters! Eat!" The less worms left on the ground, the
better, because my children won't stop fishing (and I use that term
loosely) until the worms are gone. The longer they fish, the more
pants we have to burn... I suspect this might need some explaining.
Fishing should be a relaxing pastime, I know, and it is... unless
you are fishing with children.
The first thing to be done is to make sure the poles are
fish-worthy. You grab the first fishing pole from the heap they were
left in the last time the family went fishing. It can't be done. The
cluster of poles is not willing to give up one of their own. They
seem to say: "You take us all, or you take nothing!"
You look at the tangled maze of fishing line, rusty tackle,
dried-up bait and bobbers. Apparently, this is the perfect habitat
for all manner of tiny arachnids to make their home as well. Ew! You
grab all of the poles, just to break up the party, and because you
don't have a choice. Then you line them up on the floor. It's
difficult to tell the spider webs from the fishing line, but
eventually, you've got them separated and equipped with the correct
tackle.
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 Now for the hard part... Oh, you thought that was the hard part?
That's funny! No, the hard part is watching these young children
flailing rods, lines and hooks hither and yon with no apparent goal
in mind other than perhaps hooking one of their siblings.
As parents, we run around baiting hooks and yelling, "Keep it in
the water!" and "Watch your bobber!" and "Didn't you go before we
left the house?"
Eventually, miraculously, one of them manages to hook a bluegill.
Rather than reel it in, her brain stops functioning entirely, and
she lifts the entire 8 feet of line, fish and all, up out of the
water. As my husband runs to help with the net, she swings around,
staring at the fish, and hits her dad in the head with her pole. The
now-swinging fish wraps the line around his leg. At his howl, the
other would-be fishers pivot in unison to trap him between the
lethal, bait-laden lines. He swerves, the worm bucket tips over, his
shoe gets caught in the net, and down he goes. The next thing he
knows, he's sitting with a bluegill flapping in his lap and a dozen
well-flattened night crawlers between the ground and his backside.
"I caught a fish!" she yells. Somehow, the joy on her face is
worth having worm guts plastered all over your backside. I think,
though, rather than laundering those pants, we'd better just burn
them.
[By LAURA SNYDER]
Laura Snyder is a nationally syndicated columnist,
author and speaker. You can reach her at
lsnyder@lauraonlife.com
or visit www.lauraonlife.com
for more info.
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