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|Suckers (standard:other, 1316 words)|
|Author: K.J.||Added: Feb 08 2001||Views/Reads: 4381/1971||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|fishing with dad|
(copyright K. Stevens Jr. 2000) Suckers I saw that the water was dark at the place where the stream and the lake came together, so I cast my line as far as I was able to into it. I let the green and silver spoon sink and left it there. Dad had the truck backed up to a place on the stream about halfway between me and the spot where the water rushed and rippled over a log jam. It had been a bridge, but had collapsed and people had thrown wooden planks, broken trees, and old tires into the stream for a crossing. The water struggled, but was steady, and its current made all attempts at bridge building temporary. Dad was barefoot and rolling up his pantlegs. "What are you doing?" I asked. "I'm going in." "For what?" Dad pointed to the sky over the lake. It was heavy and dark gray and had been moving toward us steadily since our arrival. "Suckers are gonna be running." "Because of the rain?" I asked. "Exactly. It's coming. I can feel it. And I already saw a few running through here." I stepped closer to the stream. Crayfish darted out from under the rocks, backwards with claws ready. I watched them, smooth and momentary, disappearing deep into invisible hiding places. The surface bubbled and trickled and I watched it, formless and wild, as it danced as only water could. "Dad, I haven't seen anything but crayfish." "Trust me. Rain's coming and I already saw some running." "What are you going to do? Catch them by hand?" "Yep. Old style, the way God intended it to be." "The water's freezing, Dad. Did God intend you to get pneumonia?" "You just use your fancy lures, and keep warm and dry. We'll see who drags in the first sucker." "What if I snag one?" "That's what you're hoping to do anyway, isn't it? A real fisherman would be in the water. Even a half-assed one would be using a worm, or a grub. You're a pretender using a lure with a treble hook." Dad eased himself off the tailgate and felt his way to the water on the balls of his feet. His legs were white, skinny and hairless, and strange to me because I hadn't seen them since I was a kid. I watched for a grimace, or a shudder, any emotion when he stepped into the water, but as I expected there was nothing. Instead, he rolled up the sleeves of his flannel, put a little bend into his knees, then walked away toward the place where the bridge used to be. "You're gonna end up falling in! Or stepping on a broken bottle or a hook!" I yelled, but he didn't hear. I looked up at the sky and it was closer. I took a deep breath of the lake, then looked out over the beach behind us. Black logs and charred cans in old fire pits. Plastic six-pack rings and brown beer bottles poking out from the sand. During the summers when I was a kid I'd come to the beach on Friday afternoons. Mom, on her way to night school, Click here to read the rest of this story (92 more lines)
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