The Bobber

When I was six years old, my father bought my brother and I matching fishing sets:
A drop line, two hooks, two sinkers, two bobbers each.
We were a simple people.
The drop line was a square of four red dowels of wood with strong green fishing line wrapped around the square. I remember it being a light string/cord.
The sinkers were silver and looked just like today’s sinkers, as well as the hooks.
The bobbers, red and white, were also standard issue. We had small ones. Not super small, but approximately one inch in diameter.

It was very exciting. We lived near a lake with three bridges over it. One bridge was over the small man-made damn that emptied into a stream. I am sure the damn was made for what must have been a farm. The bridge certainly looked like an old white wooden farm bridge. It was definitely older than the housing development where we lived. The lake also had a decent sized island in it, not that far from the land. A very old stone bridge connected the land to the bridge. The path across the bridge was made from dirt and rock and grass with what looked like old wagon wheel tracks. This was where we fished from. The third bridge was at the stream-feeding-in end. It was paved and modern and led to other parts of the neighborhood.

The first day we went fishing was extremely joyful. My father took my brother and I to the stone bridge with our tackle, freshly dug-up worms and a bucket for the fish we were certainly going to catch. The bridge had two arches over the water. This area of the lake was very calm, almost a little swampy, with dragon flies, lily pads, algae and fish! Not long into it, my line got caught on something and I pulled and pulled. I was able to salvage the hook and the sinker. But I lost the bobber. I watched it floating away. We threw rocks past it, hoping the ripple effect would scoot the bobber toward the shore, but it did nothing. The bobber kept floating further out into the lake. I was very upset. I kept throwing stones. My father told me not to worry about the bobber. But from family history, I knew I wasn’t going to get a replacement. My symmetrical set of two of everything was now all out of wack.

I do not remember if we caught any fish. We went home. I lay in bed that night crying (to myself) in a way that bordered on hysterical. I could not stop. It was maniacal. And I knew it was maniacal. I also knew it was only because my fishing set was no longer perfect. I became aware that there was something wrong with me for being so insanely upset about one lost bobber, that somehow it made me weak to allow this kind of reaction and over emotionalism. I eventually calmed down and thought to my six year old self, “Maybe it’s time to grow up. Things are not always going to be perfect. You can live with just one bobber.”

I’m not kidding.