A Crappie Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving around our table is a time of tradition, mirth, and myth. With the mashed sweet potatoes we talk about Grandma’s food preferences, with the dessert comes the tall tales of front yard football. But along with the green bean casserole, the favorites are those stories based in truth; reality so weird you can’t make it up.
Such is the case with the “Crappie Thanksgiving”, my own contribution to the family lore.


Four years ago, we had one of those storybook Turkey Days. Every relative showed up for dinner, every relative got along. The weather was amazing, and after the feast, Philoboy and I decided to slip away to a local bass hot spot.


The largemouth bass and crappie were just begging to get in the boat with us. There was no way we were going back to the din of the clan when we were having one of the best fishing days of our lives. I was working in the largest crappie of my fishing career when Philo gave a heave with his rod, trying to reach the edge of the far bank. The lure never hit and his line went dead.


There was no pain, but I knew, oh I knew where his lure had landed. “Do not pull your line,” I said as emphatically as I could muster. “Why, where’d it go?” he puzzled.


“It’s in my head.” He swiveled his seat toward me and turned a sickly white with green tinges round the edges. He started to get up, “Sit down!” I snapped, “I have to land this fish!”


“But, but, but…” The blood was beginning to trickle down into my eye. “If you want to help,” I said, “cut your line without tugging on it.” With shaking hands he did just that as I slid my gorgeous fish sadly into the basket. The stinging tightness in my scalp pretty much assured me that I was not going to let the green, quivery guy at the other end of the boat try to take out the hook. Oh, and did I mention it was a treble hook?


We docked the boat and visited the local E.R., where a little topical anesthesia, a pair of side cutters, two hooks, and one doctor shaking with laughter later I was all better. Prescription for antibiotic in hand, I insisted over the repeated apologies of my beloved that we return to the sweet spot.


Unfortunately, the run was over for the day. We released our bounty back into the water and headed home. Philoboy sat morosely behind the steering wheel. “Don’t feel bad, Hon, I’m fine.”


“But that was my best Comet,” he said dejectedly. Ahhh, true love. Thank goodness it was catch and release.

He caught a keeper! I remind him of that from time to time. Yes, that tinge of red is the remaining blood. I'm keeping this picture forever in case I need to play the guilt card...