The confessions of a fisherman’s wife.

It sounded exciting. A blind date. Then I heard a voice in the background, “Ask her if she’d like to go fishing.”

That was my first clue, but somehow I missed it. I also missed the second.

Before the evening was over, the fish hook that had been embedded in the top of the green frog pillow was embedded in the back of my green wool shorts. Can’t say I wasn’t warned.

So, I should not have been surprised to wind up a fishing widow. “But honey, the fish are biting,” seemed reason enough to my husband-of-less-than-three months for leaving me home alone. Fortunately for us and the four children who would eventually call us “mom and dad,” Bob’s fishing mania came to an abrupt end. Heavy rains and an overloaded sewage system combined to pour raw sewage from a nearby turkey farm into his favorite stream. How many people can say their marriage was saved by turkey manure?

During our early years we moved a fair bit. Bob put his line into the streams and lakes of Michigan, Wisconsin and West Virginia, where God eventually spoke to him about becoming a fisher of men. He quit his job, and we crammed our worldly belongings into a small trailer pulled by a VW. With our 3-year-old son and new baby daughter, we headed off to the wide-open spaces of Western Canada and Prairie Bible Institute. Not much likelihood of fishing there, so Bob disposed of his equipment. When Peter, The Big Fisherman, spoke of leaving all to follow Jesus, Bob knew just what he meant.

The next four years were pretty well taken up with classes, pastoring a small church, and producing offspring. We left Canada with two more sons, eh.

The 12 years that followed we lived overseas, learned French, had many adventures. Before we knew it we were back in Michigan, within blocks of our first apartment.

What about fishing? Eventually the day came when the lure of fishing reeled Bob back in. His brother-in-law and best fishing buddy, Dan, loaned him the equipment, and Bob’s line was back in the water. Before long, we came to an agreement. “You catch ’em. You clean ’em. You cook ’em. And, you eat ’em. And you can do it any time you want.”

This is why worms wind up in my refrigerator, as well as jars of spawn. Did you know that spawn can be mistaken for orange marmalade, especially when it is kept in an orange marmalade jar?

Being a good wife, I arranged a spot in the basement for Bob to set up his spawn-tying operation. But he wanted to be near me. So, when the females are running you are likely to see Bob with his trusty TV tray and spawn-tying gear in the living room, parked in front of the TV. Maybe it isn’t my company he wants, after all.

That is also why upon entering our home you will notice a brown trout above the kitchen sink, nestled amongst the pink and blue flowers of our wallpaper. “Not in the living room and not in our bedroom,” I’d said. It was not in the living room, nor the bedroom. My idea was that Mr. Brown would stay there until everyone had met him – all 17 pounds of him. Brownie still greets us after three years. Apparently, not everyone has met him yet. You haven’t.

Now, I don’t get having a car that reeks of fishing rods. I don’t get rising before dawn, or even spending the night on the pier to make sure no one steals your favorite spot. Nor do I get the unwritten, somewhat complicated code of fishing etiquette.

What I do get, however, is that fishing makes my husband happy. He enjoys the camaraderie, pitting himself against nature, passing on what he has learned to others. Fishing provides him with a stress-reducing activity that may keep him around a few years longer. So, whenever he wants to give in to peer pressure, I say, “Go for it. And don’t forget your worms!”

Toni lives with Bob in Holland. They have a cabin on Great Lakes Energy lines in Lake County.