The old man wasn’t a fisherman, but, he thought he was…never got into the water and made his line dance…wasn’t one for rolling rivers, or, rollicking oceans…no, not at all…his was a pond on the southside of town…real peaceful like…he’d sit on the banks in a folding chair with a blank look on his face…casting ever so often…surprised if he ever caught a fish…

For bait pop would use various things…bologna…bits of bacon…and worms he got at the bait shop out on 30 by Columbia City…he’d walk in there every Saturday and get the same order…worms crawling in moist dirt…a couple of Pepsi’s…and a honey bun…would pull that old leather wallet out of his front pocket and pay with a few dollars…he’d nod his head…

Hours would go by in silence…I didn’t know what to say to him and he had no idea of what to talk about with me…just a boy and his father sitting in the quiet of the day with poles in their hands wishing for a fish…they never seemed to come…there would be a lot of false alarms…snapping turtles…line caught on a rock…snagged on an overlapping tree branch…rarely did we catch a fish…

But…the old man said it made him happy…said he was a fisherman…always wanted to go out and sit in the sun and cast a line…he’d catch one ever once and awhile…small crappy…little blue gill…but nothing ever that big…just sitting in a meditative state…I always wondered what he was thinking about…always wondered…

After three hours usually we’d get in the old pick-up and go back home…no talk ‘tween us…just a local country music staion playing various songs…dad never even hummed along…he was a quiet man…very quiet…said he was a fisherman…