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Something fishy: How to warm worms

Debra Leigh Cloer at age 2 sitting at Lake James.

Debra Leigh Cloer

Published: October 14, 2008

I don't remember my first fish, but do remember my oldest son's. He was 4 and it was smaller than his hand. My father fried it for him and he ate all two bites of it. Fishing is a thoroughly enjoyable warm-weather pastime that began when I was just old enough to hold a cane pole and keep a watchful eye on the bobber.
"I've always heard that if you hold the worm in your mouth for a few seconds it will get warm and then when it hits the cold water it will wiggle more and then you will catch a fish faster." My father sounded convincing. He pretended to do just that by palming the worm and acting as if he had something in his mouth.
"Yuck. Not me." I made a face and shook my head. I was old enough to recognize a joke disguised as an old wive's tale.
As much fun as catching fish with a pole and line can be, one time, in the early 1960s, my family of five caught more fish than we could carry. At the Styse Shoals breakaway damn in Cleveland County, which serviced the cotton mills, shallow holes in the spillway were filled with water and fish. We picked them up with our hands, but had trouble holding the slippery creatures.
"We can't just leave them here to die in the hot sun." I said.
We convinced my brother to take off his blue jeans and Mom tied the ends of the legs together. They held a lot of fish. We released the smallest ones into the Little Broad River and kept enough for supper. Once when camping, my father told us that we must "live off the land" by eating what fish we could catch. We tried, but could only catch one medium sized bluegill. Our supper that night consisted of the loaf of bread we brought and a frying pan of fish gravy. I don't think I have had any of that particular delicacy since.
When I was 6, I got a fishbone stuck in my tonsil. To avoid a costly trip to the hospital, my father suggested he remove it himself. After several attempts and numerous tears, a pair of needle nose pliers worked magic, and I was congratulated on my bravery.
My sons and I have learned techniques from friends. Walt taught us how to double-tie a hook and find freshwater clams to use as bait; then Mike, the importance of 4-pound test line and a size 8 hook when trout fishing. Knowledge that we'll surely pass down to younger generations.
I've never caught a trophy sport fish in the ocean, never caught a local fish that warranted mounting. Of the fish I have caught, few have ended up in the frying pan, most are released once again.
My two sons loved fishing when they were too young to bait their own hooks and now my grandchildren also. Each one is excited about catching one, but girls squeal a lot louder.
Several years ago, we built a pond near Upper Creek and stocked it with large mouth bass, hybrid bluegill and others. As we approach the water's edge, we see prints in the mud and guess what animal made them — deer, raccoon, turkey or the neighbor's dog. The dry weather lowered the water levels significantly, but the fish are there, waiting for the kids to bring their colorful poles and their giggles, their casting skills and their worms. They anticipate the bob of the bobber as it lay across the smooth surface, their eyes eager for movement. Sometimes they jump, tug and reel the wrong direction, but still land their catch.
They learned about practical jokes and old wive's tales early in life for I have yet to convince any of them that a warm worm catches fish faster when it hits cold water.

Debra Leigh Cloer is a member of the Morganton Writer's group, is an avid writer, grandmother of five and a lifelong resident of the Oak Hill community. Loves to fish.