The fisher among us

Having survived the grandest grandkids--and they, us--I can report that we accomplished most of the items on our list with the exception of two: we didn't walk to the park, or even go for that matter, and we didn't dig our own worms.

Which is the subject of this post: fishing, in general and Jack, in particular.

My mother-in-law loves to fish and is quite good at it, as was her father, and my brother-in-law Scott. Son Matt has the gift. The rest of us fall in the okay-category and I'm probably worse than that, but Saturday morning we found this next generation's champion, two-and-a-half-year-old Jack.

It's as if the fish were lining up to get a bite of the worm on his cane pole. Before granddad could get Emily's hook baited with a worm, Jack and I had let one get away and landed two catfish! We were in catch-and-release mode, so the fish were fairly safe, even if they did garner a sore throat from hook removal. By the time Emily had her pole in the water, Jack had brought in three perch!

Emily finally landed her own perch with granddad's help and we found ourselves out of store-bought worms. Jack, finding this enterprise to be too easy and declaring himself hungry (one should always eat ALL of one's breakfast before going on a fishing expedition and I didn't have the sense God gave most grandmothers to pack snacks), we gathered our poles and went back to the truck.

But we've found our fisherman.