It’s one of those storybook evenings here in Oklahoma. The clouds are long and low, brilliant white on their face as the setting sun inches its way toward the horizon. There are buckets of minnows and boxes of worms, fishing line notched to red and white bobbers, rippling waves that bounce the pontoons closer and closer to the sandstone shores that form the waters edge, and a father and son.
I’m here with my brother-in-law and my nephew, enjoying the silent places in a hidden cove at the north end of this watery landscape…and I’m listening as a dad and his boy maneuver through the anecdotes of life on the water, of their great love for simple fishing, and of life as father and son.
The son fishes and the father senses it is something more. There are lessons to be learned here, time slows, and much-needed patience presents itself as bobbers float and sink and rest once again. The talk ebbs and flows and eventually settles into a near-perfect stillness.
Fish come and go, released back into their murky homes somewhere beneath us, while we laugh and talk and watch all that lies before us.
The sun draws our day towards its end, and we are all better for it.