Fishing Freshwater and Farm Ponds

I can barely remember it, but to the best of my recollection, I was attaching a rubber tube jig to the fishing line of a Zebco 33 rod and reel outfit. I can say for certain that we were standing at the southwest corner of the family farm pond a quarter-mile from our 100-year-old farmhouse, about an hour before sunset.

That was how I learned to fish, standing alongside my mom — she taught me to tie my first fishing knot — and Homeboy, who taught me to work the jig. Homeboy was a family friend of unimaginable character — big beard, overalls with no undershirt, and one of the biggest hearts I’ve ever known — who brought a whole new meaning to the term “free-range” chicken. The chickens at Homeboy’s were free to range about his place, in and out of the house, but would become that evening’s dinner at a moment’s notice, at which time Mom and Dad scooped my brothers and me up, and home we went.

We spent hours upon hours at that farm pond and knew that an entertaining, easy way to please our parents and feel proud of ourselves was to walk the gravel road home with a stringer-full of fish draped over our shoulders; I can still