Why Kids Love Their Grandfathers

        WHY KIDS LOVE THEIR GRANDFATHERS

                             By David Blackburn

My grandparents were cattle ranchers in West Texas. My grandfather's grandfather moved to Texas in the early 1840's when Texas was still a nation; he built a ranch and a family that endured for many generations and was the foundation for our values of hard work and ethical behavior. I have always considered myself very fortunate to be part of this frontier lineage. When I was very young, I would usually spend a few weeks each summer with my grandparents at the ranch. I enjoyed this immensely and still consider these times as some of the best in my life. The greatest memory I have of my grandfather stems from one of these visits. 

My grandfather was a kind and wonderful man who considered me to be his favorite grandchild. He always took some extra effort to teach me as much as he could about life on the ranch, the animals and the outdoors, and did his best to put me on the right path in life. He also taught me how to fish and my first fishing experience is something that I will never forget.

I was about five years old in the 1950’s when my grandfather asked if I would like to go fishing with him. I jumped at the chance; I had seen other kids and adults fish before, but I was always considered too young to fish myself. I suspect the other folks thought I would end up scaring the fish away, so I had to be content as an observer when one of my older cousins pulled in a big bass or catfish. When my grandfather offered to take me fishing I knew that I was no longer a baby and I was more than eager to throw my line in the water and take my place amongst the older kids and adults. I was beyond excited; I raced around the house as my grandmother made sandwiches for us and my grandfather assembled the fishing gear, which consisted of two cane poles, hooks and line, and a couple of corks. I ran to my my grandfather's old pickup truck and jumped into the front seat while the old man put the poles in the back and drove us ever so slowly to the large pond about a mile from the house.

It was early in the morning and the brutal heat of the Texas summer was still several hours away. My grandfather led me to a shaded spot underneath a big tree whose branches hung over the water's edge. He seemed to enjoy the excitement I was showing and took a great delight in explaining to me about how to bait my hook, how much line to leave between the hook and the cork, and the importance of what he called his "secret fisherman's trick"--spitting on the bait. He assured me that this technique was a sure fire method for attracting the fish and was very effective in getting them to bite. After listening intently to every word he said, I took the pole and dropped my line into the still water, just as he did. We settled back and waited; I began to imagine taking home a stringer loaded with gigantic fish and being envied by everyone for being such a great fisherman.  

The hours passed and no fish appeared. We ate our sandwiches and changed locations a couple of times, all to no avail. We did not get a single bite or even a nibble, regardless of how much spit I put on my bait. My excitement had given way to a feeling of melancholy and disappointment. My grandfather saw the sadness in my face and suggested that we leave our poles planted in the bank and braced with stones while we returned to the house. We would escape the heat of the day and come back in the cool of the evening to check our lines. I agreed reluctantly; I was tired and hot and dangerously close to tears. We left the baited lines in the water and rode back up the dirt road to the house, where my grandmother gave me a glass of Kool-Aid then put me down for a nap. I slipped into sleep feeling that my first fishing trip had been a dismal failure.

When I awoke both my grandparents were going about their usual routines. My grandmother gave me a snack of peanut butter and crackers with more Kool-Aid while my grandfather puttered around with some project he was working on. Soon he came to me and asked if I was ready to go back to the pond to check our lines. I said that I was, but I was not at all confident in the outcome. This time I shuffled out to the truck rather than running, and sat silently as the old gentleman drove us to the pond. As we approached the two cane poles, I could see that mine was moving. There was something on my hook and suddenly the adrenaline and excitement that is available only to the very young flooded through me. I raced to the water's edge as my grandfather cautioned me to be careful and not yank the line out of the water too fast. I did as he said and slowly lifted the pole above my head. When I did so, I saw a huge bass flipping and flopping on the end of the line. It was, undoubtedly, the Biggest Fish In The Entire World, and I had caught it.

My grandfather praised me for being such a fabulous fisherman and reminded me that patience was a big part of fishing as well as many other things in life. He told me that never giving up was the best method for achieving what you wanted and that sticking with a project even when you are faced with initial disappointment would usually produce the desired results.  He also reaffirmed the value of spitting on the bait and was quite sure that was why the fish was eventually attracted to my line. We took our poles and my prize catch back to the truck and I bounced on the seat all the way back to the house. My grandmother also praised my catch and my abilities as a fisherman. She cleaned the bass and fried it for me and I ate every bite all by myself. 

Life moved forward and my grandfather eventually passed away. My grandmother was too old to live on the ranch alone and she moved into town; I continued to spend a week or two each summer with her until I entered high school. I did not see her as often as I grew into my teens, but I always had fond memories of the times I spent on the ranch as a youngster. Once I was talking with her about those summer days and I told her how much that fishing expedition had meant to me. She listened as I recalled the story from my vantage point then she smiled and informed me that I did not know the whole story.

It seems that my grandfather had also been disappointed when we did not catch any fish on that morning so long ago and seeing my own disappointment was more than he was prepared to bear. As I lay sleeping during my midday nap, he grabbed his rod and reel and drove the old truck down to the creek about five miles from the house. He used all his skill as a lifelong fisherman and caught a large bass, which he then took to the pond and placed on the hook of my fishing pole. He took his pliers and bent the hook in such a fashion that there was no way the fish could escape and placed the pole back in its place near the water's edge. He got back to the house a mere ten minutes before I woke up from my nap and then accompanied me to the pond so I could find the fish on my line.

I was amazed by this story; I knew that my grandfather loved me, but I never knew the extremes he went to in order to make my first fishing experience a good one. My greatest hope is that one day people will remember me half as fondly as I remember him.