Three young boys, stair step in size, coerced a grandmother and an aunt into taking them fishing recently. The convenient fishing hole is really a backwater creek, just the kind of place that's paradise for young boys. The fishin' is within easy reach of cane poles and the abundance of blackberries and wild grapes provide seasonal treats for the young adventurers. And, if the fishing' is slow, there's always the fiddler crabs to tease.
As the would-be fishermen kept the doting relatives busy baiting hooks, untangling lines and taking off fish, they demanded that each fish caught be named. They wouldn't settle for Pete, Bill or Joe. Even Bass and Trout didn't sound just right. But now, Sailor's Choice had a true nautical ring to it.
The youngest pulled in a fish which no one could identify until it moaned a distinguishable croak.
But the next to the youngest rebuked the name Croaker, when he commented, "Sounds more like a Grunter to me."
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Parents were both surprised and pleased when their oldest took up pen and paper to compose a short story. They were equally pleased when this first fictional piece was selected for print in the school's literary publication.
The young man has a real flair for creating characters, for handling dialogue, for building suspense, for concluding at just the right place with a strong climax.
But mingled with the mother's pride for her son's newly revealed literary talent is a sense of dismay. One segment of the story particularly bothers her.
It reads, "That evening, the Hayes have a fish soufflé for supper. Noisily, Robert muttered, "I hate this type of meal. You know that. Couldn't you have made something else?"
The mother's concern stems from the fact that the newest addition to her recipe collection is for fish soufflé. Since the family seemed to eat it with relish, she had served it several times recently.
Now she's wondering...if writers truly write best from the realm of their own experiences is her son trying to tell her what he really thinks of her souffle?
1976
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