"Ya hafta be real quiet. Make your voice quieter than the stream."
The pink sky glowed overtop us on some warm July evening in Montana. The long wild grass rustled with the breeze. I ran my fingertips over it, spinning circles so quickly that the Bridger mountains and Dad and the irrigation tunnel and the farmhouse were just a blur.
"Settle down, Lissey."
I stopped spinning and fell to the ground in dizziness, but the world kept passing by me from right to left.
"Come, I'll show you how ta do this."
Dad's big steady hands looped fishing line through a lure and hook. "We call it a fisher's knot." He continued to wrap the end of the line around and around until he pushed it through all the loops. "Pull." So I pulled and the knot tightened.
"Dad, are the fish here today?"
"That's what we're going to find out."
"Dad, what's the biggest fish you ever caught?"
"It's the one on our livin' room wall."
"Oh." It seemed he had answers for everything.
I plopped down at the edge of the irrigation tunnel and leaned far over to study the soft ripple of the waters. Dad's cowboy boots shifted from time to time next to me. I stretched my pink boots straight out, studied them for a moment, and let them swing back over the tunnel edge.
"Dad?"
"Yeah."
"Why not a bobber?"
"Huh?"
"Why aren't you using a bobber?"
He puffed a cigarette as he spoke. "'Cause you only use a bobber in a lake."
"Oh. Are we gonna eat fish tonight?"
"Maybe."
I slapped at mosquitoes and with a stick dug shapes into the dirt.
Suddenly there was a straining sound on Dad's line. One boot moved back, he gave some slack on the line but reeled quickly just after.
"Did ya hook him?"
"We'll see."
He reeled a small trout to the grassy shore and there it flopped and wiggled.
"You got one! You got one!" I ran to see it. Its little mouth opened and closed, trying to breathe, I thought. Dad maneuvered the hook out of it's throat, and soon I saw blood surround his fingers.
"Are you killing it?"
Dad replaced the hook in his tackle box and the fish in a cooler and fished again.
I stayed there by the cooler a while and watched its little mouth open and close, open and close.
I slapped away a swarm of mosquitoes. "They're infesting me!" and again I moved up the bank to the field and turned in a circle. Dad. Stream. Bridgers. Farm house. Dad. Stream. Bridgers. Farm house. My pink boots pounded the dirt, and my arms flailed again slapping the grass as I turned and turned and turned underneath the fading pink Montana sky.
The pink sky glowed overtop us on some warm July evening in Montana. The long wild grass rustled with the breeze. I ran my fingertips over it, spinning circles so quickly that the Bridger mountains and Dad and the irrigation tunnel and the farmhouse were just a blur.
"Settle down, Lissey."
I stopped spinning and fell to the ground in dizziness, but the world kept passing by me from right to left.
"Come, I'll show you how ta do this."
Dad's big steady hands looped fishing line through a lure and hook. "We call it a fisher's knot." He continued to wrap the end of the line around and around until he pushed it through all the loops. "Pull." So I pulled and the knot tightened.
"Dad, are the fish here today?"
"That's what we're going to find out."
"Dad, what's the biggest fish you ever caught?"
"It's the one on our livin' room wall."
"Oh." It seemed he had answers for everything.
I plopped down at the edge of the irrigation tunnel and leaned far over to study the soft ripple of the waters. Dad's cowboy boots shifted from time to time next to me. I stretched my pink boots straight out, studied them for a moment, and let them swing back over the tunnel edge.
"Dad?"
"Yeah."
"Why not a bobber?"
"Huh?"
"Why aren't you using a bobber?"
He puffed a cigarette as he spoke. "'Cause you only use a bobber in a lake."
"Oh. Are we gonna eat fish tonight?"
"Maybe."
I slapped at mosquitoes and with a stick dug shapes into the dirt.
Suddenly there was a straining sound on Dad's line. One boot moved back, he gave some slack on the line but reeled quickly just after.
"Did ya hook him?"
"We'll see."
He reeled a small trout to the grassy shore and there it flopped and wiggled.
"You got one! You got one!" I ran to see it. Its little mouth opened and closed, trying to breathe, I thought. Dad maneuvered the hook out of it's throat, and soon I saw blood surround his fingers.
"Are you killing it?"
Dad replaced the hook in his tackle box and the fish in a cooler and fished again.
I stayed there by the cooler a while and watched its little mouth open and close, open and close.
I slapped away a swarm of mosquitoes. "They're infesting me!" and again I moved up the bank to the field and turned in a circle. Dad. Stream. Bridgers. Farm house. Dad. Stream. Bridgers. Farm house. My pink boots pounded the dirt, and my arms flailed again slapping the grass as I turned and turned and turned underneath the fading pink Montana sky.
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