I remember the times that we went fishing
by Randy McClave
The anticipation, the dreaming and then the wishing,
Going to the family farm inside the woods
It was mine, and also my son's childhoods.
But, it was more than just trying to catch a fish
More than just trying to put dinner upon our dish,
It wasn't how and when that we did arrive;
It was the drive.
My son and I would talk about the family farm
The river the ponds and the fields and its charm,
We would laugh and joke and remember the crops in the field
As we saw the farm approaching through the windshield.
We would park the truck on the old graveled road
The one which to me my father had once showed,
Then for a mile or so together my son and I would walk;
It was the talk.
We baited our hooks and we cast them into the river
I remember that part of fishing when my son would quiver,
We then watched nature while fish were nibbling on our line
We never caught anything, and afterwards we went out to dine.
I would always tell my son about the big one that once got away
My son would then laugh, and then say let's do it again one day,
I was so happy and joyful as we were both corresponding;
It was the bonding.
After hours of fishing on the river we had no luck
Not a fish between us, so we decided to load up the truck,
My son and I walked through the woods telling stories as we strolled
While enjoying every minute, I suddenly didn't mind being old.
We walked though the cornfield and sometimes we did race
We climb over fences at my grandparents old home-place,
It wasn't only the fishing or just him or trees;
It was the memories.
Randy L. McClave