Equality: 0 Crickets: 1

By By Debbie Young / special to The Star
September 24, 2004
Let me set the record straight. I am not, I repeat, not a feminist. I have, however, benefitted from all the changes that "equality" has wrought. I can work. I can travel alone. I can even, when challenged, change a tire. But I now know without a shadow of a doubt that men and women are not created equal. Yes folks, this weekend I went fishing.
Now I know that women can make fine fishers. I know a few experienced fisherwomen personally. Yet in one afternoon my perception of women's progress toward equality went right down the old live-well.
Saturday seemed the perfect day to spend on the lake. The sun was shining, the sky was that perfect shade of blue that you can tell is perfect by the contrast with the tiny wisps of high white cloud floating by from time to time. It wasn't even hot yet. I was filled with anticipation of catching dinner and even looked forward to frying it up, after someone else cleaned it of course. And it would have worked too if it hadn't been for those wretched crickets.
Lifeless or lively?
I know now why someone, obviously a genius, invented artificial bait. Spinner baits, rattle traps, even plastic worms, surely the perfect way to lure a prize for dinner. But no, my family wanted to do it the old-fashioned way. Crickets.
I sat in the car while the men went cricket shopping, psyching myself up. I replayed childhood memories of searching in the grass beside the pond, scooping up the little hopper, careful not to squish him, then attaching him to the hook, leaving him still wiggling. Surely things hadn't changed. I could do this.
We found the perfect spot. The lady at the bait shop had regaled the boys (while I steeled my courage in the car) of tales of fish literally leaping onto the bank just the day before. We'd be frying in no time. I even found a spot for my lawn chair that had just the right angle on the sun, so as to maximize my tanning opportunity.
And then my son did what all red-blooded seven-year-olds are bound to do. He tore the top of the cricket container. My husband did what all red-blooded Southern husbands do, but I won't repeat that part. And then he had the audacity to hand me the container and actually intended me to hold those little buggers in with my bare palm.
Brave Attempt
I tried. Really I did. I took a deep breath, grasped the container, held a plastic drink cover over the open top, and felt very brave, right up until I discovered that little hole in the side, just the right size for a cricket to crawl out.
I can't believe I did it. Thirty years of women's equality crawled right out that little hole. Yes, folks, I screamed. And then I jumped. And then I thrust the stupid thing into the hands of a perfectly smug, giggling, thoroughly male 7-year-old.
I can work. I can travel alone. I can, when challenged, change a tire. I can even go to the ATM machine after dark. But now I know unequivocally that men and women are not created equal. And I've got the cricket container to prove it.