Musky Mauler
09-13-2011, 11:42 AM
My grandfather was born in Germany in 1876. In 1881, when he was five-years-old, he came across the ocean unaccompanied by any family member. This was four decades before anything as nice as the Titanic existed. Family friends who were on board saw to it that he got delivered to other of his family members when the boat docked in the United States. In those days, those in my grandfather's family who wanted to migrate to "the land of opportunity" couldn't afford to do so all at once. So, they were sent one-at-a-time whenever sufficient boat fare was accumulated. Hence, he came across, alone, when he was five-years-old.
I only know a few things about my grandfather. Naturally, now that I'm a grandfather, myself, I wish that I had spent more time talking with him and exploring his life. (Oops, dare I say it? I'm actually now a GREAT grandfather!) I know that he served in the U.S. Army Artillery Corps during the Spanish-American War. I know that he was a general contractor in South Bend who built several hotels, bridges and other noteworthy structures. I know that he lost his thriving business in the crash of 1929. I know that before I began to go to school, he taught me how to spell, "football." Only I first learned to spell it this way: "N-o-t-r-e D-a-m-e." And, I know that just like most folks in South Bend in those days, Grampa drove a Studebaker. At least, until the South Bend Studebaker plant went out of business.
I also know that Grampa was a fisherman.
When my younger brother and I were five and six-years-old, respectively, Grampa introduced us to fishing. We learned that we had to sit quietly, side-by-side, on a flat wooden seat in a flat-bottom row boat that was never powered by anything other than oars. Grampa would row all around on some convenient Indiana lake searching-out panfish. If my brother and I got rambunctious, we were quickly admonished that we had to sit quietly, otherwise we would "scare the fish away."
We fished with cane poles, as did Grampa, and we used worms for bait. The day before any fishing adventure with Grampa, my brother and I were assigned the task of digging for worms. We'd spend hours turning over clumps of damp, black dirt and scouring through the clumps to find wiggly worms. We'd deposit them in a can. If we found a grub worm, it was put into a separate can inasmuch as it was considered by Grampa to be a "prize." He, and only he, could use them as bait.
But the REAL prizes were catalpa worms!
They came off those trees with the big leaves that also produced those long, skinny seed pods that we always called "Indian Cigars". (It's recorded that Indians actually dried these pods and then smoked them for a hallucigenic effect. But, we didn't know this when we were kids. We just went along with calling them Indian Cigars, and didn't care to know the reason why.)
We always got a smiling "well done" from Grampa whenever we would grace his fishing efforts by providing him with some catalpa worms to use for bait. Our combined fishing efforts would mostly produce a stringer full of bluegills, with an occasional perch now and then. And, my brother and I were quickly introduced into the fine art of cleaning fish. If Grampa knew how to filet a fish, he never disclosed that talent. My brother and I would scrape the fish scales and most often would accumulate quite a number of them on our clothes, hands and even in our hair (much to Grandma's chagrin). Initially, Grampa would cut off the heads and gut the fish. But, soon, that task was also relegated to my brother and I. Grandma shivered when she saw us with knives in our hands. Grampa took care of that by merely declaring that we were "old enough!" The resultant mess on our clothes really got Grandma peeved! But, it all turned out to be worthwhile when she set about to cooking those fish. Yum-yum! It turned out that all the digging for worms, all the fish cleaning and even all of the the "quiet sitting" was well worthwhile when we got to eat those fish!
Grampa taught us the art of extracting as much meat as possible from the multitude of thin little bones that always reside in a plate full of panfish. Then, as a final reward, Grampa would take us to the drive-up A&W Root beer Stand on Lincoln Way West (it was actually shaped like a giant mug of root beer) and treat each of us to a two-cent "junior" mug. He, of course, would partake of a "man-sized" mug that cost a whole nickel. (As did a bottle of Coke or a Hershey Bar in those days.)
Grampa got me hooked on fishing at an age when I was too young to resist. And, Wally Wagner got me addicted to the Turtle Flambeau Flowage some 50 years ago - - also when I was too young to resist.
(Thanks, Grampa, and thanks Wally, wherever you are!)
I now hafta wonder what my own grandkids might say about me one day. I hope they have some ongoing and endearing memories of some fishing adventures that we've done together. By the way, I enlisted on my 19th birthday during the Korean War and became a 20-year-old fighter pilot. (That's another story.) To my grandkids, that will, no doubt, be as ancient as my own grandfather's Spanish-American War was to me. Oh well, life moves on.
Or, as my PhD brother is wont to say these days, "tempus sure does fugit, doesn't it?"
I only know a few things about my grandfather. Naturally, now that I'm a grandfather, myself, I wish that I had spent more time talking with him and exploring his life. (Oops, dare I say it? I'm actually now a GREAT grandfather!) I know that he served in the U.S. Army Artillery Corps during the Spanish-American War. I know that he was a general contractor in South Bend who built several hotels, bridges and other noteworthy structures. I know that he lost his thriving business in the crash of 1929. I know that before I began to go to school, he taught me how to spell, "football." Only I first learned to spell it this way: "N-o-t-r-e D-a-m-e." And, I know that just like most folks in South Bend in those days, Grampa drove a Studebaker. At least, until the South Bend Studebaker plant went out of business.
I also know that Grampa was a fisherman.
When my younger brother and I were five and six-years-old, respectively, Grampa introduced us to fishing. We learned that we had to sit quietly, side-by-side, on a flat wooden seat in a flat-bottom row boat that was never powered by anything other than oars. Grampa would row all around on some convenient Indiana lake searching-out panfish. If my brother and I got rambunctious, we were quickly admonished that we had to sit quietly, otherwise we would "scare the fish away."
We fished with cane poles, as did Grampa, and we used worms for bait. The day before any fishing adventure with Grampa, my brother and I were assigned the task of digging for worms. We'd spend hours turning over clumps of damp, black dirt and scouring through the clumps to find wiggly worms. We'd deposit them in a can. If we found a grub worm, it was put into a separate can inasmuch as it was considered by Grampa to be a "prize." He, and only he, could use them as bait.
But the REAL prizes were catalpa worms!
They came off those trees with the big leaves that also produced those long, skinny seed pods that we always called "Indian Cigars". (It's recorded that Indians actually dried these pods and then smoked them for a hallucigenic effect. But, we didn't know this when we were kids. We just went along with calling them Indian Cigars, and didn't care to know the reason why.)
We always got a smiling "well done" from Grampa whenever we would grace his fishing efforts by providing him with some catalpa worms to use for bait. Our combined fishing efforts would mostly produce a stringer full of bluegills, with an occasional perch now and then. And, my brother and I were quickly introduced into the fine art of cleaning fish. If Grampa knew how to filet a fish, he never disclosed that talent. My brother and I would scrape the fish scales and most often would accumulate quite a number of them on our clothes, hands and even in our hair (much to Grandma's chagrin). Initially, Grampa would cut off the heads and gut the fish. But, soon, that task was also relegated to my brother and I. Grandma shivered when she saw us with knives in our hands. Grampa took care of that by merely declaring that we were "old enough!" The resultant mess on our clothes really got Grandma peeved! But, it all turned out to be worthwhile when she set about to cooking those fish. Yum-yum! It turned out that all the digging for worms, all the fish cleaning and even all of the the "quiet sitting" was well worthwhile when we got to eat those fish!
Grampa taught us the art of extracting as much meat as possible from the multitude of thin little bones that always reside in a plate full of panfish. Then, as a final reward, Grampa would take us to the drive-up A&W Root beer Stand on Lincoln Way West (it was actually shaped like a giant mug of root beer) and treat each of us to a two-cent "junior" mug. He, of course, would partake of a "man-sized" mug that cost a whole nickel. (As did a bottle of Coke or a Hershey Bar in those days.)
Grampa got me hooked on fishing at an age when I was too young to resist. And, Wally Wagner got me addicted to the Turtle Flambeau Flowage some 50 years ago - - also when I was too young to resist.
(Thanks, Grampa, and thanks Wally, wherever you are!)
I now hafta wonder what my own grandkids might say about me one day. I hope they have some ongoing and endearing memories of some fishing adventures that we've done together. By the way, I enlisted on my 19th birthday during the Korean War and became a 20-year-old fighter pilot. (That's another story.) To my grandkids, that will, no doubt, be as ancient as my own grandfather's Spanish-American War was to me. Oh well, life moves on.
Or, as my PhD brother is wont to say these days, "tempus sure does fugit, doesn't it?"