By Lorry Myers
When my son was born, my dad became a born-again fisherman. When Taylor became of age, the first fishing pole for his first grandchild was a red, Zebco Snoopy rod and reel. Grandpa and Taylor practiced casting and reeling and then doing it again and again, until one day, Grandpa told Taylor the same thing he told me a long time ago, “A kid needs to learn things that can’t be taught in their backyard.”
Time to take this kid fishing.
That first fishing trip, my father and my son stood at the shoreline of Lake of the Ozarks State Park, talking and testing that Snoopy pole. After that, every weekend we could, we’d head to the Lake of the Ozarks with Dad pulling his old boat, the Snoopy pole riding inside. Taylor and his grandpa would get up in the early light and take off in that Jon Boat, chasing the fish and the sunrise. At sunset, you would find the pair on the dock, Taylor clutching that red rod and reel, Dad sitting beside him clutching the back of his little grandson’s life jacket.
There was much more than fishing going on here.
My growing family became regulars at the Lake as more grandchildren joined our clan. When my father retired, the Lake of the Ozarks became his second home and a retreat for the rest of us. At the Lake, each child had a life jacket, a fishing pole and a little lake time with Grandpa. In the boat, Dad had a captive audience as he offered lessons about the waves and the wakes, the wind and the weather. These little fishermen quickly learned the difference between a crappie and a bass, a jig and a spinner and the right away and wrong way to board a boat. A weekend at the Lake of the Ozarks with Grandpa meant fishing derbies and big fish tales and training on catch and release. At the Lake there were always wet towels on the deck and inner tubes on the dock and at night we had bonfires and ghost stories and sleeping bags under the stars.
These are the days you can’t get back.
For the complete column, see this week’s edition of the Centralia Fireside Guard
