Wetting a Hook

The weather warmer and he grabs his pole and stands in his favorite

spot right along the spill way and casts his line slow and deliberate, time after time.

He stands and seems to never grow tired of casting that worm

into the dark waters. Slowly winding that string back and watching, always watching.  

Standing on the ground that his grandfather fished on.

Standing on the

ground that has been his home forever.

 He cast and he catches.

He pulls them to the bank and puts them on a line and with a smile

only a 9 year old boy can smile, asks me if I'll cook 'em..

His grandfather left him this pond full of bass and catfish. His grandfather

built this pond and populated and fed it up until his death.

I wonder if he knew then what he was leaving behind for

his grandsons.

  A place to sit a spell and cast your line,

and your worries, out across the waters. For a boy it's

a priceless gift that he eagerly runs to every single day lately.

I'm sure he doesn't think much about how hard his Grandfather worked

so he could "wet a hook" but I'll keep reminding the boy of

the legacy that he has been given and I'll keep leaving my own

fingerprints around this farm so that years from now

they will still feel me like a gentle breeze through

the trees.

I shall not forget the man that planted the fish here that feed us even after he's gone.

Thanks Papa Bear!