Yesterday, I peered between the blinds into the back yard just in time to see a descending bird land on a three-foot tall dandelion in the corner of my lawn. His friends perched on neighboring stalks in a jungle of weeds. The weeds are one item on our never-ending to do list with about a million “top priorities”.
But last night we left the weeds, a sink full of dishes, several piles of laundry, bags of groceries sitting on the counter and took the kids fishing. We met another family at a neighborhood fishing hole where we lined up along the shore, rods in hand, worms on hooks and waited.
Every few minutes, a line would go taut, a kid pulled back on her rod, and reeled frantically. We all watched excitedly when the fish flipped out of the water, back in, out, in and eventually soared through the air at the end of a line until a dad freed it and tossed it back in the water.
We caught fish after fish after fish. Little ones who couldn’t keep their Superman rods from flailing though the air when they wiggled didn’t do quite as well but everyone hooked at least one. Even Jack. After an hour of letting Jack “help” us hold a rod to his un-satisfaction, we relented. Allen, showed him to hold on tight and left him sitting on the step with his own. He sat patiently, gazing out over the water until he felt a tug on his line. His eyes shot to us, eyebrows drawn together, and groaned “Eeeeeh!” One of the kids came up behind him and showed him to wind the reel and he reeled and reeled. With help from my husband in the end, that kid, at one-year of age, pulled a bass half his size out of the water.
I immediately thought of the dishes. We almost didn’t come because I didn’t want to wake up to dishes the next morning. Well, I did wake up to dirty dishes this morning. But I also woke up with a handful of memories that I wouldn’t trade for all the dishwashers in the world.