As a youngster my son was fortunate to spend time "helping" around the farm. He loved to do the same things as his Uncle and Grandpa, which included drinking out of the big guys water jugs and eating out of their lunch pails. Since the shop was the grand central station of the farm, it was common for a random water jug and lunch bucket to be sitting around.
One summer day my brother discovered a bucket of minnows that he'd forgotten in his pickup bed for a few weeks. Busy with other tasks, he put the bucket up on the shop bench so he'd remember to clean it out at the end of the day. Mistaking the minnow bucket for a water jug, my son angled his mouth under the spigot and took a big gulp. When a glob of fish jelly plopped onto his tongue there was much spitting and sputtering. The summer heat had caused the minnows to disintegrate into a cloudy gray gelatinous mass. When my brother emptied the contents of the minnow bucket outside of the shop, there wasn't a minnow to be found. Yuck.
This story does end well. There were two heroes that day. One, my brother who convinced my son he would live and Grandma who fed him homemade molasses cookies and milk to get the taste out of his mouth. (Needless to say, this child still finds the smell of lutefisk particularly revolting.)
But not even drinking out of a minnow bucket would stop my son from jumping at any opportunity to go fishing. This enjoyment of fishing is shared by my entire family. Except me. I am the odd one out. The abstainer. The lone ranger of the shoreline. The kill joy. Nobody wanted to take me in the boat and I didn't care to join them. I am the Pippy Pukestocking of my family. Even today, all I have to do is look at a lake, a boat, or smell fish and I am instantly nauseous. Count me out of any activity that involves catching or eating fish.
|I'd rather have a hot dog please and thank you. Washkish 1969|