To Fishin' World

copyright Fishin World

Finally old enough to walk the half mile from my house to Lovers Lane, I stuffed a couple dollars saved from allowance in my shorts pocket and head to Nora’s. Early September but in Dallas that’s still the dead of summer. By now we are used to it and we will be back inside by 3 watching re-runs in the afternoon heat.

Nora and I meet at the end of her block. My dad’s birthday is coming up and I want to buy him a fishing lure. Every year, he will get at least one from one of us. He loves to fish, so to a kid it’s an obvious choice. And, of fishing-related gear, it’s one a kid can afford. A couple of dollars. And Fishing World is within walking distance, so it’s an errand run without adult supervision. No permission needed.

so many lures
copyright Fishin' World

The air conditioning is a welcome break. The man at the front desk nods. Maybe he’s used to the Byrne kids by now, but he doesn’t seem to mind kids shopping alone. Three long rows of lures from the tiny fly fishing lures to ones that seem the size of actual fish. Weirdly spotted often with big red gashes at the mouth or in the middle to make them look injured, vulnerable.

Dad seemed to favor the H&H spinners. Maybe he was just being nice, but everytime he opened one he’d say things like, “Can’t go wrong with H&H” or “I don’t have this color yet” or “Can never have too many spinners.” Always a winner. Still, I weigh the choices, as if I know the difference between one and the other. As if catching a fish doesn’t scare me a little.

Once I pick one, Nora and I head to the back of the store, back to what we really came for: the four large bins of colored plastic slimy worms. Even when it wasn’t my dad’s birthday, every time we walked up here, we stopped in for the worms. They were oily, slippery, shiny. I run my hand across them, picking one up, stretching it between my fingers. When I can’t wait anymore, I plunge my hand in until I’m halfway up to my elbows in the worms.

At the bottom of the bin is a cold I find nowhere else in the summer. It’s not in swimming pools or mud. The water from the hose and sprinklers is warm. Ice cream and iced tea and watermelon are all fine and good but do little to cool my arms. But these buckets of worms? I push my arms as deep as I can. They curl around my wrists, slip between my fingers. I feel the blood cooler in my hands reach my heart, a delightful small pain.