After several hours in my mother's hospital room (at 97 she suffered her first heart attack and after a stint was put in her left aorta is recovering well), the family pushed me out Friday morning for some quiet time along with a flyrod at our Shagbark Waters pond. I didn' t expect much with the cold front that came through Thursday afternoon. After several cast with no action, and after using a variety of strips, I finally hooked a small bass. Maybe 6-8 inches. Just a few feet from the shore (I was bank fishing) a huge monster of a bass engulfed the little bass and we had a real fight. This has happened many times over the years so it was not a big shocker, and I wasn't disappointed when the little bass was spit out. Then it happened three more times. Some very large bass for a farm pond, probably in the five to six pound range. I switched to any number of flies but the only thing the monsters would attack were the small bass that had hit the fly. Sure was a lot of fun, and got my mind away from the hospital room. When I told my mother, who was the person responsible for introducing me to fishing, a large smile crossed her face, and led to us telling old family fishing tales for a couple of hours. I am constantly astounded at what two people having shared the exact same experience remember, and often it isn't the same details. Of course, she can't understand why anyone would waste time fishing with anything beyond a willow, and why you'd throw good fish back. She had to quit fishing several years ago when she lost her eyesight to mascular degeneration. We made our last fishing trip together back then when she finally told me, "Take me on home. I'm done fishing." This ranks as one of the saddest moment of my life, and one we talked about yesterday. JGW
