I don't remember the precise moment that I last went fishing, partially because it was just that long ago but primarily because it just wasn't that memorable. As a matter of fact, I only have a few fleeting memories involving me and fishing, none of which actually involve me catching anything living.
The best fishing story I have, actually, happened when I was in third grade. My brother and I, along with our dad, were in YMCA's Indian Guides, a parent/child program that took pride in cultivating respect and honor for Native American culture. Every summer, there was a big week-long camping trip where you'd go out and live off the land for a few days. The oldest kids were third graders, and they were like the tribal elders -- they pretty much ran the show when the dads weren't around. It was tradition.
My brother is three years younger than me, and as such he was in kindergarten when I was in third grade. Needless to say, I was really looking forward to that summer's camp because not only would I finally be one of the tribal elders, but my brother would be going along for the first time and I would get to boss him around with no recourse!
Now for some context to the story, so that you can muster up the adequate level of pity for me.
By the time I was in third grade, I'd yet to contract chicken pox, which concerned my mother because the legend goes that the older you are when you get them, the worse they are. So in her infinite wisdom, when our neighbor came down with 'em in the spring of that year, she forced us to play together in hopes I would catch the pox from her. Strangely enough, it didn't work, leading my mom to believe that maybe I had actually had a mild case of the pox when I was a toddler. After all, if I wasn't immune, surely I would have caught them from my neighbor, right?
Flash forward to that summer, and my brother came down with the pox about a couple of weeks before the Indian Guides trip. Believing I was immune, my mom didn't quarantine him from me...and even the least astute readers can see where this is going.
A few days before the trip, I broke out in a hideous case of chicken pox. These things were everywhere -- on my scalp, my feet, my arms, everywhere. Needless to say, I had to miss the Indian Guides trip. Yes, the trip I'd been looking forward to for a year, the one where I'd finally get to be one of the tribal elders.
To make matters worse, my brother went with our dad while I sat at home sick as hell. I was already prepared to disown him as a sibling BEFORE he caught a 10 pound muskie and got his photo taken with the fish, his little face grinning ear to ear. Did I mention this photo was used for almost a decade on the front of the local Indian Guides tri-fold brochure? Oh, did I fail to mention it was the lead slide in the presentation the organizers made several times every year at local schools? Yeah, so if I was ready to disown him as a sibling before all that happened, just imagine how I felt now.
Lets recap, shall we? Brother comes home with chicken pox about ten days before the trip, passes the virus to me, and causes me to miss the biggest event of my life to that point. Then he goes to that camp without me and catches a huge fish, becoming a minor celebrity in the process. I was in high school before that photo was finally retired from their promotional materials, so any chances of forgetting the whole episode ever happened were fruitless.
I held that against him for a long time, with good reason! For the record, our mom felt pretty bad about the whole thing and I wound up getting lots of new toys and massive amounts of ice cream without first having to eat vegetables. But still, I vowed never to go fishing again. And being pretty stubborn, I held out until two weeks ago. That's 21 years if you're scoring at home.
You bet.
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