If there’s one thing the boy loves as much as he loves to golf, it’s eating.
And if there’s something he loves even more than eating, it’s fishing.
Personally, I’ve never understood the attraction of fishing. I don’t have the patience to sit there, being quiet, with my line in the water for hours on end, just enjoying all the nature and alternating my stare between the horizon and my bobber. In high school, I dated a boy for a while who was an avid fisherman, and I pretended to be FASCINATED! JUST FASCINATED! with fishing, because… well… he was cute. And then he discovered that what I was really fascinated with was actually talking all the time and perhaps throwing rocks into the water once in a while and complaining about the bugs that were biting me. Our relationship was pretty much over, before it began.
I met Hubs some time later, when we were both very mature. We had graduated from college, and we were aware of the differences between boys and girls. I knew that Hubs would need time alone in the wilderness to just SIT and BREATHE and SWAT FLIES, and he knew that I would need time alone in Target, to look at throw pillows and rugs and bedding and books. Ours was a match made in heaven.
Because the boy has taken after his daddy, he adores all the LET’S DROP THE FISHING LINE RIGHT HERE and I’VE GOT ONE!!! What the boy doesn’t like is Target.
Sometime this winter, the boy announced that what he’d really love to do for his birthday would be to go fishing. And that’s how Hubs and Papa came to clear their schedule for Saturday. They stocked the boat with every manner of fishing lure and line and pole and reel. They added Gatorade and Oreos and sandwiches from Grammy, and off they went.
For ten entire hours.
And that, people, is longer than I’ve ever spent in Target before.
I asked Hubs to PLEASE! TAKE SOME SNAPSHOTS WHILE YOU’RE OUT THERE! He did. He took exactly four photos. Four photos in ten hours. In contrast, the boy’s surprise party with the air soft war lasted two-and-a-half hours, and I took three hundred and two snapshots.
Clearly, one of us fears using up all the space on the memory card, and one of us doesn’t.
I feel like this last snapshot of the boy and Papa sums up the life of men. They are perfectly happy, sitting back-to-back for hours… not talking at all… staring at the lake… thinking about how good their sandwiches are going to taste at noon.
Had this been two girls fishing, those chairs would have been swiveled so that they faced one another. The fishing lines would have been forgotten, and seven-point-eight million different conversation topics would have been covered, with shouts of laughter and hugs and maybe some tears, depending on whether or not one of the girls was tearful because her firstborn had just become a teenager.
Hubs and the boy came home after ten hours on the lake. They were a bit sunburned, and Hubs’ eyes were swollen and red, because he had put sunscreen in them. He swears he didn’t do it on purpose. They had two enormous rainbow trout, which the boy proceeded to happily gut in my kitchen sink.
And those boys, people, were deliriously happy.
I think it’s because they didn’t have any girls around to disrupt their day with protests on how badly the bugs were biting.