By Lorry Myers
My father was a man who loved to fish. With six kids underfoot, I know he looked forward to slipping away in the early light and soak up the solitude of the water. Dad liked the sun on his face and the quiet in his ears. He connected with the smell of the bait, the pull of the strike and the weight of the fight in his hands.
My father was a true fisherman.
When my littlest brother finally found his legs, Dad came home with six identical cane fishing poles. His father had taught him to fish and now my father wanted to expose his own children to something the family could do together.
Something that didn’t cost a lot of money.
We piled into the station wagon and took off for Tri-City Lake. My mom packed a cooler, dragged out her lawn chair, and stuffed it all in the back of the car along with Dad’s fishing gear, earthworms, six cane poles, three older sisters, two little brothers and me.
No one was wearing seat belts.
We were typical siblings who liked to pick at each other. We argued over who would catch the biggest fish as my father patiently lined us up and handed out the poles. After many squeals and a few tears, Dad baited our hooks, attached red and white bobbers, and then stopped to look at the budding fishermen in front of him.
What was he thinking?
He spread us out on the bank and one by one, Dad showed us how to plant our feet and swing the line out, carefully plunking it down in the water. “You have to be patient,” he said, as we waited and watched our little bobbers bobbing along. Then, it happened.
For the complete column, see this week’s edition of the Centralia Fireside Guard.
You can reach Lorry at email@example.com