She’s 3-foot-2, eyes of blue, answers to the name of Mazie Grace, and is on the verge of turning 4.
She’s one of six grandchildren, competing for attention with two older brothers and a younger sister. She can’t hit a baseball like the boys, but put a fishing pole in her hands and she suddenly turns dynamite. She’ll hide a chocolate chip cookie under her pillow and usually comes out of a bathtub dirtier than when she entered.
There we were, on a lake, just before her second year of preschool. Her only previous experience with a fishing pole came earlier this summer, when she tried casting from the dock while her brothers were already sinking worms.
The experience turned into a nightmare, as all three lines got tangled, with hooks flying amok. I was able to save the moment by removing the entire mess to shore and calling it a day.
Mazie’s debacle drew immediate rebuke from her siblings.
“Stick to your dolls,’’ they intimidated. “Fishing is a big boy’s game.”
All my grandchildren are near and dear to me. I don’t know what it is about a granddaughter that steals your heart with every glance. If she gets a bit more attention and affection than the others, it’s only because I may be a tiny bit partial.
The fishing calamity only made her more determined than ever to show up her brothers.
“Let’s go hit the lake,” I suggested, without the boys knowing. “What’s more, we’ll take their two rods. We’ll bait them both up with crawlers and see what happens.”
We chugged up the motor and sputtered away toward the weed patches across the lake. It was an overcast day with hardly another boat to be seen anywhere, much less a ripple. In the distance were two brothers crying, “Hey, what about us?”