Nonfiction by Diane Choplin
Dada Brown gently jostled me awake, forefinger finger pressed to his lips.
“It’s time,” he whispered. “You dressed?”
“I slept in clothes.”
“Atta girl.”
Cautiously fumbling our way in the dark, so as not to wake Mama Brown, I felt my way down the hall as he gathered our gear. Once outside, we clicked on flashlights and made for an old chest freezer advertising Creamsicles in faded, cyan lettering. Dada Brown held open the lid while I stood on tippy toes and reached inside, plunging all ten figures into loose soil.
“We just need a handful in this styrofoam cup.”
I was six years old, digging for red wigglers on my first crack-of-dawn fishing expedition with grandpa. He and Mama Brown, my grandma-too-young-to-be-called-that, lived on riverside acreage in La Grange, California – a tiny gold rush town surrounded by rolling hills dotted with gnarled oak trees. Two blocks of nineteenth-century western-fronted shops defined its center. Overlooking these was a hilltop one-room schoolhouse with bell and similarly designed Catholic Church with pioneer cemetery.
We loaded Dada Brown’s forest green ‘66 Dodge truck, smooth-fronted like a VW bus, while Toby, his collie, hopped in the back, pacing excitedly. A short rumble down windy road brought us to a gravel pull out looking like any other. Adamant No Trespassing and No Hunting or Fishing decrees were nailed to nearby trees. Though Dada Brown was one of a privileged few locals permitted to ignore the signs, I still felt an exhilarating prick of danger defying them.
Juggling our poles, net, folding chair and cooler, we made our way across uneven pasture to a four-strand barbed wire fence, sunrise softly illuminating oak savannah. Dada Brown pushed down its menacing top line and climbed deftly over, one leg at a time. Then, as he would on every successive trip, he stepped on the bottom wire and pulled up the next adjacent, prying them apart for my passage through. Some fragment of me inevitably caught. He’d free my fly-away morning hair, my corduroy pants or yellow windbreaker, and we’d continue on, dodging cow pies. Toby led the way down the hill, skirting the lichen splotched dry stone wall, his tail moving in happy circles. When frog chorus suddenly halted, we knew he’d made the pond.
Squeamish about putting worms on hooks, I recoiled at first effort.
“They can’t feel it,” Dada Brown said, reassuringly.
I was skeptical about worms not feeling pain, thrashing as they do when poked.
“Did you know,” he added, “that worms have five hearts? If you cut one in half, they’ll heal and live on as two.” (His voice returns to me when I accidentally cleave one with my shovel: “It’ll be okay, Diane. You made one into two.”)
Somewhat appeased by their regenerative superpower, I reluctantly baited my hook.
Lines cast, Dada Brown settled on his folding chair, pole in one hand, thermos at his side. Unable to sit still, I propped mine against a log, braced it with a rock, and explored with Toby. We stalked bright green tree frogs, shy crawdads and praying mantis, catching each for closer examination. Once, I even managed a young garter snake, Toby barking wildly in what I imagined to be congratulations.
Tugs on line reclaimed my attention, but I don’t remember ever catching a fish. For lunch Dada Brown brought hotdogs we’d roast on sticks over a fire, or wax paper wrapped bacon and peanut butter sandwiches. We ate while making up stories about wily fish evading hooks, occasionally tossing pebbles for Toby to chase.
“Get the frogs,” we shouted. He gleefully obliged, biting water where stones broke the surface. Our raucous game eliminated all hope of hooking dinner.
Once the sun reached its apex, hot and glaring, we packed up. Not wanting to return empty handed, we stopped by the general store for a whole fish, later telling Mama Brown we’d caught it. She no doubt saw through our ruse, but my child brain, giddy to share in a secret, believed she believed.
I’ve been on a few fishing excursions since my early trips with Dada Brown, none nearly as fun. Trapped in a boat, I got antsy, itching to move. Casting lines from watercraft isn’t my idea of a good time. I can’t just park my pole and run around a bank, exploring. I have to sit still and wait. I’m not good at sitting still.
“Isn’t this great!” someone inevitably exclaims. Feet up with a fishing pole in one hand, cold beer in the other, they say: “I could be out here all day!”
Half smiling, I shift uncomfortably and stare off into the distance, where shoreline dissolves into dense forest, wondering what treasures might be found there.
Diane Choplin‘s essays have appeared or are forthcoming in Countryside Magazine, Oregon Humanities, Monologging, and The Oregonian. She lives and writes on a five-acre farm where she also raises rotationally grazed lamb, welcomes Airbnb guests, and keeps hopeful eye out for edible wild mushrooms.
