We were up early for a Saturday, no cartoons or cooked breakfast which was our weekend habit, but today was different because today we were going fishing.
It was a lake forever away to an eight year old, so it was likely just twenty minutes away; but it would it’s way through a park for sitting and picnicing and not much more.
So we walked to a “Good spot” which was the farthest away, with shade near the shore and a dock over deeper waters; each handed a rod and reel and worms for bait.
I’d never been fishing when I’d actually caught a fish, so that first tug frightened me, drawing up a sunfish or something while screaming to scare away any others about.
And that’s when it happened – a feeding frenzy prompting a count, exhausting our worms and stubbornly refusing to give up, proving licorice also caught.
And caught and caught little catfish, maybe just five or six inches long, and gently tossing them back, counting my way to fifty three or fifty four, I lost count.
And my Dad sitting in the shade, insisting I bait my hook, and handle each fish because “That’s what a fisherman does” and laughing at my catching the same fish.
Again and again…
James Callahan 