August 25 2007, Shipman Pond, east of Cleveland
The main campus of the Cleveland Clinic has ten million square feet, ten thousand nurses, and tens of thousands of other employees. The Clinic is a “smart house.” That is, its heating and cooling systems, its electrical systems, computer systems – everything – all talk to one another to work automatically and efficiently.
I am fishing now alongside Stephen A. Seifried who helps run the Clinic’s smart house system, and his two daughters: Camille and Analises, 11 and 8. I’m throwing a Senko. Stephen’s throwing a small Rapala minnow. Camille and Ana are throwing baited bobbers on spinning rods.
I found this little blue spot – Shipman Pond – on my map and drove here and discovered the tiny parking area just up the road next to the sign that identifies this as the Mentor Marsh Nature Preserve. The pond is shallow and weedy and has absolutely no access except from the little road that crosses it – 200 feet or so. The pond widens into two acres on each side of the road, and snakes its channel beneath the road’s little bridge.
Stephen lives just up the road – the fourth house – in this community that is just a few stones’ throw from Lake Erie. (Today’s winds have put Lake Erie off limits to small craft and shoreline anglers.) Stephen grew up in Ohio and learned to fish from his grandfather. He moved to this neighborhood 12 years ago – just before Camille was born. Thus his daughters have grown up fishing right here where we now stand.
I arrived at this pond 20 minutes ago and climbed through the railings to a perch where the pond passes under road. Directly across the pond’s channel from me – 30 feet or so - sat two scoundrels – young men with suspicious eyes and dirty sneers. I hailed them with something like, “Doing any good?” and they muttered something and turned away. Then as I tied on a Senko, they both cast their heavy-weighted lines directly in front of me, 10 feet out from my perch, thus blocking my fishing access to the pond.
Okay, fine.
I had already seen their stringer dangling into the water between them; it contained one bluegill, a nice one. And now I was about to be very lucky and put their bluegill to shame. The only water available to me was up under the road bridge – a low passage that would require the type of cast that I’ve done millions of times up under docks. So I skipped the Senko up under the bridge, and on the first cast felt a tap, set the hook, lifted a 16-inch bass, removed the hook, and tossed him back in with a huge splash as the scoundrels watched silently. Three casts later I caught another, slightly smaller. And then a third.
Then I climbed back up onto the road and walked the hundred feet to where I saw three NON-scoundrels: Stephen, Camille, and Ana.
Stephen tells me that he works Third Shift. Third Shift is the night shift – 10:30 until 7:00. But he explains that he is now ready to start working normal hours. Third Shift was just “while the kids were young,” so he would be at home during the day. But now that they are finally old enough to come home from school alone, “I can finally get back to a day shift.”
These two girls, rising 3rd and 6th-graders, know what they’re doing with spinning outfits. They both cast and retrieve well. And they know how to fish alone without assistance.
Camille has a perky smile and light brown hair. She shrugs and smiles when I ask her why she likes fishing. “My dad!” she points as she answers my question about her favorite fishing partner. Later she proudly tells me that she once saw a giant turtle in this pond. She will begin sixth grade in just a few days; she says gym is her favorite thing about school.
“Catching fish and throwing them in the water,” is Ana’s answer to what she likes best about fishing. Her light brown hair strings across the sides of her face framing an eager smile. Her little fingers – some with red nail polish, some without – deftly handle the spinning reel as she continues to cast and reel as we talk. I learn that math is her favorite thing at school, and that bees and spiders are her least favorite bugs.
This is a quiet neighborhood into which this pond is nestled. An occasional car creeps by. “A neighbor who is involved with a science project,” says Stephen, not taking his eyes off his rod, “says there is a lot of salt in this water now. She volunteered to take water samples. She eventually learned that this may be a result of some sort of runoff from where the new homes are being constructed.” He turns his head and looks upstream.
Stephen tells me that other than home and family, fishing is his favorite thing. “Just to be by myself, just relaxing. We have so much around here – the lake and the river.” He looks around and scans the periphery.
He got his start in his profession – long before his current responsibilities for building automation at the Cleveland Clinic - working in the maintenance department at Bailey Controls. “Anyone who knows boilers knows Bailey Controls.” (I don’t know boilers.)
This pond is surrounded by rushes of some sort, and nearby among them is a stunningly beautiful flower – a Cadillac-pink flower as big as an Iris but shaped like a half-rose-half-tulip – luscious and elegant enough to use as a grail for the fountain of youth. This flower is alone, no others. I scan the pond’s perimeter, penetrating the rushes for another pink flag, and then I see one other – way across at the other end of the pond. Just these two.
Stephen’s two girls are sprites: lank and tanned dark-eyed pixies with expectant expressions and independent airs. Each fishes with joy and confidence, although neither catches a fish nor even gets a bite as far as I can tell. Their father is soft-spoken and mild mannered – slow to expression as he calmly and quietly responds to my inquiries.
Stephen warms a bit when we all leave together and walk up the road and I give them a copy of the Take Me Fishing book. Twilight is arriving (I arrived here around 7:00) and we hear honks on the horizon. “Geese,” smiles Ana with lifted eyebrows.
I decide to walk back down to the pond for a few final casts with topwater lures at the place where the scoundrels sat. (They left after seeing me catch those three bass.) But no bites. I do find four shiny discarded beer cans. I reach down and touch one of them – still cool with droplets of condensation.
Photo: Stephen Seifried with daughters Ana and Camille at Shipman Pond
The main campus of the Cleveland Clinic has ten million square feet, ten thousand nurses, and tens of thousands of other employees. The Clinic is a “smart house.” That is, its heating and cooling systems, its electrical systems, computer systems – everything – all talk to one another to work automatically and efficiently.
I am fishing now alongside Stephen A. Seifried who helps run the Clinic’s smart house system, and his two daughters: Camille and Analises, 11 and 8. I’m throwing a Senko. Stephen’s throwing a small Rapala minnow. Camille and Ana are throwing baited bobbers on spinning rods.
I found this little blue spot – Shipman Pond – on my map and drove here and discovered the tiny parking area just up the road next to the sign that identifies this as the Mentor Marsh Nature Preserve. The pond is shallow and weedy and has absolutely no access except from the little road that crosses it – 200 feet or so. The pond widens into two acres on each side of the road, and snakes its channel beneath the road’s little bridge.
Stephen lives just up the road – the fourth house – in this community that is just a few stones’ throw from Lake Erie. (Today’s winds have put Lake Erie off limits to small craft and shoreline anglers.) Stephen grew up in Ohio and learned to fish from his grandfather. He moved to this neighborhood 12 years ago – just before Camille was born. Thus his daughters have grown up fishing right here where we now stand.
I arrived at this pond 20 minutes ago and climbed through the railings to a perch where the pond passes under road. Directly across the pond’s channel from me – 30 feet or so - sat two scoundrels – young men with suspicious eyes and dirty sneers. I hailed them with something like, “Doing any good?” and they muttered something and turned away. Then as I tied on a Senko, they both cast their heavy-weighted lines directly in front of me, 10 feet out from my perch, thus blocking my fishing access to the pond.
Okay, fine.
I had already seen their stringer dangling into the water between them; it contained one bluegill, a nice one. And now I was about to be very lucky and put their bluegill to shame. The only water available to me was up under the road bridge – a low passage that would require the type of cast that I’ve done millions of times up under docks. So I skipped the Senko up under the bridge, and on the first cast felt a tap, set the hook, lifted a 16-inch bass, removed the hook, and tossed him back in with a huge splash as the scoundrels watched silently. Three casts later I caught another, slightly smaller. And then a third.
Then I climbed back up onto the road and walked the hundred feet to where I saw three NON-scoundrels: Stephen, Camille, and Ana.
Stephen tells me that he works Third Shift. Third Shift is the night shift – 10:30 until 7:00. But he explains that he is now ready to start working normal hours. Third Shift was just “while the kids were young,” so he would be at home during the day. But now that they are finally old enough to come home from school alone, “I can finally get back to a day shift.”
These two girls, rising 3rd and 6th-graders, know what they’re doing with spinning outfits. They both cast and retrieve well. And they know how to fish alone without assistance.
Camille has a perky smile and light brown hair. She shrugs and smiles when I ask her why she likes fishing. “My dad!” she points as she answers my question about her favorite fishing partner. Later she proudly tells me that she once saw a giant turtle in this pond. She will begin sixth grade in just a few days; she says gym is her favorite thing about school.
“Catching fish and throwing them in the water,” is Ana’s answer to what she likes best about fishing. Her light brown hair strings across the sides of her face framing an eager smile. Her little fingers – some with red nail polish, some without – deftly handle the spinning reel as she continues to cast and reel as we talk. I learn that math is her favorite thing at school, and that bees and spiders are her least favorite bugs.This is a quiet neighborhood into which this pond is nestled. An occasional car creeps by. “A neighbor who is involved with a science project,” says Stephen, not taking his eyes off his rod, “says there is a lot of salt in this water now. She volunteered to take water samples. She eventually learned that this may be a result of some sort of runoff from where the new homes are being constructed.” He turns his head and looks upstream.
Stephen tells me that other than home and family, fishing is his favorite thing. “Just to be by myself, just relaxing. We have so much around here – the lake and the river.” He looks around and scans the periphery.
He got his start in his profession – long before his current responsibilities for building automation at the Cleveland Clinic - working in the maintenance department at Bailey Controls. “Anyone who knows boilers knows Bailey Controls.” (I don’t know boilers.)
This pond is surrounded by rushes of some sort, and nearby among them is a stunningly beautiful flower – a Cadillac-pink flower as big as an Iris but shaped like a half-rose-half-tulip – luscious and elegant enough to use as a grail for the fountain of youth. This flower is alone, no others. I scan the pond’s perimeter, penetrating the rushes for another pink flag, and then I see one other – way across at the other end of the pond. Just these two.
Stephen’s two girls are sprites: lank and tanned dark-eyed pixies with expectant expressions and independent airs. Each fishes with joy and confidence, although neither catches a fish nor even gets a bite as far as I can tell. Their father is soft-spoken and mild mannered – slow to expression as he calmly and quietly responds to my inquiries.
Stephen warms a bit when we all leave together and walk up the road and I give them a copy of the Take Me Fishing book. Twilight is arriving (I arrived here around 7:00) and we hear honks on the horizon. “Geese,” smiles Ana with lifted eyebrows.
I decide to walk back down to the pond for a few final casts with topwater lures at the place where the scoundrels sat. (They left after seeing me catch those three bass.) But no bites. I do find four shiny discarded beer cans. I reach down and touch one of them – still cool with droplets of condensation.
Photo: Stephen Seifried with daughters Ana and Camille at Shipman Pond
