Flathead

Grandpa opened the trunk of the grey ’49 Ford
He took out his fishing pole
No tackle box, just a crappie jig with maribou feathers
"Yeller lead-head with a white head," He would say
To tip us younguns off on how to catch crappie
Some of us listened, some of us didn’t
He flipped that jig out into the pond
Grandpa was lucky at fishing
Some of us were, too, but some of us weren’t
On that first cast the tip of the pole bent clear down
To the surface of the water nearly pulling Grandpa in
He recovered though and fought that fish to the bank
"Flathead!” he cursed and stepped on the fish
So he could get his crappie jig back
Left the fish on the bank and went right back to his car

The grey ‘49 Ford kicked up dust on the old country road
That led back to Bartlett
Where Grandpa lived
When he stopped to get gas
A hot rodder pulled up beside Grandpa in a chopped Mercury coupe
“Hey pops, what mill you got in that hot rod?”
He yelled it at Grandpa in order to be heard over the roar
Of his lake pipes
"Flathead!” he cursed and stepped on the footfeed