Aug 5, 2018 4 min read

Spending more than half of one’s day in bed gives plenty of time for thinking. That is where I have been the last two weekends and oh do I miss the sunshine, the splash of a feeding largemouth bass and the crack of the rifle.

I never have been able to explain the need for such mundane things but that is George. At an advanced age, I have yet to discover just what I am good for or what I was put here for. Not that I want to go philosophical on my readers but I do believe we each serve a purpose here on earth, even if we don’t know what or why.

So those who are used to seeing me out and about might have missed me. Know that some ghost writer is not filling in this space in the Sunday paper.

The week before my entering the hospital and my appointment with Dr. Ripepi, I had the chance to fish with my great grandchildren. I mentioned this last week but only told you of their exploits and the teaching lesson. Now I am trapped here and thinking of my accomplishment the same week.

With the pain of my worn-out hip, I could hardly do more than watch the two youngsters learn and learn fast. It must run in the genes. I hardly moved at all and while Kathy and Doug packed up the gear, I decided to grit my teeth and make a couple of casts with a purple plastic worm.

On the first cast, I allowed the worm to settle to the bottom and, on the way down, I felt and saw a slight twitch in the line. I had fished enough years to know the piece of plastic was being inhaled by a bass, probably one of those 14-inchers that are commonly caught.

Knowing my hook wasn’t particularly large and the worm could be balled in its mouth, I set the hook hard. I used to tell the kids turn the fish inside-out when you set the hook. That way if the hook has to penetrate the worm, you have a chance that it will do so.

Well, I did just that and instead of a 14-inch bass leaping on the other end of the line, my line started peeling off the reel. That’s a bit unusual for a Pennsylvania largemouth as the fish pretended to be a submarine and headed toward the other side of the inlet.

Of course, my young anglers came a running and I called for Kathy. I had a problem. I couldn’t get down on my knees or bend over too far. Without a net and with fairly light line, I knew I couldn’t lift the fish over the bank. I can still play a big one but landing it was a different story.

At first, I thought Kathy was going to charge me for her help but with a grin, she knelt, reached down and stuck her thumb in the bass’ mouth, gripping it and lifting it out of the cattails.

As she lifted it, Mr. Bass gave a good hard smack of his tail, throwing mud and algae all over the poor volunteer. I am sure she will keep track of that and I will have to return the favor someday.

The bass was an especially fat one for its’ length. Measuring, it stretched the tape to 22 inches and on 2 separate scales, it weighed 6 ½ pounds. Weight wise, that is one good bass for Pennsylvania.

It was a good day as the youngsters caught fish and the old man caught a big fish. I only see them occasionally as they live on the west coast with their mother and father. Later that day as they were packing for the long flight back home, I heard the 6-year-old whisper to his grandmother, “Take care of that old man.”

This was a fishing trip without a great adventure to some exotic place but it is one that an old man thinks about as he lays in the hospital bed.

And I have to say I might have shared this story a few times with some great physical therapists, and my new friend and roommate, Ralph Shaw, who I hope to meet up with soon. But as for now, I am escaping back to the great outdoors, where I belong.

It’s hard to keep me inside long as those nurses can attest to. I might not have enjoyed that hip surgery, the hospital and certainly not the stay in the nursing care facility for therapy, but hey, it does make one appreciate being outside more, and thank goodness I had that fishing trip to give me good memories throughout the ordeal.