Chapter 1
Fishing With Tim
Last week I described one of the tribulations of our youth, which was coming out of winter and preparing for fishing season. In my neighborhood, we had a buddy’s dad who seemed more available and laid back than the other dads. Ours, was Tim, Choo Choo’s Dad. They lived at the end of the road and had yard car ornaments to keep down the grass. To be fully accurate, there is a chance Mr. Tim was merely tolerating us and often a chance he did not even notice we were there.
Tim was a pretty laid-back guy around his property but once we were on the road things changed dramatically. His senses seemed to pick up and he had eyes in the back of his head while running errands on the way to and from fishing.
On any given fishing trip, he would insist through our buddy Choo Choo, that we report promptly well before the rooster crowed or the sun considered an appearance on the day. As kids that was no problem, if we were fishing. For most days our preferred wake up time had a double-digit numerical designation but for fishing or hunting, any preconceived need for sleep melted away and no longer restrained us.
Navigating the dark, dewy property to the front door was no easy task. We had to try not to disturb Sergeant the guard pet, who protected all the new to the yard stuff that we tried not to trip over. We had to be Ninja careful over those fifty yards of no man’s land as, often, Sergeant reacted to the clang of metal before he tried to decipher friend from foe.
We would not see Tim until well after the sun came up but while waiting, Choo Choo would keep us busy with all kinds of games like nightcrawler pickup and cricket chasing. Eventually, Tim would appear, squinting at us while pulling up his suspenders and mumble something about leaving, “after his constitutional.” I always thought it was neat how patriotic Mr. Tim was.
Finally, piling into the old Ford Fury, Tim would always ask, “You guys remember how to drive this thing, right?” One great thing about hanging around Choo Choo’s family was learning to drive. On the way, Tim did not like taking the direct route, he preferred the scenic route. I did not understand what was so scenic about the backside of all the buildings in town. I was on to that. I suspect it was really on account of how popular he was. We could hardly get through town without seeing someone who needed to talk to Tim. Let me tell you, it is is not easy being so in demand. Everyone wanted to talk to Tim. Even Father O’Mally wanted to fish with Tim. He would chase the car yelling, “I need to talk to you!” Tim would chuckle and say Father always wanted to fish for him. I was pretty sure that was unnecessary as Choo Choo’s Dad could easily catch his own fish. Ol’ Father O’Mally had nothing to worry about. We would make a couple of stops to “see a man about a dog” but he never brought, bought, or got a dog on those visits. He already had Sergeant but he would tell us to stay put and then meet someone behind the popped trunk to discuss dogs, I guess. Maybe as a loafer he was some kind of veterinarian.
Once we would make it to the stream things went fast. Most of us had to fish all day but not with Tim, he would limit out in hardly any time…for all of us. Then we would get soda pop while he visited some Irish establishments on the way home, which was great. I learned a lot of important things on those trips, like monkeys hate chutney. Even though people said Tim was a loafer and a philanderer, I never learned what that entailed to make a living. To me, he was a constitutional scholar who always seemed too busy to get any loafing done or made or whatever you do with that trade.
See you along the stream
