The Fishermen

There were two men who went fishing. The first man was old. He moved a little slower on account of his arthritis, his bad hip, and his recent hurt knee.

The second man wasn’t even really a “man” at all, technically. He was a boy. The young man was brimming with energy, skipping ahead, swinging his tackle box. He was ready to wipe out vast smatterings of the local fish population.

When the two arrived at the fishing spot, the old man needed rest. The walk had worn him out. His feet were sore. His legs were tired.

The old man sat beneath a shade tree and fell asleep. The young guy, however, could not sit still. He was perturbed that the old man was asleep.

“I did not come out here to nap,” the boy said to himself. “I’m ready to do some freaking fishing.”

Young people said “freaking” back in those days.

So the young guy plodded onward to the pond and began fishing and taking selfies. He was perpetually casting into the water, reeling it back. Casting, reeling, repeat.

He fished for hours but only caught one tiny fish, not big enough to keep. He threw it back in anger. He kept fishing all day and caught nothing.

Meantime, the old man was fast asleep beneath the tree, snoring and snorting louder than a member of the swine family.

The boy continued to fish all afternoon, perpetually casting, but catching nothing.

Finally, the boy threw down his rod and sat on the shore to pout and play on his phone. He was despondent and angry. When the old man awoke, it was sundown. The sky was pink. The evening air was cool.

“What time is it?” the old man asked.

“Almost nighttime,” the boy replied, not looking away from his phosphorous blue-lit glowing digital screen. “You’ve slept the whole freaking day.”

The old man yawned, then gave thanks to God for the pleasant nap. Good sleep is hard to come by in old age.

Then the old man hobbled to the water, wincing in pain, he picked up his fishing rod, and began to fish.

Immediately, the old man caught a teeny-tiny fish. He was overjoyed. The old man thanked God dearly for the small fish, then gently placed the flopping fish into his basket.

He cast his line into the water again. Within moments, the old man caught another fish, this one a little bigger. He gave thanks for this fish, too.

The boy got excited, he was thinking, “Hey, the evening must be the right time of day for catching fish.” So the boy tried fishing again, but still caught nothing.

By now, the old man was on the opposite shore, reeling in big fish after giant fish, thanking God for each one. The old man had already filled up a second basket with fish, for which he was grateful.

“Maybe I’m not using the right kind of lure,” the boy said to himself. So he researched lures on his phone. But this did not work. He still caught nothing.

When they were finished, the old man had three baskets of fish. The boy had none.

The boy rudely said, “You have only fished for an hour and have many fish. Whereas I fished all day and am empty handed although I have tried everything.”

“When nothing else works,” said the old man with a smile, “try some freaking gratitude.”