It was about 9 last Monday morning, Labor Day. I was harvesting tomatoes in a hoop house at Stone Coop Farm when an eleven year old named Adam asked me if I liked fishing.
A few hours later, I was on my way over to his lake to go fishing for the first time in 13 years. We began our adventure with a walk down to the neighborhood hardware store where we purchased minnows, a filet knife, and two charleston chews.
Then, we walked back, baited our hooks and cast our reels. Our first fishing spot, on an abandoned raft, didn’t yield any fish so we hopped into the neighbor’s paddle boat.
Adam is a great teacher and before I knew it, we had caught six fish. We brought two back to the house where we filleted them, and then Adam’s mom fried them up in a little coconut oil. We sat on stools at the counter and ate our fish. It was delicious. Probably the most delicious fish I’ve ever eaten.
Our afternoon made me think of this poem by Mary Oliver.
I held my breath as we do sometimes to stop time when something wonderful has touched us as with a match, which is lit, and bright, but does not hurt in the common way, but delightfully, as if delight were the most serious thing you ever felt. -Mary Oliver