Irving and Squiggy Lived On

As a shy middle-school kid, I had only a few close friends. I was considered a nerd, even if that word had not been coined yet. I was into science and mechanics, and I read ferociously. I loved reading about inventors and scientists and how they shaped the world as we know it. I wasn’t the least bit athletic and everyone knew it, so I didn’t pretend to be.

I had a very good friend named Kevin, who lived not too far from me on West Jack Street. Kevin could have been my twin. We loved trains, building models, reading and experimenting. He was also not very athletic, so we got along well.

One quiet Saturday I was over Kevin’s house. We were in his room discussing something about the planets when his dad Stewart walked in. We exchanged hellos, and then Stewart asked Kevin and I if we would like to go fishing the following Saturday. Without hesitation, Kevin answered for the two of us. The next thing I knew, we had a fishing date with his dad.

Stewart was what I considered to be the typical Mr. Peabody of the world, both scholarly and geeky at the same time. He worked for some giant insurance company as an adjuster. He was pretty smart, had a good college education, and he could spout out more four-syllable words than anyone else I knew. I admired men like him and respected their intellect. He also interacted with his son, sharing his interests, while encouraging his goals and accomplishments; something my own father never did.

Once Stewart left, I motioned to Kevin that I had never been fishing in my life, and I didn’t know the first thing about how to do it. Kevin said, “I have, so I’ll teach you.” “Great”, I said, and then he pulled a book off his library shelf and handed it to me. “I looked at the title, “My Learn to Fish Book”, and flipped it open. Right there on page 30, I had a panic attack. There, on the page, were diagrams showing how to make about 20 different types of knots out of nylon string. The book continued on about weights and spinners and loops and knives. I turned to Kevin and said, “This looks so hard, how am I going to learn all of this in a week?” “You only need to know one or two,” he said, “It’s not like we’re trying out to become Sea Bees.” I flipped to the next chapter. This next page was worse. It detailed rods, reels, lures, flies, and bait. I slammed the book and handed it back to Kevin. “I think I’m going to have to fake an injury next Saturday,” I said. “What affliction would your father think is believable?” Kevin refused to let me chicken out. I was almost tempted to dig into my “rainy day saving fund” and gift a pound of store brought halibut to them just to forget about the whole thing.

The week went fast. I was just finishing up the last of my Lucky Charms on Saturday morning, when Kevin called to say that he and his dad were on their way to my house to pick me up. I packed a lunch of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, a package of Lorna Doone cookies and a small thermos bottle of Bosco. Since I didn’t own a fishing rod or anything else to “go fishing with”, I relied on his dad to bring extras, which he did.

It was a beautiful mid April day. The sky was cloudless and reflected a brilliant shade of cornflower blue. A gentle wind stirred the scents of freshly bloomed daffodils through the air while in the distance, a few random sparrows were searching for their morning meal.

We drove out to Cheesequake State Park and parked in a small lot along the lakes edge. Stewart said that this was perfect because there was a small BBQ grill and a picnic table there, so we could catch lunch and “cook it up right there on the hearth”. Luckily, I had my brown bag lunch incase that didn’t happen.

Cheesequake park was just recently opened and the local park rangers had not even installed outhouses yet. As we settled in, we were approached by one of those rangers. He explained that in the event that we “had to go”, there were small fold up Army shovels and toilet tissue located in small wooden boxes attached to certain trees around the lake. “Please take water with you to clean off the shovels when you are done, for public health and sanitation of the next user”. Thank you, and enjoy your time here at the park!

Kevin and I just looked at each other in silence. “Did he mean that we had to dig a hole in the ground to “go in”? Yep! Kevin said. I wanted to just take off running right there and then. His dad asked both of us if we needed to “take care of business” before we got on the lake and we both shook our heads… no.

Stewart got the small row boat off the trailer, dragged it to the waters edge and stowed all of the necessary gear under the seats and around the stern of the boat. We hopped aboard and we shoved off using the oars. Once we were on the water, Kevin and Stewart started preparing their fishing rods. Stewart reached for his cottage cheese container of live bait and opened the lid for me. “Go ahead”, he said, “grab a worm”. I looked inside the container and my face went pale. There, squirming all around were 20 or so pinkish brown live worms all trying to intertwine each other and escape being selected. Since I had no idea what to do with the worm, I just said, “why don’t you guys go first, since this is your boat and all… it’s only polite”. They bought it!

Kevin grabbed a worm and without so much as a flinch, pierced it’s jiggling middle onto the sharp pointed hook. Steward did the same and then handed me the plastic container. Once again, I looked in and quickly grabbed one. “This one looks like he needed emancipation” I said. And then I made a complete fool out of myself.

I’m going to name him Squiggy”, I announced. Kevin’s father looked at me like I was a madman. Kevin jumped in trying to help me save face and quietly said to me “We don’t name our bait”, that’s just childish. Then Stewart added, “It’s odd to anthropomorphize an animal that is intended to be used as food for fish”.  I looked at the worm, threw him back into the container and selected another. This one remained nameless. I was hoping that my success as an angler did not depend on the maturity of my chosen worm.

As the hours worn on, I learned how to tie one knot, attach a weight and a bobber, cast my rod, and as luck would have it, I was the only one of us to actually reel in a fish. It was only a small sunfish, but I caught it. And then I threw it back into the lake. I did wind up naming it before I released it, but I did it silently to myself. I named it Irving… a Scottish name meaning “Sea Friend”.

All in all, it was a really nice day. Stewart and I exchanged many more 4 syllable words, I mastered a new hobby… fishing, which I only used one other time in my entire life. I even experienced taking a dump in the wilderness of a state park connecting me back to my instinctive primal roots. And yes, I did experience doing that again a few times in my life while traveling through some very ancient towns in Italy, although they weren’t quite as rustic as Cheesequake state park.

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Caio!

Lenny