Here is one I wrote a while ago; I just found it again and thought you might enjoy it.
Memorial Day
I got up early on Memorial Day, since I planned to be out of the house before anyone else was up, and be fishing at the lake by eight-o’clock in the morning. I had my coffee, and gathered fishing tackle. This promised to be a good day; the bluegills were voracious when the water warmed, and you could catch a bucketful.
Just as I put my hand on the doorknob, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye, and saw a brown-headed four-year-old girl coming down the hall. “Dad, take me!” she pleaded. My heart sank.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to go fishing with her, but when you have kids along, it just seems like dad is forever baiting up and unhooking for the kids. I had planned this trip for a while, and really intended to make it a good one. Melton Hill Lake was one of my favorite places, and I knew I could catch a lot of fish. But when I looked at Ellen, my youngest, and saw the yearning in her eyes, I turned to mush. “Go get dressed,” I said, “then we’ll go.” She quickly put on her old jeans, and a t-shirt. We grabbed a jacket because it was still cool, even in Tennessee. With rods and reels, tackle box and fish bucket in the back of the old station wagon, I started the car and backed out of the driveway.
The lake was only about a twenty minute drive from where we lived, but it seemed a world apart. Migrating ducks stopped there, and an occasional egret or heron. The variety of fish one could find there was mind-boggling. Largemouth and smallmouth bass, catfish, carp of great size, and a panoply of small fish colloquially known as bream and pronounced “brim”. Bluegills, Warmouth, Pumpkinseeds, Red-breasted and Yellow-breasted Sunfish were all present in abundance. We were after bream today.
We pulled up to the parking lot at the lake, and found the foot-worn spot where shore fishermen stood. We carried tackle and folding chairs to the edge of the glittering water. A green heron lifted off noisily at our disturbance, looking almost prehistoric with its spindly legs and long, flexible wings. Ellen saw everything with eyes that observed but did not judge. She had not yet learned bout being a girl, so she was not cautious about being proper. When I took the lid off the plastic container of red worms, she stared at the wriggling knot in rapt fascination. At my direction, she removed one of the creatures from the box, and handed it to me, to be hooked onto our line. I cast out, turned the handle, and handed her the rod, as the bobber telegraphed its arrival with widening rings of water.
Ellen displayed a composure that many adults can’t emulate. She seemed to know that this was an important event that she should be ready for. When the bobber danced, then pulled under, I told her to turn the handle on the reel, and bring the fish in. We landed a perfect little bluegill, about seven inches from nose to tail, fat and round. Ellen smiled and touched its shining sides. I unhooked it and threw it in the fish bucket.
We spent the morning taking turns catching bream. Some I threw back, to be caught another day. Ellen and I talked in short sentences while we dug more worms out of the box. A man in a johnboat waved as he passed by, but no other people visited our spot. Red-winged blackbirds sang from a patch of reeds along the shore.
All morning the chill breeze alternated with the warm sun. As I stood on the lakeshore with my child, communing with nature, I felt my workaday cares being shed, like the dead leaves from a tree. By noon we had caught as many bream as I wanted to clean, and packed up to go home.
On the way back Ellen, seated next to me on the car seat, leaned her head against my side and promptly fell asleep. When we arrived at home, I unbuckled her and carried her inside. Without opening her eyes, she reflexively patted me on the back, as I held her in my arms. In her bedroom, I laid her down for a nap, and stood watching her for a long moment, thinking about the glorious day we had. The fish in the car could wait.
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