[I wrote this some years ago and recently unearthed it in a sorting exercise. I'm trying to stay ahead of Cheryl who has all the signs of entering a hard core cleaning frenzy. Once it hits in full force, her tools of choice are a bull dozer and dump truck.]
“I’ve got one! I’ve got one! I’ve got one!” Momma blurted out in a hushed squeal that was half giggle. Her cork was bobbing up and down in the water. She was bobbing up and down on the shore. You would think she had won a lottery. It was instead her first fish. Every catch was her first fish all over again. It was the same joy as the little girl who once stood on the bank next to her father and pulled a small perch out of the black, south Georgia waters.
More often than not she would scare the little critter away before she set the hook. Having lost a great prize, her whole being drooped in disappointment. Disappointment merged with disgust as she held the pole higher and saw she had lost her bait. If Dad was nearby, “Ellis, would you bait this for me?” When I got older I might get the privilege, sort of payback time for all the pickles she had given me off her hamburgers. Otherwise, she approached the messy task like she was changing a diaper, tense, neat, careful. Threading a worm on a hook was serious and dirty business that just had to be done if you were going to catch a fish. And catching fish was serious business. Mom was always serious about having fun.
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