I loved to go fishing with Grandpa. Sometimes he’d carry both of our fishing poles so I could carry the tackle box with both hands. Be careful not to drop it, he used to tell me. I never did. It was an honor, of sorts, carrying that tackle box. It smelled of power-bait and lake water and Grandpa. I was usually walking in front of him as we stumbled through the woods. I never liked walking in front; I wanted to be able to see him every second, because then I knew I wouldn’t be going the wrong way or getting lost. Whenever I got a rare opportunity to walk behind him, I felt safe, because he always knew the right way to go. Grandpa was a large man, and he left deep footprints into the ground. I liked to walk in them and judge my own strides to his.
There was a river that ran through the woods we were in. Grandpa called it Jacob River and said God named the river after me. I believed him because I believed everything he said. When we got to the bank of Jacob River, I reluctantly sat the tackle box on a rock and watched him lean our two poles against a pine tree. This was the spot we came to every time. It was a little over two hundred feet from the point where the river opens up into Tibble Lake. It was never occupied by other fisherman and their grandchildren. It was perfectly secluded.
Grandpa winked at me as he opened the tackle box. The unorganized mess spilled over the edge, but he didn’t put it back. Instead, he shuffled through the wire, hooks, sinkers, and bait. I didn’t know how to set my line, so I let him do every time.
“Grandpa?” I asked as he was arranging the bubble on my line.
“Hmm?”
“The cattails look different this year,” I said.
He takes a quick glance up to the edge of Jacob River. Large cattail plants grew along the bank. This year, they looked even larger and more full than the last time we had come up.
“Do they?” he asked.
“The spot I always sit in has grown a bunch of them,” I observed. This time, I guessed I would have to find another resting place. I glanced at Grandpa as he was struggling to get the hook on. His large fingers were having a hard time getting the fishing line through the hole.
“Choose your bait,” he reminded me, but I had already chosen mine. It was the bright orange and yellow sparkling kind. On the label, it read Power Bait: Orange Sunshine Surprise. It was my favorite. I knew if I were a fish, I would eat all of it. I surprised Grandpa by pulling it out of my coat pocket. Before we left his house this morning, I had stowed it away. Every few minutes, I would hold it in my hand and smell Grandpa and feel warm, even though the whether was rainy and cloudy.
“Do you need help putting it on the hook?” he asked.
“No. I want to do it by myself,” I told him, and unscrewed the lid. The wonderful scent of the bait filled my nostrils, and I smiled.
“Don’t prick your finger.”
I took a glob of the bait and squished it into the hook. Grandpa reminded me not to put too much, or the fish would be able to eat a lot of it and not get hooked.
“There you go,” he said into my ear. “Shape it like a little fishy.”
His breath was warm and smelled like pancakes and coffee.
“Can you help me cast it?” I asked him, and he told me he would.
Because my usual seat was overcome by cattails, I chose to sit a ways further down the river, closer to the mouth of the lake. I still wanted to be close enough to see Grandpa, but far enough away that his line wouldn’t get tangled with mine. He hated that when it happened.
I chose a seat on a large, gray rock. Cattails grew to the right and left of me to keep me company and Grandpa could still see me in case I got a tug. As I rose my pole to casting position, I felt his strong, experienced hands clamp over mine and go through the motions with me. One, two, three! The line made a funny noise as it flew through the air, and a satisfying plop as it landed in the water. We stood there for a moment, letting it sink into the current. I felt so good and strong when I was in his arms. I did not even feel this way when Dad and I went fishing together. There must have been something magical about Grandpa that made him so likable.
“You’re getting really good at this,” he whispered to me. His hands dropped to his side, and a cold breeze made my skin get goosebumps.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“I’m proud of you. I wish your other brothers would like fishing as much as you do.”
My other brothers were all older than me. Their time had come and gone to fish with Grandpa. When I was old enough to go, I seized the opportunity. Not once had I regretted it, even when I had not caught anything.
Grandpa left me to go cast his pole and left me with just my pole and cattails. I watched him slowly walk back to his. He grunted as he bent down to pick his pole up off the ground.
He was getting old, all right. I couldn’t help but picture what he would look like when he was ten years older. Would he even be alive? Life without Grandpa would be unbearable. What would I do on school breaks? Where would I be without seeing his coffee-stained button-up shirts and fisherman vests?
I took the opportunity to whisper to the cattails that surrounded me. They listened and absorbed everything that I had to tell them.
“I miss you guys,” I said. “A lot. I can tell Grandpa misses you too.”
The cattails just smiled and brushed and kissed me in the breeze.
“He doesn’t get a lot of attention at home, with Grandma buried and everything. I think that’s why he likes coming to this river so much. It’s because of her, isn’t it?” I knew I was right. Sometimes, when I was very quiet, I could hear Grandpa whispering something. Sometimes, he would cry. Other times, he would close his eyes and pretend she was with him.
The cattails weren’t just a friend to me. They were much more than that. They were listeners, and they could pass stories and lives that they hear from other people that came to fish at this river. These cattails listened all their life. They didn’t need words to speak. As I sat there, I felt them telling me that Grandpa missed her dearly. They could sense it.
Grandpa and I did not catch a fish that entire day. He blamed the weather but promised me that he would take me out again as soon as he could. I smiled and took the opportunity to thank the cattails for being my friend. As we were about to leave, I stepped away from Grandpa, tackle box in hand, and gazed at the plants.
“Thanks,” I whispered. “I’ll see you again next time. Hopefully, it will be sunny.”
