"YOU GET A LINE - 

I'LL GET A POLE"

Dad handed me a cane pole rigged with a length of fishing line and a red and white bobber.  I was five years old. 

I caught a two-pound bass on that excursion and Dad swears I was never the same.  He literally snuck around to prepare for fishing trips from that day forward, but quickly I was on to his wily ways becoming a horrid pest if I suspected angling was on his mind. Despite his sneaky gearing up of poles and tackle, I caught on fast, determined to be his favorite fishin' buddy forevermore.

Dad is now ninety-two years of age, our adventures flourish, and I'm blessed to share a month with him each summer. During my month-long May visit; the weather was our friend, fish were biting, and we amassed a mountain of warm memories at the ol' fishin' hole, or in this case, at the lake.

The first morning of our annual marathon found us casting lines before dawn peeked over the horizon. The breeze carried a hint of coolness, birds chirped perky melodies from treetops, and across the quiet cove geese broke the solitude with honking that surely echoed into the next county.  All was perfect for two eager anglers. 

With my backside perched upon a nice flat rock, and only a few sips of coffee down the hatch, I had a bite.  Whoo-hoo!  The first catch of the day was a beautiful channel cat. 

Sun glistened off his shiny wet skin and revealed often unnoticed translucent colors as he was lifted from the water.  "One to nothing, Dad!"  I teased.

I returned to my "lucky spot" and glanced at Dad.  He stood by his folding chair, hands on his hips, looking more than exasperated. "Dad, what's wrong?"  I shouted as his arms flew straight up in frustration. 

At day's end, I had five beautiful catfish on the stringer and for the first time in my life I'd skunked the man who taught me the sport.  My success did not feel good; it left me with a horrid sense of dread - for what if it was our last summer to fish together?  It was not a thought to tuck away with other cherished moments.  In fact, I chased it from my mind at lightening speed.

Although Dad's day had been an all-out bummer, that evening when I slid a plate of fresh, fried catfish under his nose, he seemingly forgot the loss of his fishing gear.  Yet, he didn't forget the day's score; halfway through dinner he laid down his fork and gave me a grim stare, "Five to nothing, huh?"  His aging, Caribbean-blue eyes danced playfully with undertones of challenge in his voice, "I'm getting serious tomorrow--there will be no more of this foolishness!"

We both chuckled; but I knew he was out to get me!  The games were about to begin in earnest.

We played hard the entire month and each day began a spanking-new adventure.  Our days were dictated by the Weather Channel forecast each evening, and we relied on alarm clocks to blast us out of bed before sunrise if promising weather was predicted.

In time we lost count of how many fish were caught, and ultimately of who caught the most.  Sure, we sported scratches, bruises, bug bites, sunburns, aches and pains - all well worth the annoyance when sporting our way to fame. 

Over the years Dad and I fished lakes and rivers throughout my home state of Kansas.  Neah Bay in Washington State made for terrific deep-sea and salmon fishing.  We sought trout in Colorado, bass in Arkansas and once spent a week on the Texas Gulf where I went berserk waging war to haul in my first shark!  I all but capsized Dad's small aluminum boat for I unthinkingly burst into a jig of sorts!

"You'd best calm yourself before we go overboard and become bait ourselves!"  Dad sounded off, but I glimpsed a slight smile before it was wiped from his lips.

Dad's days of teaching sons to fish were long past when I arrived on the scene.  Whatever possessed him to gamble that a prissy, little gal would take to yucky, slimy worms, wriggly minnows, baiting hooks and smelly fish?  This gal not only "took" to the sport, but learned far more than the art of angling - I came to treasure the great outdoors, and no amount of words can express the gratitude I have for my dad.  He not only exposed me to what became my favorite sport, but showed me utter bliss is found in the simplest of life's pleasures.

As years march on, it's become a melancholy task to pack up our gear when my visits come to a close.  I wonder if we'll have more joyful days of angling, or if we've just experienced our final outing--for Dad has major surgery looming in the near future.  I thank God for the vast amount of precious memories we have reeled in - and will rely on them for strength when Dad and I have shared our last sunset.

Dedicated to my Dad,

Raymond D. Boucher

with much love on

 Father's Day 2010

2010 Kathleene S. Baker

Lnstrlady@aol.com

www.txyellowrose.com