We arrived at the wedding on the edge of Toledo Bend, just across the state line in Louisiana. It was my Dad’s favorite place to fish. I have recently been going over old photos and I found one of my Dad and my father-in-law and an ice chest of fish they had pulled out of that lake. I was thinking about him as we walked to the shore of the lake and waited for the wedding.
The sun was warm and the lake covered with tiny ripples as the couple declared their love and commitment and we all smiled and celebrated. Then it was time for the reception. We moved just about forty feet to the big white tent festooned with ribbons and bows and filled with music and laughter. We were well into the meal when I saw the boat. I had been in a conversation with our table-mates as we got to know each other and told stories of how we were connected with the bride’s family. As the sun was setting, it caught the side of the boat and the green flashed like a jewel.
I waited until the meal was finished and there was a lull in the conversation. Then I excused myself and walked down to the shore and followed it until I reached the boat. A paddle thrust out of the front like the bowsprit of a mighty sailing ship. I looked at the ground and measured whether I would sink in if I stepped into the boat. For some strange reason I wanted to get in the boat and and paddle out into the lake.
I think the amber glow of the light and the memories filling me with nostalgia were transporting me back to my childhood. My grandad had a boat just like this. We used to ride with him as he worked his trotline on Possum Kingdom Lake. The second to the last time I went fishing with him it was in his little boat with a small motor on the back. My dad was with us. My grandad was old. I was the youngest of all the grandkids. I don’t remember anything but the ending of the day. We pulled the boat up to the shore to get the trailer. We pulled up the collapsable metal mesh fish basket. It was empty. A hole in the bottom had let all the fish slide back out into the lake. Words were spoken.
The last time I went fishing with him there were five us in the boat. Dad, grandad, my two brothers and me. The trip ended quickly when one brother hooked another brother in the head with a treble hook on a lure. There was blood and tears. The adults wanted to push the hook through and cut it off and then reverse the course of the hook. Words were spoken. We turned the boat back to the shore.
Gandad died not long after that. I was so young and he was so old and I never got to have a really great day with him. Its something I’m looking forward to one day when I greet him again on the beautiful shore.