"Swim away! Here comes the monster again!” screeched the minnows to one another. They swam frantically in a zigzag pattern while the monster followed close behind, jaws spread wide, nipping at their tails. The older, more experienced minnows watched in terror as some of the more naïve members of their group fell prey to the monster’s ruse. The monster was the master of deception. To the untrained eye, it would appear that there was just enough space to squeeze through the gaps of the beast and to escape through to the other side. This unfortunately was not the case, and, once the minnows were in the mouth of the monster, they were hoisted up to the surface. Those left behind breathed a sigh of relief that they had cheated death yet again, but shuddered to think of the fate of the poor souls who were less fortunate. Who knew what horrors awaited the unlucky ones at the surface…
I stooped over and peered into my fishing net. Inside were five or six shimmering minnows, thrashing around violently from the shock of their abrupt environment change. I did my best maniacal laugh, and shouted, “The Minnow-Eating Monster strikes again!” With a satisfied grin across my face, I clomped clumsily up the muddy creek bank in my gumboots. Once at the top, I deposited my prisoners into a bucket filled with water, and descended the slope to collect more victims.
Now, before you call the insane asylum to have me hauled away, it is important that I clear something up: this was me as a child, and I have since outgrown my desire to capture innocent minnows. But, ten years ago, this was how I would spend my summers—exploring the creeks and streams in my grandparents’ pasture. During these explorations, my fishing net was the key to unlocking my imagination and creativity. One minute I could be a fierce river monster terrorizing everything in my path, and the next, a queen ruling over my subjects with a powerful scepter. You never knew what you were going to get, which is what made it all the more interesting.
My net’s appearance is far from extraordinary. It is about two feet in length with a thick, wooden handle. The “hoop” (the oval-shaped piece of metal at the end of the handle that the netting is attached to) has dimensions of about one foot by six inches. The mesh netting has holes that are big enough for small rocks and sand to sift through, but tiny enough that minnows and crayfish cannot.
If you look more closely, however, you will discover there is much more to my net than meets the eye. The once smooth, wooden handle is now rough with several nicks and cracks. These defects are the result of being constantly dropped, whether from my own clumsy nature or from tossing it none-too-carefully from my side of the creek to my friend or brother on the other. The netting is no longer white, but stained from being dipped in dirty creek water and mud. The water did more than just change the net visually. If you bring your nose close enough, the smell of the musty water is still strong, engrained into the very fibers of the netting. This smell, although pungent and repulsive to most, brings back sweet memories for me.
My net was a constant companion in the summers of my youth. My brother, my best friend, and I would spend nearly everyday down at the creek or the smaller streams that branched off the creek (a.k.a. “The Branches”) catching minnows and crayfish. Just like the conch shell in Golding’s Lord of the Flies, whoever held the net had the power. It was always our initial intention to take turns with it. One person would do the fishing while the rest waited patiently on the sidelines, giving advice and helping spot minnows. But, being the impatient children that we were, the majority of the time this was not the case. “It’s my turn! You’ve had it long enough!” was bound to be exclaimed at some point during the day. When someone didn’t relinquish the net when they were supposed to, things occasionally became violent. It wasn’t uncommon for us to come trudging back up to the house soaking wet with mud in our hair.
Some days, I would venture out on my own. It was in these times of solitude, alone with just my thoughts and my fishing net, when my imagination was at its freest. I could spend hours entertaining myself by coming up with stories and pretending my net and I were someone or something else. Sometimes, I would be so pleased with the story I conjured up in my head that I would write it down. This is what ultimately fueled my love for writing and reading.
Nowadays, if I have free time, I enjoy taking walks in the woods surrounding my home. During these walks, I will sometimes try to let my imagination run free and come up with stories like I could do so easily back then. To my frustration, this is a skill that has become too much of a challenge for me to overcome. No matter how hard I try, it is impossible to keep my thoughts from wandering to something else—the test I need to study for, dating troubles, things on my to-do list, etc. I always seem to give up and leave with despair in my heart. It’s an odd feeling knowing a change has taken place, but being unable to define the time or origin of it.
This past Fourth of July, my family went down to the creek to try and beat the heat. My two little sisters used a fishing net and caught minnows for the first time. Although it wasn’t my special net, it still made me smile watching them use it, just like I had done a decade earlier. In a way, it felt like I had traveled back in time and was observing myself. It brought me so much joy to see how much fun they were having. We all had a good laugh when Lily exclaimed, “Look Mommy! I caught some memos!”
Even though my minnow catching days are over and I no longer use my net, it will forever be the object that influenced me the most growing up. If you ask me about my childhood, my net immediately comes to my mind. Someday when I have children, I will pass it down to them. It is my hope that they will enjoy and take away as much from it as my siblings and I did. It will never cease to amaze me how the simplest objects in life can often be the most life-changing.