13.  Fishing with Daddy

I felt Daddy’s hand shaking my shoulder, and opened one eye in the dark room.  “It’s 5:30” he whispered, “time to go.”  I snapped awake; we were going fishing; just Daddy and me!  We had acquired bamboo poles and worms at the sports shop the day before, and Daddy had his old tackle box full of hooks and lures.

We went to Woodard Lake, a small lake not far from where we live, where Daddy had arranged for a row boat.  We anchored not far from shore, and dropped our baited lines in the water.  Almost immediately, we started catching fish; small bluegills, all too small to keep. 

Across the lake, we could see another fisherman pulling them in and keeping them.  “He knows where the fish are, he lives here.”  After he left, we rowed to the spot where he had been.  Not one bite!  The fish had moved on.  Later when we were leaving, the man came around and told us he had caught more than the limit, would we like some?  Yes!  At least we had fish to take home and fresh fish for dinner.

Daddy and I went fishing one more time at Long Lake.  Long Lake was much bigger than Woodard, and had more and bigger fish.  Daddy rented a rowboat at the pavilion, and we rowed along the shore until we were away from waterfront cottages.  Then Daddy stood up in the tippy rowboat to cast for bass.  I sat in the rear of the boat frantically trying to balance the rolling boat so we wouldn’t tip over, or Daddy fall overboard.  Fishing was supposed to be fun, not frightening, so I never asked to go again.  We never caught any fish anyhow.

Fishing did not catch my interest, and Daddy didn’t seem enthused, so our fishing trips turned out to be a passing father-son time together.

12.  The Chicken Tragedy 

In 1943 Daddy answered an ad to make money raising chickens for food for the army.  The company supplied baby chicks and brooder huts.  We were to feed and raise the chickens three months to edible size, and then the company would buy them back.  It was win-win, help the war effort, and make some money.

The truck arrived with three men to build the huts.  One of the men had one arm, and I was fascinated to watch him stick a nail in the Celotex, a fiber board, then whip up his hammer to drive it through with one blow.  The huts were small, and seemed to be placed haphazardly wherever the material came off the truck.  There were half a dozen huts back of the chicken coop and shop, and several randomly placed south of the driveway by the maple tree.  A small kerosene stove provided heat in each hut.

The chicks arrived, and we were in business.  I think there were 1000 chicks, 100 in each hut.  Daddy carried chick feed around, and my job was to keep water in the tray in each hut.

March, 1943, a late winter storm swept across Lake Michigan with strong winds blowing snow, and freezing temperatures.  A freak 100 year storm they said.  Daddy braved the blizzard several times during the night to check, but the wind blew the heaters out, and the cheap fiber board was not meant to keep out freezing temperatures.

Next morning, I will never forget the drained and forlorn look on Daddy’s face as he carried bushel baskets of dead chicks to dispose of them.  It was a total loss. The huts set empty for several years until Daddy dismantled them. 

Daddy grew up on a farm, and understood the vicious nature of the weather. But like the strong man written about in the Bible, 2 Corinthians, 4:9, “…cast down, but not destroyed,” he grieved in silence awhile, then moved on with his life.