Tim Apple wrote:
My boys are asking about fishing, and though I want them to be elitist
bamboo flinging, dry fly snobs. I know this is not very realistic at
three. I have some old heddon glass rods I could rig up, and maybe just
use a hook and corn and go after bluegill, or would it be better to just
get them some lil' zebcos and give in to the spinning rod. If anyone has
gone through this, any advice on being successful without making the
children hate fishing please share.

Tim Apple


Always hard to say, as too much depends on the individuals concerned,
but three years old is too young for anything much. I would wait at
least three years before doing anything much at all, and then be
extremly careful about forcing it.

I refuse to give angling instruction of any sort to less than ten year
olds, and will only do it under very specific circumstances anyway.

This is old, but it may give you some insight;

The Legacy

Once upon a time, in a magical land long ago and far away, now almost
lost in the wavering shimmering mists of time, a small boy sat on a
summer afternoon at the side of a small stream below a weir, with his
father, watching entranced, as glinting silver fish were landed with a
magical wand, and sundry other esoteric and fascinating implements, and
were carefully transported to several large jam-jars for his closer
inspection, wonderment and delectation. The Sunday afternoon seemed like
an eternity, and more or less fulfilled the boys vision of paradise.

What could possibly be better than this? He had been to this spot
several times already with his father, and each trip had been a
revelation and a source of endless interest excitement and delight. His
father telling him which birds were which, and how one could tell by
their song and the way they flew, how to tell which trees where which by
looking at the leaves, and all sorts of interesting and fascinating things.

At last the afternoon drew slowly to a close, and the boy lifted one of
the heavy jars preparatory to removing these fascinating and colourful
creatures to his place of dwelling for further study and enjoyment.
"Well", said his father, "You can take them if you like, but they will
only die, there is not enough space in the jar for them, and they need
more oxygen than the water in the jar can supply them with."

The boy was very disappointed at this information, but knowing that his
father was always right in these matters he carefully took the jar to a
shallow place a little further down the bankside and released the fish
slowly from the jar watching entranced as they flashed away into the
faster current above. His father released the contents of the other jars
and the two slowly packed up their equipment placing it all carefully in
the ingenious special boxes and containers designed specifically for the
purpose, and stowed them in the large seat box.

Some of the drawers in the large seat box had not yet been opened in the
boys presence, and he was all agog to know the secrets of their
contents. "Next time we will try for some perch "said his father, "are
they as big as those we caught today " asked the boy, "Oh they are often
much bigger" was the hardly credible reply. "But some of the fish today
were four inches or more" the boy exclaimed, not wishing to be
disrespectful to his father, but hardly able to believe that even larger
and more interesting denizens could be charmed from the tantalizingly
close but nevertheless unreachable depths of the stream, "I have caught
a couple of three inchers with my net, but those were the biggest". "You
will see" said his father.

"When will we go again then father ? how many will we catch? How much
bigger are they, what colour are they, are they silver as well?", the
boys imagination was so fired by the prospect of even greater pleasures
that his stream of questions became almost unintelligible with pent up
excitement and joy. "Next Sunday, we will try to catch a couple, and
then you will see for yourself" his father told him smiling, "in the
meantime I will give you a book to read which describes all the fish and
animals in the stream, how they live, what they look like and how to
catch them". "Next week on your birthday I have another surprise for you
as well".

The week crept slowly by seeming like a lifetime of torture to the small
boy, the book full of unimaginable incredible and hardly understood
secrets was devoured several times over, and not being new in the first
place became rather tattered by the end of the week, his father worked
away, and so he was unable to ask any of the thousand questions burning
in his mind. His mother simply replied "ask your father, when he comes
home", and this was no help at all.

Then at last on the Saturday his birthday finally arrived. He had gone
to bed unable to sleep for excitement and anticipation of the coming
day, determined not to fall asleep in case of missing something. The
chapter on Perch had been read and re-read a dozen times and then he had
somehow unaccountably fallen asleep.

He awoke to find his parents at the foot of the bed and across the bed
was a long thin package wrapped in red cloth. He was immediately wide
awake and looked for quite a while almost in awe at the package knowing
full well that it must contain the object of all his dreams, a wand as
magical as his fathers. He slowly unwrapped the package revealing the
most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his whole life, a lovely yellow
rod of cane with brown blotches and red and black whippings, silver
rings, and a special fitting to attach a reel.

He was speechless with happiness, and was hardly able to tear himself
away from the rod to even get dressed. The next couple of hours passed
in a sort of haze, as even more objects of wonder and delight unfolded
to him, a reel with cotton line from his mother, a set of floats from
his elder brother, several small packets with split shot, and float
rubbers and a host of other things, and then to crown it all a seat box
with drawers and boxes just like his fathers.

He could hardly believe it, his parents were quite poor, and he knew
such things must cost a veritable fortune, how was it possible that they
had obtained such treasures? He thanked them as best he could, and spent
the rest of the day sorting his treasure into the drawers and boxes of
the seatbox, rearranging and replacing every single item, carressing and
savouring each one before placing it so that it was just so in its
rightful place. He knew the contents of his box off by heart, the exact
position and description of every single piece of tackle, and even what
most of it was for.

For some unknown reason the boys father did not take him fishing on the
Sunday, and although disappointed the boy was not too upset as he had
his treasures now, and there would be other Sundays. He knew his father
sometimes had to do things which grown-ups do on Sundays, and was
content to wait, although a week seemed like forever to him then.

It would be nice if the story had a happy end, but for reasons which
have nothing at all to do with the story, and which at the time were
quite incomprehensible to the boy anyway, he never saw his father again,
until almost twenty years later as he lay on his deathbed and the boy,
now a grown man, was called to his side. He was instantly recognisable,
although old and worn and very ill.

It was difficult to say anything at all, and the boy stood in silence
for several minutes before the man in the bed asked him "Do you still
enjoy your fishing?" The ban was broken, and it seemed as if the
sunlight and joy and birdsong of that far off summer afternoon had
entered the dark and gloomy room. The old man´s eyes lit up, and the two
spent a long time talking of fishing and other things, until the nurse
came to shoo the visitor away.

The boy now a man visited his father every day for a week, and plans
were made for a fishing trip as soon as he was well enough. This trip
too unfortunately never materialised, the old man died on the following
Fríday night, passing away peacefully in his sleep. Some of the boys
relatives came to the funeral, and afterwards at the funeral lunch
bemoaned the fact that the old man had left the boy nothing. The boy
kept his silence, and many thought it odd that he just smiled.

"If they only knew" he thought, fingering the old and tattered book in
his suit pocket, seeing again the sunlight dappling the water, and the
bright minnows flashing in the current.

Tight Lines! ~ Mike Connor