The Last Cast

On the afternoon of Sunday, March 23, I arrived in Summerfield.

Our son-in-law, Doug, was traveling for business. This meant that our daughter, Lauren, needed some extra hands in managing the school and extracurricular schedules of our two elementary age grandchildren.

Lauren, a detailed planner like my wife, the Commander Supreme, had everything organized.

Over the winter, some of the landscaped beds in their yard had undergone a few changes. What were once young cooperative shrubs and trees had become overgrown and unruly.

In key areas in the back and front yards, these shrubs and trees had been taken down. This included stumps being ground.

One of my assignments was to get these beds back in shape.

On Monday morning, with the kids safely in their elementary school, the Commander and I started our yard chores. The Commander was working on the first invasion of spring weeds, and I tackled one of the beds where trees had been removed.

It was overcast and cool. During this work, a gentle rain shower came down.

By mid-morning, I had that first bed back in shape. Weeds were gone, stump mulch was blended and leveled into the soil, and my worn, but trusty spade shovel had carved out a fine edge to the bed.

The Commander made progress with her weeding too.

We took a break for lunch.

Interestingly, the Commander’s long time friend, Leslie Brinker, and her husband, Dave, were over in Oak Ridge. They were in town from Peoria, Illinois. Leslie and Dave were fulfilling the same duties that we were for one of their sons and his family. We had a good lunch and visit comparing notes about our chores.

Before we knew it, the school bus was dropping off Caroline and Hudson. Our attention turned to errands, shopping, and a stop for ice cream.

The remainder of the afternoon passed quickly. Soon, Lauren was home. Dinner was prepared, and we looked ahead to Tuesday afternoon.

For Caroline, the Commander Supreme would be driving her to dance class. Hudson and I would be trying out his new fishing rod at the neighborhood lake.

The fishing rod had been a gift from us at Christmas. It was a simple push button reel with a small tackle box. The tackle box contained an assortment of small hooks, line weights, and lightweight floats (bobbers, fish indicators). With this simple set up, Hudson would learn if he had any interest in fishing becoming a hobby.

With better weather on Tuesday, the Commander and I continue our assignments in the yard. Progress was steady.

Seemed like the bus arrived earlier this afternoon, but one thing was for sure—Hudson was full of energy for the fishing expedition.

He scurried around and found the tackle box. He wanted to make sure that I had a few worms, and I did.

We met on the back deck, and with Hudson’s help, I started to prep the rod.

A hook was selected. I tied it on. We added one on line weight pellet. Next, we positioned the bobber at a sufficient distance from the hook.

Before we started our walk to the lake, we talked about the hook and some basic consideration for safety before casting the line into the lake. And, we talked about how fishing is basically unpredictable—we might catch a fish or we might not.

With that, we made sure we had a couple of worms, and we started our walk to the lake. We took the short path through the backyard woods and into a neighbor’s yard. At this house, there was a chance that one of Hudson’s school friends might join us, but that didn’t happen.

As we approached the lake, we walked down the hill. We chose a spot on the west side of the lake. This gave us a full view of the surrounding shoreline and plenty of room for casting on either side of a bed of rock. The bed of rock was in place to slow rainwater as it rolled down the sloped hill from the yard behind us.

Hudson held the rod as I baited the hook.

For a few minutes, I acclimated myself to the mechanics of the push button rod. A made of couple of pitiful casts, and when I finally improved, I started to work with Hudson.

From the beginning, I was a horrible teacher. I totally forgot that Hudson is left-handed. I was trying to have him cast with his right arm.

That didn’t work. Once I realized my idiocy, Hudson quickly picked up the mechanics and the timing of the release of the line.

With each cast, the angle and distance into the lake improved.

Hudson was a good listener. We talked about how to position his feet when he cast the line. The slice of his cast to the left went away when his first step went straight.

Anxious for a bite, he checked his bait quite a bit. We talked about the condition of the lake. Near the shoreline even with leaf debris, the water was clear. That clearness looked to be present beyond the shoreline too.

We were not paying attention to time, but at some point, Hudson let me know he was just about ready to head back to the house.

Almost at the same moment, we both said “ok, let’s get one more good cast.”

And that’s what happened. Hudson’s last cast was his best. The line lightly splashed just short of the middle of the lake.

In a blink, I did a double take. The bobber had disappeared. It was underwater.

I took a couple of quick steps toward Hudson. I tugged on the line, and said, “ I think you have a fish on.”

Our energy zoomed.

I helped him to coordinate his reeling of the line. The fish took off on him. The bobber zigged and zagged for a few feet.

But Hudson started to gain control of the line and the fish. There were a few more zig zags as Hudson worked the fish closer to the shoreline.

Finally, in the shallows, we could see the fish. Just as Hudson brought him to the edge of the shoreline, the fish came off the hook.

The fish landed flat on its side in very little water. I was able to step down and pick up the fish with my gloved hand.

Now the trick was to get my phone out of my pocket for a photo. The photography gods must have been looking out for me.

With some luck, I was able to snap a photo of the fish with Hudson in the background, I took three quick ones. Then, I returned the fish to the lake.

Stunned for a few breathless seconds, the fish quickly acclimated to the water and swam off.

I don’t know who was more excited—the fish who returned to the lake, Hudson, or me. I couldn’t believe that on his last cast he hooked a nice fish.

I kept saying over and over again, “I can’t believe you caught a fish.” He smiled and nodded in agreement.

We secured the rod, picked up the tackle box, and started the walk to the house.

Our excitement was with us every step of the way.

Of course, I texted photos of this memorable moment to the family. Those photos created another round of enthusiastic responses for Hudson.

With more daylight around, I returned to the yard work.
My old brain would not let go of Hudson’s fish story. It kept replaying in my mind.

How lucky I was to be a part of Hudson’s story.

And the more, I thought, I was reminded of the kind hearts that helped me appreciate casting a fishing line—my father, Betsy’s dad, Betsy’s brother, and Betsy’s brother-in-law, Art.

And, I pondered more, how many youngsters in this world will never have the pleasure of casting a fishing line and catching a fish?

And there is another piece to this story— the earthworms and the fish.

Thanks to the earthworms for your sacrifice.

As for the fish, what the locals call a “crappie,” thanks for being a good sport.

Your decision to take the bait gave an old geezer and his grandson a reason to never lose hope on the last cast.