After Ray Middlecamp and I stopped applauding Grampa's successful ladder descent, I decided we'd first fish for carp. Instead of using worms which were bullhead bait, I grabbed two slices of bread and squeezed them in my hands before I dunked the squashed result in the river. Pulling out the soggy mess, I pressed and formed it into what we kids called a "dough-ball."
The more adhesive the mixture, the better, because when packed around a hook, it not only "hid" the hook from the fish but stuck to the hook as if it were Gorilla glue—at least for a while. We had other uses for dough balls. If the fish weren't biting and we were bored, we'd get into summertime dough-ball fights, similar to winter snowball fights but much more troubling if the goop hit the top of the head and stuck to my curly hair, snarling it.
Byron Nelson, Johnny Nelson's father, had taught me how to construct a "Wolf River Rig." First, cut a piece of fishing line at least two feet long. On one end of this two-foot line, attach a hardware nut or a lead weighted sinker. Next, tie the other end to the actual fishing line, oh about three feet above the hook. This forms a Y, with bait on one line and sinker on the other. That way, the dough-ball will float about two feet above the river's bottom. Although carp were bottom feeders, a dough-ball didn't last long if it scraped on rocks and water-logged twigs.
Younger boys came to the concrete island and often attached commercial weights about a foot above the same line as the hook. "You should use a Wolf River Rig," I'd advise. At first, they thought they'd caught a fish, but reality soon entered their craniums, They'd whip the rod forward and backward and hold on to the reel's handle and pull with all their might. Finally, they'd cuss a blue streak as they offered up to the river bait, hook, weight, and plenty of line. That's when they approached me. "What's a-what-did-you-say-rig?"
"Wolf River." That's when I showed them what Mister Nelson had taught me.
With everything readied, I cast out the line and then handed the rod and reel to Grampa. His eyebrows raised, his eyes opened wide. "What am I-ah supposed to do?" he pleaded.
"Wait until you feel a tug, and then set the line."
"Set-ah the line? What do you-ah mean, set-ah the line?"
"You hold on to the reel's handle so no line can go out and at the same time pull back real hard on the rod."
"Oh."
Seconds later, Grampa yelled, "I-ah feel a tug."
"Wait a second," I cautioned.
"It-ah tugged again."
Too soon, I thought. Grampa must've caught himself a snag, but I yelled anyway, "Hold the reel handle and pull on the rod at the same time."
Grampa pulled so hard, he almost tripped over himself as the pole's tip executed a number of staccato snapping motions. That's when I knew a fish was hooked. "Reel it in, Grampa. Reel it in."
The carp surfaced. It was a big one, all right, larger than I had ever seen. Ray was jumping and screaming. His arms flipped and flopped, back and forth, up and down, like torn sails on a tall ship in the Atlantic, facing a rough nor'easter.
"What should I-ah do?" Grampa pleaded as he attempted to hand rod and reel to me.
"No, Grampa, you caught him. You've gotta bring him in." He was so excited.
"That's it, bring him in," yelled Ray as he knelt down and grabbed for the fish which was still in the water but near the island.
No way. The golden colored carp bucked away, dove ever downward, and pulled even harder. The rod was almost bent in half but Grampa held on.
"Just hold him, Grampa. Don't try to bring him in. Let him pull. He's gonna get tired."
"I'm ah-tired," admitted the old man. However, he didn't try to hand the rod back to me. This was his fish.
And just as I had told him, the big fish no longer towed out anymore line. "Okay, Grampa, you can reel him in. Pull him in." Grampa did so.
"He-ah lost his fight."
"Yes, he did."
The fish lay sideways on top of the water, totally pooped out. Ray grabbed behind a gill and lifted it out of the water and on to the island. "It's a whale," Ray cried out. "It's a gum-damned whale."
Grampa was all grins. "That's ah-my whale," he said. "I-ah caught it."
"You sure did, Grampa."
"That's-ah my first one," he confessed.
"You haven't fished before?"
"No," he said, "but that's my ah-whale. I-ah caught him."
"We have to take him home and show Mom," I said. A moment later, I scooted up the ladder and cut off a thin willow branch with my jackknife. Down the ladder I went and inserted one end of the branch through the rear of the gill and out the carp's mouth. I then brought together both ends of the branch, held them together with one hand, and held up the colossal aquatic animal to one side with bent arm. Its tail was dragging on the concrete. I lifted higher and climbed up the ladder. Ray brought up the fishing tackle box and handed it to me and then descended the ladder to get everything else. Grampa ascended the ladder before Ray. Grampa wore a mile wide grin.
Ray held up the Hills Brother coffee can. "What about the worms?"
"We'll let them out on the grass up here and then throw away the can."
As the three of us made our way up the Baker Street hill, many drivers honked their cars' horns. "That's one big fish," a matronly lady yelled out the passenger side window of a beautiful four door maroon Packard.
"it's-ah mine," Grampa shot back. "I-ah caught the whale."
In spite of our excitement, Grampa's daughter, my mother, would not let us bring that fish into the house. "It's a carp, Dad," she screamed. "They eat shit."
We kept the fish outdoors and waited for Dad to return from making house calls. "That's a big one, all right," Dad remarked. "Did you catch it, Georgie?"
"No, Grampa did."
My grandfather stood there, nearly popping the buttons on his wool sweater.
Later, I buried Grampa's whale by the peach trees that Grampa Smullen had sprouted and now bore fruit.
The next week, Grampa Colacicco returned to Oak Park, Illinois to another daughter, whom we kids called "Fat Aunt Florence." We also had a "Skinny Aunt Florence," our dad's sister.
The more adhesive the mixture, the better, because when packed around a hook, it not only "hid" the hook from the fish but stuck to the hook as if it were Gorilla glue—at least for a while. We had other uses for dough balls. If the fish weren't biting and we were bored, we'd get into summertime dough-ball fights, similar to winter snowball fights but much more troubling if the goop hit the top of the head and stuck to my curly hair, snarling it.
Byron Nelson, Johnny Nelson's father, had taught me how to construct a "Wolf River Rig." First, cut a piece of fishing line at least two feet long. On one end of this two-foot line, attach a hardware nut or a lead weighted sinker. Next, tie the other end to the actual fishing line, oh about three feet above the hook. This forms a Y, with bait on one line and sinker on the other. That way, the dough-ball will float about two feet above the river's bottom. Although carp were bottom feeders, a dough-ball didn't last long if it scraped on rocks and water-logged twigs.
Younger boys came to the concrete island and often attached commercial weights about a foot above the same line as the hook. "You should use a Wolf River Rig," I'd advise. At first, they thought they'd caught a fish, but reality soon entered their craniums, They'd whip the rod forward and backward and hold on to the reel's handle and pull with all their might. Finally, they'd cuss a blue streak as they offered up to the river bait, hook, weight, and plenty of line. That's when they approached me. "What's a-what-did-you-say-rig?"
"Wolf River." That's when I showed them what Mister Nelson had taught me.
With everything readied, I cast out the line and then handed the rod and reel to Grampa. His eyebrows raised, his eyes opened wide. "What am I-ah supposed to do?" he pleaded.
"Wait until you feel a tug, and then set the line."
"Set-ah the line? What do you-ah mean, set-ah the line?"
"You hold on to the reel's handle so no line can go out and at the same time pull back real hard on the rod."
"Oh."
Seconds later, Grampa yelled, "I-ah feel a tug."
"Wait a second," I cautioned.
"It-ah tugged again."
Too soon, I thought. Grampa must've caught himself a snag, but I yelled anyway, "Hold the reel handle and pull on the rod at the same time."
Grampa pulled so hard, he almost tripped over himself as the pole's tip executed a number of staccato snapping motions. That's when I knew a fish was hooked. "Reel it in, Grampa. Reel it in."
The carp surfaced. It was a big one, all right, larger than I had ever seen. Ray was jumping and screaming. His arms flipped and flopped, back and forth, up and down, like torn sails on a tall ship in the Atlantic, facing a rough nor'easter.
"What should I-ah do?" Grampa pleaded as he attempted to hand rod and reel to me.
"No, Grampa, you caught him. You've gotta bring him in." He was so excited.
"That's it, bring him in," yelled Ray as he knelt down and grabbed for the fish which was still in the water but near the island.
No way. The golden colored carp bucked away, dove ever downward, and pulled even harder. The rod was almost bent in half but Grampa held on.
"Just hold him, Grampa. Don't try to bring him in. Let him pull. He's gonna get tired."
"I'm ah-tired," admitted the old man. However, he didn't try to hand the rod back to me. This was his fish.
And just as I had told him, the big fish no longer towed out anymore line. "Okay, Grampa, you can reel him in. Pull him in." Grampa did so.
"He-ah lost his fight."
"Yes, he did."
The fish lay sideways on top of the water, totally pooped out. Ray grabbed behind a gill and lifted it out of the water and on to the island. "It's a whale," Ray cried out. "It's a gum-damned whale."
Grampa was all grins. "That's ah-my whale," he said. "I-ah caught it."
"You sure did, Grampa."
"That's-ah my first one," he confessed.
"You haven't fished before?"
"No," he said, "but that's my ah-whale. I-ah caught him."
"We have to take him home and show Mom," I said. A moment later, I scooted up the ladder and cut off a thin willow branch with my jackknife. Down the ladder I went and inserted one end of the branch through the rear of the gill and out the carp's mouth. I then brought together both ends of the branch, held them together with one hand, and held up the colossal aquatic animal to one side with bent arm. Its tail was dragging on the concrete. I lifted higher and climbed up the ladder. Ray brought up the fishing tackle box and handed it to me and then descended the ladder to get everything else. Grampa ascended the ladder before Ray. Grampa wore a mile wide grin.
Ray held up the Hills Brother coffee can. "What about the worms?"
"We'll let them out on the grass up here and then throw away the can."
As the three of us made our way up the Baker Street hill, many drivers honked their cars' horns. "That's one big fish," a matronly lady yelled out the passenger side window of a beautiful four door maroon Packard.
"it's-ah mine," Grampa shot back. "I-ah caught the whale."
In spite of our excitement, Grampa's daughter, my mother, would not let us bring that fish into the house. "It's a carp, Dad," she screamed. "They eat shit."
We kept the fish outdoors and waited for Dad to return from making house calls. "That's a big one, all right," Dad remarked. "Did you catch it, Georgie?"
"No, Grampa did."
My grandfather stood there, nearly popping the buttons on his wool sweater.
Later, I buried Grampa's whale by the peach trees that Grampa Smullen had sprouted and now bore fruit.
The next week, Grampa Colacicco returned to Oak Park, Illinois to another daughter, whom we kids called "Fat Aunt Florence." We also had a "Skinny Aunt Florence," our dad's sister.