He is five years old. He wants to check the minnow traps with me, he looks up, grabs my finger and starts tugging, come on pop, pop. Ain’t no way I can say no to that invitation although this is the fifth time this morning we’ve lifted the traps.
My bride mentions, maybe bring a Mason jar with this time, put a half dozen into it, then he can have a mini aquarium for a while, and maybe save you from any more minnows strolls. I thought the idea was stellar.
We pulled three traps, chubs, standard pond variety, rainbow chubs, always his favorites, several mud minnows, all to large for the Mason jar, and of course a bunch a crewdads, as he refers to them. He won’t mess with them, it’s my job to handle the pincered ones.
Back to the kitchen counter with his jar of swimming little pals, who he now feels they must be hungry, I give him part of his left-over breakfast waffle, I have him tear it up and chum the jar. It’s a good thing these minnows aren’t piranhas, they gobbled the bread up, I shook his little hand and said you sure know your minnows.
He says he wants to hold a rainbow chub, I grab a tablespoon, if minnow dipping was an Olympic sport, this kid would get the gold, one scoop, objective achieved. Gramma mentions the minnow needs less air, and more water, spulunk, back in it goes, and then out comes a regular chub.
Mom, can we take these home?
Mom says, you know how you got them out of the pond; they have minnow buddies they probably need to get back to, maybe you and pop pop can go put them back. He poured them back in the pond, said goodbye and thanks to each minnow. He says pop pop, I like minnows, I scooped him up, I said, I like you Mr. Minnow Man.
--The trout whisperer
