Fishing Lines

My older brother is a talented fisherman. He is the first born of the school and more at ease in the great outdoors than I.

It was never fun fishing with Bill. He always managed to catch fish while the slack on my line remained limp.

Despite the fact that he could out-swim me in the rapids of Pennsylvania rivers I adore him to this day because he tried so hard to turn me into a man and convert me from my sissy ways.

In the spring of our youth– those years before we started dating girls, Bill woke me at 5 a.m. to help harvest minnows for a business we started. We sold live minnows to local fishermen for a quarter each.

We threw on our rubber hip boots and waded into the waters of a nearby creek. A net was used for scooping the tiny fish from the rapids. Bill held the net while I walked down the stream to scare the tiny fish into the trap.

As he lifted the net from the water, tons of tiny fish would jump for their lives, showing their white bellies in an attempt to find their way back into the stream.

Our minnows were stored in a tiny stream behind our home. We built a damn across the trickling brook and kept the fish in a submersed storage bin made of a recycled screen door.



The business was a success. We made tons of cash from selling live bait. Our harvested minnows were irresistible to large mouthed bass and trout. Bill showed me how to put a minnow on a hook without killing it. When the tiny fish swam while pierced with a hidden hook, unsuspecting fish bit down hard on the bait.

I fished shoulder to shoulder with Bill, but he was the one who always managed to catch the big fish. I stood on the banks of streams for years waiting for a bite while he yanked them in all afternoon.

I tried stealing his fishing tricks. I watched closely as he spat on the tiny minnows, adding a little extra flavor to his bait.

It seemed so childish, but the trick worked. However, I refused to spit on my bait considering the act to be as silly as crossing one’s fingers for good luck.

Eventually I gave up and decided to spit on my bait too.

I hawked a greenie and thrust the glob of saliva from my mouth with a burst of air, deep in my throat.

I missed the fish and the wad landed on Bill’s fishing vest.

“You are such a girl! You should have been a girl,” he shouted.

“Shut-up and spit on my bait for me!” I demanded.

He aimed perfectly with his lips and landed a juicy ball of spit on my minnow.
A few moments later, I finally caught a fish.

He looked at me in worry. He knew I could never survive off the fat of the land without a good man in my life.

I knew I would be alright in life though.

No one can scare minnows into nets like I do.