Fishing with Dad

This poem is for my dad, who braved taking his kids fishing while knowing what was in store for him!

Fishing with Dad

By Emily Liechty

The ground is soggy around the rim of the lake.
We trudge through the brush in search of the perfect spot to cast our lines.
My hook gets caught on a tree and tangled in the brush.
Dad sets down the cooler, tackle box and fishing poles he is carrying to deal with my mangled mess.
I wait patiently, swatting at dragon flies and nearly fall into the water as a big one turns back on me.
My little sister throws sticks into the water while we wait.
The sound of a splash up ahead and the yelp of my older sister around the bend causes my dad to look up.
After a minute she comes around the corner sniffling with one muddy leg and a soggy shoe.
Another victim of the narrow rocky lake trail.
Dad tells her to wipe her leg off on the grass and that the sun will dry her off soon.
He finally gets my line clear of the branches and we trek on,
we pass the point of impact on the lake shore and the muddy foot indents left behind.
My brother has already settled down and cast out by the time we get to our spot.
Dad situates each child, finding boulders and coolers for each of us to sit on,
grabbing arms as we teeter near the water in our eager search for our positions,
each face anxious to make the catch of the day, . . . . or get a bite.
He pulls out a Styrofoam cup with a lid on it and digs his fingers into dark dirt,
searching for worms to bait the three hooks hanging from our lines.
My little sister finds a rock and tosses it into the lake, clapping as the rings in the water grow.
My brother scowls while saying something under his breath, he reels in his line, grabs his gear and moves farther down the shore line.
Dad tears a worm in half and we all squeal and wrinkle our noses
as he tries to pass a half to my older sister and I to bait our own hooks with,
we back up to the edge of the water in protest.
Better to go for a swim than touch that squirmy, slimy thing.
He shakes his head as he baits our hooks.
My little sister throws another rock in the water . . .
managing to move more fisherman away from our little entourage.
We finally cast out, the farthest making five feet.
I start to reel in again not happy with the distance of my cast.
My next cast gets my line caught in the trees again.
It is a long day for dad . . . .
Grape soda stained faces greet my brother in the afternoon as he comes around the bend,
we toss our tuna sandwich crusts into the water and admire the 3 nice fish on his line.
The girls catch of a rotten stick, a pile of seaweed
and a few minnows, that we voted to release, are all that we have to show for our efforts.
But at the end of our day we leave happy, with my little sister covered in mud, my older sisters shoe no longer squishing,
and me managing to get my hook caught in one more bush as we make our way back to the car.
Dad just cuts my line this time, he is ready to go home.