Memories

            Memories can be very powerful. A day can go from good to bad or vice versa all from a memory. There are times, both good and bad, that I want to remember. As Harry Potter uses the Pensieve to share memories, I use writing to share mine. Memories can help us gain understanding and perspective or simply remind us of days gone by. As I get older I am able to appreciate that.

            In less than a year I’ve lost two extremely important figures in my life. My Dot Dot and Gran Gran. I had always wanted them to be at my wedding, know the man who I had fallen in love with, and be a part of my children’s lives. While that is not to be, I am nevertheless, so grateful for the 26 years of love and support. It’ll last a lifetime. Many of my memories and special times involved them; whether it’s helping Dot Dot reach things on the top shelf or Gran Gran in the garden. These weren’t life-altering things but how they’ve shaped me now is undeniable.

            I’d like to share a memory.

            You turn right at an old country church and keep driving south until water meets you on the right. Though the road is worn and filled with potholes, the outside world has no effect on this place. Wild turkeys roam the countryside and houses are few and far between. Here, there is only pure nature and Gran Gran’s Ford Bronco laden with fishing supplies.

            You have reached Hardaway once you drive over the rolling bars that were once used to keep cattle within the fence. A narrow road mixed with loose rocks and grass leads you from the entrance to the back of the property. Like any good country road it is worn from use. The pond spreads out to the right and a steep embankment is on the left. Horses and cows once roamed there but now it is overgrown and in need of a good bush hogging. As a child, I knew days like this one would be fun filled but I didn’t know how I would later cherish them.

            There were many times when the three of us would load up and make a day of it. One particular day Wilbur, my grandparents’ dog, went with us. We were out in the boat and Dot Dot asked me to get Wilbur some water. She handed me the small silver boiler and I leaned over the side of the boat to secure some water. My memory is hazy as to what happened next but my eyes were wide with horror as I watched the boiler sinking to the depths of Hardaway. In my panic, I told Dot Dot that Wilbur knocked it off. I lied and felt bad about it. I don’t know why I lied about it. I have never told anyone that story.

              Gran Gran parked by the gazebo and the unloading began. It was only an hour drive but I emerged from the back seat and stretched out my arms, greeting the beautiful day that was before me. Once the tackle boxes, poles, and chairs are unloaded I grab my gear and head for the pier. Dot Dot follows me. One must delicately step on the pier and stay towards the middle or else you might unintentionally go for a swim. I sit on the sun-warped beams and Dot Dot sits in her chair. There is a slight breeze coming across the water and the smell of brim is exciting. Hopefully, meaning we might catch a few fish.

            My brother, dad, and grandfather hook the trolling motor to the army green boat that resides in the slanting boathouse. I do not trust that boat. The first bottom rotted out years ago and was replaced by a nailed down piece of plywood. It floats, but for how long? It’s a looming question in my mind. I am quite comfortable on my pier; the martins come and sing their favorite song above my head. Dot Dot and I have a system. She baits my hook and I take the fish off the hook. I have never conquered the heartbreak and fear of ripping a worm in half, followed by piercing it with the hook. I have a soft spot for animals. When I was little, I was allowed to release two worms to a life of freedom. I also tried to release some minnows but it didn’t go well, seeing as I freed them in the front yard. My heart was in the right place though. Dot Dot is an expert at baiting hooks; I really think I am doing her a favor by letting her bait mine as well. She has her washcloth at the ready to wipe her hands clean once the deed is done.

            I’ve never had much use for shoes. Today is no exception. Careful not to step on a nail, I leave the pier in search of sustenance. My bare feet do well on the loose rocks as I walk down the road. There is a spillway that moves excess water from the pond to a rock pit on the other side. You have to cross carefully because algae growth has made it slick and slimy. Countless times I have either straight up fallen or “surfed” across, always fearful of being washed into the rocky ravine.

            The boat is headed back and Dot Dot has decided it’s lunchtime. We share the gazebo with bees that have built their nests within the confines. In walks the three proudest fishermen this town over. We all sit down, say a blessing, and make our own sandwiches. We compare stories and fish as we relax in the shade. Conversation is easy and the occasional silence is comfortable. Gran Gran asks me if I want to take a turn in the boat. “No thanks, I’m good on dry land,” is my reply.

            We each head back to our respective places. I head for the pier. The water is beautiful. It’s not clear but more of a murky brown. The shade of brown where one would think a giant man-eating catfish would live. Just another reason to stay out of the boat. Hours pass and the sun sinks slowly in the west, falling behind the pine trees. The air becomes cooler and I grab my jacket from the car.  

            Dot Dot and Gran Gran have taught me well. I am proud to say that I can assemble a pole; line, hook, cork, sinker. I am also proud to say that I still cannot bait my own hook if said bait is alive. However, I can scale, clean, fillet, and shake the paper bag equally dispersing the cornmeal coating onto the fish. Hardaway has been a part of my life since I can remember. Year after year, some of the memories are similar and some vastly different. Once Frank fell through the pier and into the water, Todd almost caught Gran Gran on fire cooking French fries; I once caught a 5lb bass; a roach flew into Michael’s ear; Aunt Ann with her bandana; and Zachary hooked Mr. Pickett. Every time included family.

            Everything has its place in the Bronco as we ready ourselves to leave. The fish lay in their baskets on top of cardboard. I take one last look around and remember the smells of outdoors and fish. The bullfrogs begin their songs for the night and crickets lend their melody. I climb into the back seat. The ride home is less talkative, as if too many words might ruin the day. I lean my head against the window, close my eyes and feel the last rays of sun on my face. As the fishing poles bounce against the glass and John Michael Montgomery sings about how "Life's a Dance" I look to the front seats and see two people whom I love so dearly.