Can't You See I'm Trying to Fish?

We were down a child this evening, so my husband, Skip, decided it'd be a good night for us (that would be me, him, and our 6-hours-from-being-7-years-old daughter, Mae) to slide the boat into the truck, grab some chicken tenders and tator logs at the local store, and head to the pond for some fishing. On the way, he reminded me that I *could* get a fishing license this year. But I merely replied, "I'm good...I have my camera."

We arrived at the pond, stuffed our hungry faces with partially hydrogenized horrors untold in the cab of the truck, then unloaded the boat and all our gear. Mae we placed on the wooden bow seat, which is cracked and threatened a good hiney pinch for anyone weighing more than 60 pounds. I threw off my flip flips and waded in, pushing the boat off the little sandy landing. Hubby was in the middle rowing seat, and me at the stern (because I'm stern, according to the rower). Immediately we saw a bald eagle fly over the pond. My zoom would have never captured the image, but it got my juices flowing nevertheless. I was soon photographing every aspect of our aluminum vessel - its passengers, its contents, and the oars propelling it along. "Could you hold the oar still for a minute?...no, paddle once more so it drips...yeah, ok...stop"...."tilt your head down just a smidge...yup, right there...nope, it was too low - do it again"...."could you move over a bit so I can get Mae?...duck down farther...could you hold her hook up for me?..."

I began getting 'the look'...and finally the good-natured "can't you see I'm trying to fish here, woman?" Yes, I could see he was trying to fish. And Mae too. Since we were on Kennedy's Pond in Windsor, VT, I couldn't help chuckle every time she'd insist on precariously casting her own pole over our tight quarters, since on that very body of water, Chevy Chase was filmed hooking a fellow boater in the neck in the movie "Funny Farm," then trying to beat him unconscious with an oar so he could get the hook out. That's just good stuff, right there. But I digress...

Since we were out in the middle of the pond, I soon ran out of subjects to photograph. There were ducks and geese a'plenty flying and floating just far enough away so we really couldn't take them in, but their noises were all too detailed. The scent of a BBQ from somebody's home nearby wafted over to us, and the musty smell of the water (algae?) reminded me of the cottage on a lake my grandparents owned until I was in my early 20s. This cottage was where I spent all my summer weekends as a child, where I learned to swim, fish, water ski, and quite possibly play poker or the like. To this day, it is the place that occupies my nighttime dreams, more than any other house I have resided in. I remember every detail of every room, its sounds, even its woodsy smell. I remember late-night chats with my aunts, uncles, and cousins while we listened to bullfrogs in the cove and innocent moths being fried in the bug-light. I remember mornings that showed a lake so calm you wouldn't dare touch it or else make a ripple. I remember dinosaurian rocks out back that we kids would climb on, make forts out of, and apparently never fell from. I remember Jiffy muffins made by my grandmother, with blueberries from the bushes just feet away from the front steps. I remember my grampa cutting up fishworms for us out on the picnic table, helping us hook them on and take fish off. Back then the lake was chock full of hornpout, sunfish, and perch. When I wasn't fishing, I was in the water. My grampa called me a mermaid, and I'd have to practically be dragged out when it "was time." This camp is the place that in later years, my future husband and I would go to, alone, for simple Sunday dinners. We cooked in its kitchen, we sat on its deck, we fished and swam, we boated out to watch fireworks, we watched movies and slow danced in its living room. And at this beloved camp, perenially tied to the dock, had been this very same rowboat we now floated in with our youngest daughter, our own little mermaid. Mae never got to run through the camp, count the knots in the wooden walls, drink raspberry gingerale on its deck with her great-grandmother, or jump off its dock (wow, she and her sister would've had glorious times there like their mom!), but she did have 4-1/2 years with her great-grandfather, "Grampa Bud," the quiet, gentle, but very funny, whiskered man who used to cut my fishworms, the man I hope was looking down on her tonight with her little red life vest, pole, and big grin, sitting proudly at the bow of his rowboat...

Our evening was full of laughter, chiding, and lessons only to be learned while, I believe, fishing alongisde your dad:
Lesson #1 - Geese don't land in trees.
Lesson #2 - Fish don't swim in flocks (she was raised a chicken farmer, what can I say?)
Lesson #3 - The reason Dad is facing Mom is not because he wants to see her beautiful face (although it was thoughtful of him to give that as his first answer), but because it's simply the most effective rowing position.
Lesson #4 - No, we don't have to check you for ticks when we get back to shore.

My best friend passed on a quote awhile back, a quote which really says it all about me and my camera-loving philosophy..."When you photograph people in colour you photograph their clothes. But when you photograph people in black & white, you photograph their souls!" ~Ted Grant

So, the question is...does an old, tattered, dented aluminum Montgomery Ward row boat have a soul? You tell me...