NOSTALGIC NIGHTCRAWLERS

It rained nearly all day—not heavy but steady—and stopped just after dinner. Perfect! I knew from his manner, Dad was itching to hop in the old pickup later that evening and motor to our local, unassuming public golf course. With a bucket in one hand, a flashlight in the other, he took me to one of his favorite spots—about 100 yards down the second fairway. His other choice spot was just this side of a fairway bunker on the eleventh hole.

The fairways were sufficiently soggy, prime for stalking nightcrawlers; those long wigglers will slither to the surface to keep from drowning, Dad reasoned. And, sure enough, there they were, lying in wait—long, thick, and yes, beautiful crawlers. “Never shine the flashlight directly on them, son, and if they’re halfway in the ground, pull slow and easy from their midsection, never from the head”. And that’s exactly what I did and the crawlers complied.

In fairly short order, my bucket was teeming with those large earthworms; Dad’s bucket overflowing. We emptied those plumb crawlers into his homespun wooden crate, crammed with rich soil, coffee grounds and ice packs. It was time to go home.

A few days later our family headed way north to vacation in Canada. No one in our neighborhood ever went on a 2-week trip, let alone cross the border into another country. Actually, we were enamored by it all and felt different from our friends in the way one might feel special for being so darned lucky.

I spent just about all my time fishing with Dad for his favorite: the walleye. And do those fish ever love nightcrawlers! As I baited my hook, I turned and smiled. Dad grinned and nodded as we both waited for the inevitable tug. I landed my first walleye only after Dad’s third! We talked on and off about mostly nothing, but we talked. Those were grand times and, in retrospect, it served as my introduction into the astonishing world that we call fishing.