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Memorial Day

I got up early on Memorial Day, since I planned to be out of the house before anyone else was up, and be fishing at the lake by eight-o'clock in the morning. I had my coffee, and gathered fishing tackle. This promised to be a good day; the bluegills were voracious when the water warmed, and you could catch a bucketful.

Just as I put my hand on the doorknob, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye, and saw a brown-headed four-year-old girl coming down the hall. "Dad, take me!" she pleaded. My heart sank.

It wasn't that I didn't want to go fishing with her, but when you have kids along, it just seems like dad is forever baiting up and unhooking for the kids. I had planned this trip for a while, and really intended to make it a good one. Melton Hill Lake was one of my favorite places, and I knew I could catch a lot of fish. But when I looked at Elizabeth, my youngest, and saw the yearning in her eyes, I turned to mush. "Go get dressed," I said, "then we'll go." She quickly put on her old jeans, and a t-shirt. We grabbed a jacket because it was still cool, even in Tennessee. With rods and reels, tackle box and fish bucket in the back of the old station wagon, I started the car and backed out of the driveway.

The lake was only about a twenty minute drive from where we lived, but it seemed a world apart. Migrating ducks stopped there, and an occasional egret or heron. The variety of fish one could find there was mind-boggling. Largemouth and smallmouth bass, catfish, carp of great size, and a panoply of small fish colloquially known as bream and pronounced "brim". Bluegills, Warmouth, Pumpkinseeds, Red-breasted and Yellow-breasted Sunfish were all present in abundance. We were after bream today.

We pulled up to the parking lot at the lake, and found the foot-worn spot where shore fishermen stood. We carried tackle and folding chairs to the edge of the glittering water. A green heron lifted off noisily at our disturbance, looking almost prehistoric with its spindly legs and long, flexible wings. Liz saw everything with eyes that observed but did not judge. She had not yet learned bout being a girl, so she was not cautious about being proper. When I took the lid off the plastic container of red worms, she stared at the wriggling knot in rapt fascination. At my direction, she removed one of the creatures from the box, and handed it to me, to be hooked onto our line. I cast out, turned the handle, and handed her the rod, as the bobber telegraphed

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