Frank went fishing again.

 

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Frank went fishing again. (2022) — By Jason Gunthers

Frank sighed contentedly as he cast his line into the shimmering lake, the warmth of spring wrapping around him like an old friend. Ducks paddled lazily, young deer peeked from the woods, and flowers stretched toward the sky, waking from winter’s slumber. It was the perfect day—except for one thing. His backside was starting to ache. Shifting uncomfortably, he finally stood up and turned to see what he’d been sitting on. Brushing away nearly two inches of dirt, his eyes widened. There, half-buried in the soil, was a rusted, menacing shape—a World War II bomb. In the middle of Chicago. By a lake.

Frank blinked. Then blinked again. “Well, that ain't a rock.” His brain raced between fight and flight, but mostly just stood there, staring. Was it live? A dud? A historic artifact? One thing was certain—he was definitely not reeling in fish today. Grabbing his tackle box, he took a careful step back. Then another. Then turned and sprinted faster than he had in years.

By the time the bomb squad showed up, Frank had already worked himself into a minor celebrity. Joggers stopped to film, kids pointed with wide eyes, and one old man clapped him on the back saying, “Son, you just made my walk more exciting than cable television.” Frank, sweating and still clutching his fishing rod, wasn’t sure whether to laugh or faint.

When the squad confirmed it was, thankfully, a dud, Frank let out a sigh so loud it startled the ducks back into the air. A reporter tried to interview him, asking, “How does it feel to find a piece of history under your butt?” Frank, with all the wisdom of a fisherman, replied, “Well ma’am, I guess history’s got a funny way of sneaking up on you—especially when you don’t bring a cushion.” The crowd roared, and suddenly he wasn’t just Frank the fisherman anymore—he was Frank the Bomb Guy.

The next weekend, Frank returned to the lake with his tackle box, a new folding chair, and, to his dismay, an audience. Strangers gathered to see what he might sit on this time—an old treasure chest? A fossilized dinosaur egg? Maybe Al Capone’s lunchbox? Frank just shook his head, smiling. “If it ain’t fish, I don’t want it,” he muttered, casting his line. But deep down, he didn’t mind the attention. After all, spring had given him more than a good day of fishing—it had given him a story no one would ever forget.

Frank went fishing again. (2022) — By Jason Gunthers