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By Norman Jameson

Austin caught his first fish. Erin had reeled in three and would wrangle two more to shore before it was over.
Nathan was catching and releasing already, after snaring a 16 1/2 inch Rainbow trout.
I hadn't caught anything. The closest I’d come to a fish was a tuna sandwich at lunch.
It must be the bait, I thought. All the fish waiting for me in the crystal clear, icy mountain lake were meat eaters. They scorned the corn I trailed before them.
In fact, I watched them beneath the surface, rise to my bait as it splashed into the water and began its enticing course back to the shore. Those slimy little fish, with eyes wide as innocents, but wise as owls, trailed my corn, nosed it, followed beside it, then, I swear, looked through the surface and sneered at me.
Ever see a fish sneer? It’s not pretty.
They then cut a handsome, 90 degree turn and looked for a more worthy hook.
So I went hunting worms, the universal fish fooler. I found a couple late sleepers under a rock. But under a cow pie, I discovered an entire, rock’n rolling worm convention. These were the all night party worms, the fellas who paid country club fees with daddy’s tuition money.
When I brought those party animals back to the real fishermen, fish soon starting flopping on the bank as fast as the squiggly worms could be coaxed onto hooks. Like Pinnochio on the island of fools, these worms paid the price for partying.
Meanwhile, with cast after fruitless cast, I was busily reconfirming my thesis that there are no fish vegetarians. Corn still didn't work.
When the fishermen emptied the worm can and called for more, I figured I might as well trek back up the mountainside, in search of cow patty, the wonder dung.
Then I realized a universal truth…do what you do best.
When Hay Canyon rang with cheers for each new trophy pulled from the lake, no bells tolled for me. When the kids ran from one to the other, congratulating each other on their latest catch, I clapped and shouted for each.
But I contributed more to their joy and success than encouragement. I dug the worms.
When Nathan was thinking "record trout" and Erin was overcoming her fear of all things squishy and Austin was feeling the conquering hero for the first time, it was my worm on the end of each line.
Some fish. Some hunt worms. Each contributes to dinner.
Motivational signs in employees' break rooms read: "Some must sell so all may eat."
Piedmont Airlines Founder Tom Davis said everybody is selling something. Many of us don't want to sell…but we want to eat.
The trick is to contribute something. Just because you're not the fisherman, don't fret about getting no glory. They've got to have bait.
Don’t quit the battle just because you don’t get to shoot the big gun. Somebody has to beat the drum.
It takes a lot more assistants, janitors and secretaries to run a school than it takes principals.
Someone must toil in the church nursery or the parents can't come. If you don't drive the carpool, how will all the kids participate in their dance lessons, or football games?
Before Garth Brooks mesmerizes on stage for 90 minutes, he knows it took 18 hours of hard, anonymous labor to set up the show.
We all have a roll. God made us for a purpose.
And with children, I’m reminded of my roll daily. I can still hear their lilting trills, echoing like fairy sprites through the mountain meadows of southern New Mexico, “Quit playing with the cow pies, dad, and get those worms down here.”
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