Feeding for a Lifetime

by

Anne Michael

There is a security guard where I work named Donnie who loves to fish in his spare time. One of the things he likes to catch is grouper. Grouper, for those of you who don’t know, is a light, delectable and delicious fish found in the deeper waters of the Gulf of Mexico. I’ve never actually seen a living one, only those delicious slabs of walnut-encrusted grouper that grace my plate with a side of wild rice and fresh coleslaw.

As with most fishermen, Donnie’s tales of how large the fish he catches are suspect. That is until a few weeks ago when he shared a photo with anyone who would stop to greet him. The grouper in it, caught on one of his recent deep sea outings, was actually larger than Donnie—and he is no small guy. He stands nearly six feet tall and pumps iron daily. His arms are larger than my thighs, and it is obvious he enjoys eating well.

Because of the photograph, Donnie now has more than the usual credibility when he tells a fish story. I cannot imagine catching a fish that enormous and wrestling it onto a boat. If that’s what my friend likes to catch, I can understand why he lifts weights almost religiously. It seems appropriate, though, that if a person is going to fish, as Donnie does, he should have to work for it, and even better that the fish should have a fair chance to fight back.  

I’ve never gone fishing as an adult. I sometimes think I’d like it, but the thought of live and squirming bait keeps me from it. My father took my sister and me to the local lake when we were very small and made us poles with string and a safety pin for a hook which we baited with bits of bread rolled into a ball.  I caught a “sunny” as my dad named it. It didn’t look anything like a bit of sun. It was gray and squirmy, and I felt terrible watching it flop around on the pin on which its mouth was impaled. That tiny fish didn’t have a chance against me. Even though I was small, I wasn’t its size and felt too much like the a bigger kid picking on a small defenseless kid. I felt like a bully. To my relief, my father freed it and I watched it swim away. I never went fishing again.

Well, that’s not true exactly. I do fish—for readers. The bait I use? Books. My grandchildren get books as gifts in the hopes that reading will become a lifelong pleasure. It’s a bit early yet to tell if it’s working, but from the book reports my eight-year-old grandson, Jason, reads to me over the phone, it sounds as though the hook is set, much to my delight.

For Valentine’s Day this year, I got my husband, Steve, a few of W.E.B. Griffin’s books, the first three of the series named “The Corps.” This was after I’d gotten him The Hostage, and thought the hook was set. Steve had devoured it. But now, faced with the set, he griped and complained, saying “This [reading] takes too much time.” It seemed as though he spit the hook out.

My husband’s idea of reading tends to be trade journals or magazines on subjects of interest—cars, golf and boating. Alas, this type of reading doesn’t lend itself to my romantic fantasy of sitting companionably together in the evenings after supper reading, sharing a fire and a glass of wine.  

Then one evening, having read all the magazines in the house, Steve picked up book one of “The Corps.” I didn’t say a word. He read, complained about the reading, then read some more. In a matter of two weeks, he had read all three of his new books, sometimes staying up until five in the morning so enthralled was he in the stories. With quiet amusement, I watched the absorption with which he read and his eagerness to grab his book and glasses and head to the porch to read. I hoped the hook was set.

Several days after the last book was read, he nonchalantly mentioned that there were ten books in “The Corps” series. I was surprised at how many more there were but didn’t say much. But I knew I was right—the hook was set!—when he asked if I could find him the next one in the series.

I’m reeling him in good now, and he’s not fighting anymore. I wore him out, I think, and I ordered the rest of the series with pleasure.

Now I’m wondering if, like Donnie’s fish photo, I should have one of Steve reading so people believe me when I tell my tale. After all, it’s taken me 15 years to land this fish—and he’s bigger than me, too! Books are great bait.


At age 10, Anne realized she was never going to get to be Miss America since reading a book was not an acceptable talent. So she went on to get a job and raise a family. Along the way, she fixed meals, picked up toys, helped with homework, and collected a drawer full of rejection slips for her “great American novel.” It was not all bad, however, since she ended up wallpapering a closet with them. She currently designs and creates greeting cards for her tiny company, The Frog Prints, LLC, and also works full-time as a Training Specialist. Anne is currently tethered to reality by a loving spouse, two dogs, one cat and the occasional hurricane that blows through Florida, although falling headlong and happily into a book is still her favorite “talent.” She can be reached at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it