With the warming of the weather and cabin fever swelling up inside I keep thinking back to how much I'd love to be at home wetting a hook. This office with its shelves of books becomes less and less appealing as the school year slugs along. Don't get me wrong, I've loved the new experiences and adventures, but there are times when all I can think about is being back in the place where part of me still lives.
Growing up in Georgia was incredible! As a kid, my parents encouraged me to "get out from in front of the TV" and get outside. I often took their advice. Whether it was playing baseball, soccer, football, hunting, exploring or whatever else I just loved being outdoors. One of my favorite things to do growing up was fishing. My parents had a small pond that was semi-secluded where I could get off by myself and cast away the day. Sometime close to the age of 11 they started paying me for doing little chores around the house. At the end of a busy Saturday I'd earn a few bucks and head off for the bait and tackle shop just down the road. After about 5 minutes on my bike I was drooling over the fancy lures that lined both of the aisles - just like I hoped the fish would later drool over them. I typically exhausted my allowance on lures that were the most colorful, biggest, or most expensive, surely they were the best. After tying one on to the end of my line I rarely achieved success. Instead, within 20 minutes I'd be halfway up a tree chasing the $4 spinner bait I had worked all day for. My casting skills were about as good as my lure selection. With maybe 1 or 2 fish I'd proudly walk back home and show off my catch of the day to mom. She always ohh'd and ahhh'd over the little things, making sure I know how proud she was. Dad, on the other hand, was more concerned with making sure I cleaned the slimy fish so they didn't go to waste. With his help we cleaned the fish together while the mosquitos cleaned us. The next day my skin was red and itchy with the poison ivy that covered the same tree guilty of snagging my expensive lures - but mom knew how to take care of that, too. I doubt I'll ever forget those boyhood summers spent around the small pond. And though the fish were never really big enough to boast, my memories of home are never too small to forget.
Growing up in Georgia was incredible! As a kid, my parents encouraged me to "get out from in front of the TV" and get outside. I often took their advice. Whether it was playing baseball, soccer, football, hunting, exploring or whatever else I just loved being outdoors. One of my favorite things to do growing up was fishing. My parents had a small pond that was semi-secluded where I could get off by myself and cast away the day. Sometime close to the age of 11 they started paying me for doing little chores around the house. At the end of a busy Saturday I'd earn a few bucks and head off for the bait and tackle shop just down the road. After about 5 minutes on my bike I was drooling over the fancy lures that lined both of the aisles - just like I hoped the fish would later drool over them. I typically exhausted my allowance on lures that were the most colorful, biggest, or most expensive, surely they were the best. After tying one on to the end of my line I rarely achieved success. Instead, within 20 minutes I'd be halfway up a tree chasing the $4 spinner bait I had worked all day for. My casting skills were about as good as my lure selection. With maybe 1 or 2 fish I'd proudly walk back home and show off my catch of the day to mom. She always ohh'd and ahhh'd over the little things, making sure I know how proud she was. Dad, on the other hand, was more concerned with making sure I cleaned the slimy fish so they didn't go to waste. With his help we cleaned the fish together while the mosquitos cleaned us. The next day my skin was red and itchy with the poison ivy that covered the same tree guilty of snagging my expensive lures - but mom knew how to take care of that, too. I doubt I'll ever forget those boyhood summers spent around the small pond. And though the fish were never really big enough to boast, my memories of home are never too small to forget.
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