THE JAR AND THE TURTLE

[HOLWACHAGOT]

28 years ago...Am I that old?...I got up as soon as soon as Dad left for work. I had not slept a wink the night before due to several factors: fear of getting caught and anxious anticipation of huge fish being two of them. The third reason rising early was so important is that I knew once mom woke up I would not be able to access the jar. Sure, every kid tries to pillage the cookie jar at some point in their youth, especially if they are half as mischievous as I was; but this was not the jar I was planning on pilfering. Nope, not a coin jar either. I wanted flour.
The evening before I had carefully packed the old 1940 something green army knapsack Grandpa gave me with the finest equipment a six year old had access to, all simple but effective tools I would need in my morning adventure. A spool of string, a little tin of hooks that Roses used to sell, a canteen of water which was most likely unfit for consumption, a pocket knife and a pack of potato chips, and a little plastic bag I would need first thing in the morning: if I could make it to the jar without being caught.
As soon as Dad’s truck hit the street to head for work I pulled the Knapsack from the closet and snuck down the stairs to the kitchen. I had slept in my shorts and a T-shirt. Shoes? Yeah right! No self respecting outdoor survivor needs shoes to go where I was heading, besides, the bottom of my feet were like leather at this point in the summer vacation.
To this day, I can’t get flour out of a bag or jar without leaving a trail across the counter, which I have finally learned to clean up at least half the time. At six years old you can imagine the trail I left across the kitchen counter. I filled the little bag from my knapsack up with flour, returned it to the knapsack, and snuck out the door. The sun was not up all the way but the mosquitoes certainly were. I swatted those bloodthirsty rascal for the rest of the morning. They seemed to be trying to carry me off to a place they could eat me.
Across the street from the house was a vacant lot and adjacent to that were farm fields. The corn was already as tall as I was and provided excellent cover in case the neighbors, or mom, were watching. Barefooted, I walked down the corn row to the farm lane that led down by the pond. Once I hit the lane nothing could stop me from making it to the willow tree I was heading for. Dad had taken me there several times to fish so I knew how to get there. I also knew that under it’s branches, which hung right to the water, lurked several hundred of the biggest, meanest bream, any fisherman ever wanted to catch. Man did I wish those cane poles weren’t kept on the ceiling rod racks. One of those would have been real nice to have right now. They would have given me away to Dad though: I was forbidden to go to the lake without parental or adult supervision. The spool would work.
The base of the willow tree was a fisherman’s nirvana. The tree started out of the ground a few feet from the water’s edge and immediately bent towards the lake. The tree wanted to be near the water as bad as I did. Where the trunk bent was a seat that could not have been carved intentionally to make a better place to fish from Taking the knapsack off, I ever so carefully, dumped it’s contents on the ground. I picked up a beer can, probably left by one of the neighborhood teenagers, and took out my pocket knife to cut the top from it. The flour had spilled when I "ever so carefully" dumped the knapsack and it’s bag unzipped, leaving a pile on the ground much like the one I left on the kitchen counter that morning. No problem, I scooped up enough to fill the can more than halfway. I opened the canteen and dumped it’s rust colored contents into the flour and began stirring it with a willow branch. Once the dough was properly thickened it was set on the ground and the meticulous rigging process begun. The little tin of hooks was a nightmare to open. Just enough rust had formed to make the tin impossible to take apart. I poked a hole in the top of it with the knife I was forbidden to touch and spilled the hooks everywhere. A minor setback, at least I got one out. Panic had nearly set in before as I thought I would never get the can open. Now came the important part...these sunfish were big so I knew only a strong knot would suffice...this called for six granny knots instead of three...it would hold twice as good. Several pinches of dough were tossed out under the tree into the water and the next pinch was carefully molded onto my hook. The hook had not even hit the water when the swirls began. The residents took little time to start on the chum and when my hook did hit the water the line darted off before it could sink out of sight. It zipped left, then right, then back to the left, all the while violently shaking the spool in my hand before I landed the first of several sunfish. Onto the bank he went and I baited up and tossed out again.
About seven or eight sunfish lay on the bank when I saw a huge swirl..".WHOAH! What was that?" This time I tossed out and the line sank longer than usual then left very slowly. The line cut into my hand a little but I kept pulling. Up out of the water came the dreaded mouth of a snapping turtle. AWE MAN...Now I would have to retie the line to another hook. I dragged him up on the bank and away from my spot and I wrapped the line around a clump of weds and cut it off. This rascal was not gonna get to go back in the water and scare my fish. I tossed more chum and began to tie another six granny knot...that's when I heard a truck coming down the lane.
It was Mr Hudgins the farmer. He pulled up and walked over to where I was with a smile the size of Texas on his face...
"You better get home boy"
"Why, you said I could fish here...I promise I’ll clean up all these hooks I spilled"
His smile broke into hysterical laughter..."It ain’t me you need to worry about, It’s your mom"
"Did you talk to her?"
"No, your Dad called me"
"WHAT FOR?", fear had just reached a new level in my six year old brain
"Well, seems he had a good idea where you might be when your mom called to report the kidnappers. Grab your stuff and jump in the truck, I’ll carry you back to the house"

The ass chewing I received from mom must have been heard all the way into Norfolk at Dad’s work because he never said a word to me when he got home.
He did ask mom a peculiar question though when he came through the door that evening..."What’s for dinner? Turtle soup or fried Sunfish?"
I’ll never forget the look she cut him across the room as I heard her cuss for the first time I could remember..."Fix your own Damn dinner".

Holwachagot

[Avenger]

That was a really great read. Thanks for sharing.

[TriAngler]

Golden!

Thanks for the memory. I get busted by with the flour on the counter every time.

[ejstenger]

I have a kind of sad story. My Dad took me fishing when I was maybe five and he had caught several good size large mouth bass. I, like any kid would do was admiring them and the biggest one flip/ flopped and into the lake. Of course I got blamed and when we got home Dad told Mom that he would never take me fishing again and Mom said " then you won't go either". Sorry to say it was my Dad's last fishing trip.

[Capt Josh]

Holwachagot great read amigo...thanks for the laugh!

[SeaBiscuit]

Great story, told right. Thanks Geoff!
Biscuit

[Dave Sikorski]

Are working on a book I should know about? Damn fine story Geoff.

-D

[clt_capt]

Great read. Just go easy on the Captain when he leaves ballyhoo slime on the counter

[hotrodmarlin]

Now thats a good story-

[gottaflylee]

A classic my friend...a classic...