"Dear Ms. Fishergarten,
Thank you for submitting your manuscript, 'Sonnets of
Terminal Tackle,' to the Nouveau Po-ette Publishing company. As a small
publisher, we continually seek to promote talented new authors.
Sadly, that does not include you.
It is not clear from your submission whether you have ever
read, much less studied, poetry. We point to this example:
Ode to My Spinner at Spinney Mountain
Oh Spinner
How did you end up in the net of my
Cupholder?
You were just dangling there
All feathers and glittering spoon,
At the end of
The 12.84’s line,
Dangling over the chair and
Cupholder
Yet not touching them,
Not even freaking close
You piece of junk.
Was there some unseen vortex
Coming from the cupholder net,
That sucked you in
Something
That devours terminal tackle,
Just to hear me swear
A lot?
Because that net sure never held
My Gatorade
Nearly as well.
And now, there you are
The last of our spinners
Somehow twisted firmly in the net
By each of your treble hooks.
Must I cut you out?
And render the cupholder
Bottomless,
Never again to hold a Gatorade,
No, nor even a Pepsi,
Nevermore.
Oh Spinner.
Frankly, we sincerely hope that you can take to heart the
words of poet Paul Valery: ‘A poem is never finished, only abandoned.’
We are returning your manuscript. Enough said.
Respectfully,
The Publishers and Editors (and also assistants and other
staff, so don’t try to contact them either)
P.S. 'Cup holder' is two words.”
 | ||||||||||||
| Cupholder has many words, none of them nice. |
“So,” FisherSpouse asked, digging through the tackle box. “Hear anything from the publisher yet?”
Fishergarten shut down her email and watched storm clouds
gather over Vega Reservoir, because, fishing.
“It sounds promising,” she said. “They just want a small revision.”
“It sounds promising,” she said. “They just want a small revision.”
“Well, have you seen our spinners?” he asked, still digging.
“I haven’t seen them since Spinney Mountain.”
“I’m sure they’ll turn up,” Fishergarten said, carefully balancing
her Gatorade in the cupholder of her chair.
FisherSpouse yanked a package out of the tackle box and held
it up over his head like Braveheart brandishing a sword.
“Hah!” he said. “I knew I’d bought some more.”
He wandered off to a peninsula surrounded by a rocky shore.
“You’ll never catch anything!” Fishergarten hollered.
“You’ll only snag your new spinners!”
 |
| A spinner magnet |
FisherSpouse looked over at her. “I got one,” he said quietly. Out in the water, something
splashed. “Hand me the clamps,” FisherSpouse added. Expertly, he reeled in the
fish, unhooked it, swished it back and forth in the water and watched it swim
away.
Eagerly, Fishergarten grabbed the 12.84, and cast. Reeling in
her lure, she felt it grab something. Fighting the pull, she lifted an object
from the water. Neatly threaded on one of the treble hooks was a tiny lock-shaped
object.
“Hey, look what I hooked,” she said excitedly to
FisherSpouse. “It’s hand-crafted, I swear. It has a loop on the top and see how
the sides look shaped, possibly with some prehistoric tool. You know ancient
peoples must have walked this way once.”
“It’s a rock,” FisherSpouse said. “Or maybe someone’s old
sinker.”
Fishergarten carefully unhooked the artifact and placed it
gently in the net top of the tackle bag. She would have it appraised, once it
was professionally cleaned.
Determined, she cast again and the hook caught almost instantly.
Quickly she reeled it in, anticipating more objet d’artifacts. She placed her
catch gently on the shore.
“What’d you get?” FisherSpouse asked.
“I’m not sure,” she answered. “It looks like … well … a crab inside a crab?”
“That’s interesting,” he said.
“It’s gross,” she said. “How do I get this thing off my
hook?”
“Well,” he said, examining it. “Doesn’t look like you caught
any cartilage. Just pull it off … no -- pull down … no, not like that. You have
to rip it. Jeez. Keep pulling. OK, there you go.”
Fishergarten was feeling a little sick. She likely had
snagged the handiwork of ancient crustaceans, but it was still disgusting.
Somewhat less eagerly, she cast a third time. To her right,
FisherSpouse landed another fish.
“That’s two in one hour!” he crowed.
Sourly, Fishergarten started reeled her line. This time, she had
something heavy. She pulled mightily and her catch bounced onto shore. Her
carefully de-barbed hook was stuck in the hole of a rock.
“Yeah, there’s a lot of porous volcanic rock up here,”
FisherSpouse said encouragingly. “But just look at how you got that hook so
perfectly in that hole of that rock. That’s good fishing.”
Fishergarten looked at him.
“I’m a little tired of history,” she said finally.
“Probably, we should get off the mountain now.”
“But –” FisherSpouse looked stricken. “We can’t leave yet. I
only caught two.”
A short time later, driving into Collbran, Fishergarten reviewed the day.
“I caught a lot,” she said. “But not any fish. I think, yes,
I think it was just a bad spot. Too many rocks.”
FisherSpouse shot her a glare.
“And next time, I won’t use a spinner,” she added. “They’re
great for unearthing artifacts, but not so much for fishing in rocks. I’m going
to need something that floats.”
What about you, FisherFriends? How do you keep your spinners
out of the rocks? Go ahead and spill your secrets in the comments below.
