Most folks who grew up in Mississippi visited a few creek banks or ponds with a cane pole and a can of worms. I am no exception! Those childhood fishing days are some of the fondest memories of my life.
Oh, the excitement of early spring days when my sweet dad got home from work (probably exhausted) and asked if we wanted to go fishing. We always answered with squeals of delight and waited impatiently while he changed clothes and gathered our fishing gear so we could walk to the small pond in our neighbor’s pasture.
Unlike today’s kids who get live bait from Walmart, the first stop on our fishing trip was the potato shed in our backyard, where we turned over the big pieces of tin that hid our secret worm bed. (This may have been my favorite part of the whole adventure.) After we gathered several fat worms, Daddy replaced the tin, and we headed to the pond.
The pond was only the length of a football field from our house, but it seemed like such a long walk back then. It also seemed magical, though the entire adventure was probably more of a trial for my dad.
I was not the epitome of patience or quietness. My sister was both; she still is. Everything I did was loud and frenetic. But my precious parents instinctively knew to be consistent and firm with me, while also letting me enjoy life.
Never did I enjoy life more than with a cane pole in my hand and a worm on my hook!
Now, Mississippi kids learned early that there would be no more fishing trips unless we could bait our own hooks. My sister and I had no problem there. We loved putting worms and even crickets on our hooks. My issue came after the hook held its worm.
I could not sit still long enough for a fish to find my bait. I was also of the opinion that the grass was greener and the fish were biting better anywhere other than where I sat. So, I spent most of my time making my way around the pond looking for the hottest spot, while my sister stayed in one place, waiting patiently for fish to come – and they always did
But that ever-elusive BIG fish was more important to me than her stringer full of tiny bream. So, I moved continually and continually recast my line.
My fishing technique probably stretched my poor daddy’s patience thin, because I spent more time with my line tangled than I did fishing. Which meant that my daddy spent most of his fishing time untangling my line. I got caught on tree limbs, bushes, driftwood, as well as my clothes or anything else that got in my way.
Which brings me right back to the present day.
Today was a gorgeous spring day here in North Mississippi, and this old girl decided to go fishing by myself, while my husband was working. I don’t think I have ever fished alone, but it seemed like a better option than sitting down at my computer and working on such a beautiful afternoon.
So, I gathered my fishing gear – and my notebook and pen, just in case I decided to do a little real work. Now, we do not have a secret worm bed; I wish we did. But I got my Walmart worms and other bait, my fishing pole, my handy-dandy lawn chair, and a big cup of water. Then, I set out for the pond in the field near our home.
It’s an old pond with shady trees and lots of clear space for sitting and fishing. Even though it’s a couple of football fields away, I was probably just as excited as I walked to the pond as I was back then with my dad and sister.
As soon as I reached the water, I fixed my chosen fishing spot with my chair and water. Then, I put a couple of not-so-fat Walmart worms on my hook and cast my line to the middle of the pond. It was kind of windy, so I did not figure that I would catch much other than a restful afternoon.
Feeling a bit lazy and unproductive, I started writing in my notebook. But of course, almost as soon as my pen hit the page, I got a bite, a huge bite. So, I reeled in my line and caught my first fish of 2026.
It was a big bream with a nice golden tummy, but, unfortunately for the fish and me, it completely swallowed my hook. And for the first time in my 64 years of existence, I was solely responsible for removing that hook without harming that big, beautiful bream. My daddy was not there, nor was my sweet husband with his tacklebox pliers.
So, I gathered my courage and prayed a little (well, a lot, actually), and I put my sweater around the fish as I carefully removed the hook. Thankfully, the hook came out relatively easily, and the fish was fine. It swam happily away as soon as I put it back in the water.
Feeling proud of myself, I rebaited my hook and threw my line out again. I got several more bites and reeled in the line to check my bait. It was a little skimpy after being heavily nibbled on, so I put another not-so-fat worm on my hook and prepared to recast. And then, it happened.
The impatient little girl in me did not pay attention to the tree branch above my head. It caught my line and sent it flying backwards – straight into my lawn chair.
So much for my fine fishing skills.
But let me say, when I hook something, I hook it well, and that blue lawn chair was totally hooked. Again, there was no daddy or husband to pull that hook out of my chair. So, my fishing adventure came to a screeching halt.
All I could do was laugh because, even after all these years, I am still the same little Mississippi girl that I have always been, and that’s ok. At least, I have a good story to tell.
Plus, you got a good laugh and a great reminder to go out and make your own Mississippi fishing memories with your kids, grandkids, or even by yourself.
Just pack some pliers in your tackle box – and watch out for those elusive lawn chairs.
