Well, that was a close call. I am grateful for the postponement of Doomsday. I still want to go fishing.
We have the garden planted and the yard is starting to look good. The fragrant scents of blooms and blossoms fill the air. Peonies are beautiful. The smell of freshly cut ground mint is a treat to my nostrils.
The farmer's field corn has germinated and a small herd of young deer are enjoying a sampling of tiny tender blades. Wild turkeys checked it out too.
Bugs are back, in abundance. Measures are taken to keep them out of the little blue house at the end of the road. Black ants are on the move. I draw a line with a piece of white chalk across the length of the threshold of the back door, that leads to the dining area. Ants do not like the simple barrier and will not cross it. They do not enter the front door, either.
Some say snakes will be a problem this spring and during the summer months ,especially in areas that have experience flooding. We see more black snakes than any other types. This year none of any kind have slithered through the grasses toward my direction, to date.
The groundhog family that tormented me for two or three years may have moved from their home beneath the old henhouse at the home-place.
The reclusive, grizzled thick marmots did major damage around the foundation of the wood structure and helped themselves to my gardens, before they moved on.
Then again, those pesky critters could be playing possum and planning an attack while I am painting the keepsake.
I planted my old like-new rod and reel where Paul Baby can see it. His fishing gear is close by.
I sure hope he picks up on the reasoning behind the placement. I have several old lures that I am dying to try out, while the pastime and the desire is still fresh on my mind.
If the old bird would rather bait his rusty hook with worms, instead; I know how to dig those creepy crawlers too. I unearthed hundreds of red worms in my time. Chicken livers, pieces of mallard gizzard, a dead frog's decomposing back leg or a hunk of rancid goose fat all worked for me, once upon a time.
My brother was my fishing buddy when I was a kid.
Oftentimes, while fishing in the pit ponds on what is now our back-forty I filled my stringer with bluegill.
John Wayne often became preoccupied with the sport. After he baited his hook with one of those healthy worms, he would rest, whichever his preference of the day, the cane or sassafras pole on the bank and get lost in the bushes with a pack of beagles.
Armed with his strict instructions to keep my distance from the water, I was in charge of the both lines. Those little nibblers ate that bait like candy. I just kept loading those hooks, claiming the catches of both lines, including wads of moss and other debris and a small, but cute as a button turtle, that Dad allowed me to keep for a little while.
After the hounds were on the trail of the rabbit, he returned and asked if anything was on his line.
I always said no and showed him what my line brought to the supper table.
Whenever our dad took the three of us fishing, he wasn't so trusting. He never left our side.
He centered his seat on a five-gallon feed bucket, fished like a pro and managed those dogs just the same. He listened to the music of the hounds, sorted out the voices and graded their performances and more ,he caught more fish than any of us.
I visited those ponds last week. Nothing much has changed. The beautiful landscape has changed very little since well over a half century ago. The creek still snakes through our place and the wood ducks still interest me.
The woods are full of wildlife and the spills rise high above the rugged paths. Mosquitoes still breed and feed and frogs still sing their hum-drum songs. Chiggers like me and still follow me home.
Oh, I am no longer fit enough to swing on the strong wild grapevines. I can not seine for minnows in the "Little Falls" or the visit dangerous caves that time, natural occurrences and man closed off.
Dad and my dear brother are gone now, but I can still see them, hear their laughter and the music of the hounds.
I will forever be grateful to the late Stanley Rollings for offering us a property deal that I could not resist, for old time sake and our sake.
The past lives on-- vivid memories -- simple pleasures, priceless and treasured.
I can be reached by phone at 1-812-446-4852 or by email at email@example.com