When I was nine or ten, my grandfather took up fishing. After supper, he and I would get in the rowboat and go out on the lake. He was teaching me how to cast my line as far as possible, and then slowly reel it in, hoping that a fish would bite. This went on for hours: sitting in the boat, each of us casting our lines and reeling them in. He was determined that I should have the thrilling experience of catching a bass, but I never even got a bite. Waiting and hoping was not really a thrilling experience for me, but I tried to accept my grandfather’s assurance that it would be worth waiting for. There was another job on the boat, and that was the net. As one of us reeled in a fish, the plan was that the other would hold the net on the long handle, dip it into the water and scoop up the fish. Finally one evening, my grandfather got a bite. He jerked his rod in just the right way to secure the battling fish on the lure, and started reeling it in. I made ready with the net. As the large bass became visible just under the surface, I slipped the net under it and lifted it up out of the water. It happened that some neighbors were out on the pier, and spotted us with our respectably big fish—five pounds! It was a small enough community, and a big enough catch, that the story was repeated for days. Every single time, my grandfather would gesture towards me and say, “My granddaughter here netted it for me.” I know he wanted me to feel that I had been an important part of the triumph, and I did feel important. I netted it for him! That was almost as good as catching one myself (which never happened). Thank you, Grampa. You were a sweet guy.

There’s a nice age 9-10 story on my Substack, but I can’t get it to link to this platform. It’s called “Forest Lake … and fishing.” Please check it out.

Oh, snap. I had written a long paragraph, but it disappeared when I closed the page. Where do you click to save something that’s not finished?