Cain

W O R D S • I D E A S : C A I N

Fishing Lessons by Cain

“Again. ”

The boy sighed heavily and looked up at him from under his brow.

“Seriously?”

His grandfather looked down, his expression unwavering, until the boy sighed again and set to untangling his line.

“I thought fishing was supposed to be fun… ” the youngster grumbled. He fumbled with a bird nest for a moment or two and then cut the line right near the reel and cast it aside, starting from scratch.

“It’s fun, if you know what you’re doin’ . ” The eldest turned a few cranks on his old Zebco, shifted in his chair a bit and sighed contentedly. It was a good night; the sun was setting behind them and there was a soft breeze blowing a warm roasted aroma across the fields from the Brown’s tobacco barn. The only sound were the crickets and frogs celebrating the dusk around them.

“Well, how come you got the good pole and you gave me this janky one?” the boy complained. It was a Zebco too, but it was an open-faced reel. He had been struggling with it begrudgingly for almost an hour after his grandfather had given him a brief tutorial on the two-part casting.

“You already know how to use this one, bud. Always good to learn something new. ” he pulled his bait from the pond and flicked his wrist to the left casting into the corner with a short “ztt!” followed by a satisfying “ploop!”

The boy looked at the reel in his hand distastefully.

“Seems an awful lot like work to me… ”

There are moments in ones’ life when it seems like time has indeed stopped for an instant. Hearing his father’s words from his grandson’s mouth, the elder could swear the twilight clouds had a moment of sobriety in their drug addled march into the night, freezing in the sky as if the world had simply stopped moving.

“Give it here, boy, ” the grandfather said softly, but instead of trading him reels he sat his down and took his grandson’s into his lap. The boy started to protest, thought better of it, and muttered his thanks. The elder went to work on the line with worn yet nimble fingers as he scanned the tree line across the field.

“This is a test son. You take tests in school yeah?”

“Yes, sir. ”

“Is a test supposed to be easy?”

“ …No, sir. ”

The eldest pulled the knot tight around the hook and then bit the end of the line off with his teeth. He passed the rod back to the youngest and handed him a bucket of night crawlers as well.

“Here’s the thing; life ain’t always gonna’ give you the tools you’re familiar with. Sometimes you’ve got to deal with shit with the tools you have available, so you have to learn to adapt. So do I, so does Mamaw and Mom and Dad...it’s just a part of life, buddy. ”

The youngest stood by the edge of the bank, looking out at the water and pretended to cast his line. The eldest noticed his hand positioned on the rod so that he could hold the line in place and smiled.

“Adapt… ” the boy muttered to himself. He practiced his cast again once, twice, three times, smiled proudly to himself and confidently approached the edge of the dock. The eldest watched as he precisely positioned his hands, pinned the line, flipped the release over and then drew the rod up, up, up above his head with the tip pointing directly behind him towards the ground. He hesitated for just a second and then all at once he lurched forward, releasing with one hand while hanging on with the other, sending the line running away from the reel with a melodic “Zzzzzzzzzzz” followed by…

Nothing.

One looked at the other, the other looked back, and they both looked out over the pond.

Nothing.

Then the boy looked up and reached over excitedly to tap the eldest on the knee.

“Papaw!! Papaw!!” Up there! Look!”

Sure enough, up above them suspended between the darkening sky and the still waters of the pond was the boys tackle, wrapped around the power lines that ran directly over the middle of the pond and then in front of the barn.

“Hmph...welp… ” started the eldest.

“Shit, ” the youngest finished, avoiding the glare of his grandfather and wondering at his lost bait.

“What part of the lesson is this, papaw?”

“Well, bud...this is called bad luck right here aaaaaaannnnnnnddddd…… ” he drew it out as he reached over for his trusty closed face Zebco 33 “we ain’t got time for all that this evening. ” He passed over the old pole, much to the delight of his grandson. “Meeeow, go fish over there in that corner, buddy, while Papaw sits here and reads for a bit. Let’s listen for the whippoorwills and the owls, huh?”

He didn’t get an answer, which was fine of course.

The boy was fishing.

Cain is a creative soul hailing from Southern Kentucky where he lives on a peaceful dead end street with his wife, their wonderful boy and adorable smallish dog. He's been writing for almost twenty years in many different forms. His poetry has been published by Between Shadows Press, and he has had creative non-fiction published in Bone and Ink Press' online Literary Magazine.

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