When I was a girl, one of my favorite lakes to fish was Howard Prairie. The cool-still waters seemed to greet the cool-green grasses, welcoming every blade as they did their best to feed the dreams of every boy and girl, every man and woman, who showed up with a pole. There was a quiet excitement just before sunrise—knowing the fish would be biting. I would lie in the camp and listen to those show up at the docks looking to rent a boat, which were lined up with gas tanks full and hulls empty. I would hear the fisherman talk to each other as if they had known each other forever and their deep voices would bounce across the waters: fish tales in the making before they even had a chance to put their line in. Dad up first, he would have coffee readied and some good old-fashioned hot chocolate to put in the morning’s thermos as Mama washed our faces with a cold-wet cloth and I would wiggle and squinch my face up–because in my mind, she was taking up my fishin’ time. (Those old fish didn’t care one tweedle-dee about my face and by the time I caught one, chances were good I would have a hot chocolate moustache and one peanut butter and jelly sandwich downed.) I can remember her combing my hair and putting it in a pony tail; yanking on my head and yelling out to sit still, as I watched the stars slowly blow out one by one, because of the rising sun. I would pray to God he would let the moon stay, because I believed she would bring us some luck and though I loved catching a fish for myself, I was particularly happy when Dad would catch one. Even today, I can see him smiling that half-grin, looking over his eyeglasses with a sparkle that would bark: look what I did. I loved how he would bait my hook for me, showing me how to loop the wiggly thing on the barb. I always felt sorry for those old worms… but I figured, the fish liked them and Dad liked them, and so it was all right with me. For years, I would hear Dad say, now Rob, one day you will need to bait your own hook, if you’re going to fish with me. And I knew he was right and always agreed. And yet, until the day he died, when we fished I always asked him to bait my hook…it had become tradition and in that tradition, even though I was no longer living at home, he always gave me the grace to be his little baby-girl one more time. There was a smell in the air at Howard Prairie. It didn’t matter what the weather was like, because it always smelled like summer fun. It didn’t matter if we were hunched up under the hull because of pouring rain, for we had Mama’s picnic lunch to eat and we had each other and we all enjoyed staring at those poles, telling stories, and singin’ songs while we waited for the first-dumb fish to bite. Somewhere around 11AM we’d come in to camp with fish tales, reporting all the news we could dream up and print. Mama, full of smiles to greet us… had kept the fire going and sat and listened as if she was captured by the best story tellers of the west. We would play Old Maid under the sun and while Dad cleaned the morning’s catch, Mama would whip around and make some slaw with fresh fruit and dish
up a plate of good old-fashioned white bread, to serve on the side. Nap time for all of us in tow, we’d sack out as if it was a Christmas Eve and visions of rainbow trout would swim ‘round in our heads. Before we knew it, ‘twas late afternoon and we would head back out: Dew, now missing from those blades of grass but always a beautiful view of Mount Pitt, snow-capped, watching over the lake with us in it. Sunset brought a blazing fire and a good old-fashioned fish fry: more Rainbow Trout and German Browns, if we were lucky and once again, Mama would fill up the air with fair rewards of another mess of Oregon grown trout. She would wrap some spuds up in foil; slice up some fresh tomatoes from our family’s garden and serve us up enough fish to feed an army. Well, at least our family, which by the way, when it came to Mama’s country fried trout, we ate like an army. Later, after the dishes were done, my Uncle Bob would saunter over from his camp and he would pull out his ukulele and he and Mama would sing old World War II songs and as us kids grew older, we would join in. Yep, Howard Prairie held it all. It gave and gave. Bounties of family fun; fishermen’s dreams; and delights for a little girl who so badly wanted to be a grown up: and yet, just wise enough to know I may not want to be in such a big hurry. Howard Prairie always woke us with an early morning melody that would inevitably sound out that the day was just for us, and it ended with the peace of knowing family was all around me–just as it should be. Now, my family is all grown-up. My sister and brother have families of their own. My Father has since passed and today, as I write this, my Mama left us in peace to be with my Father. And even though she has left us with her all knowing smile quietly telling us her time has arrived; and even though it’s now just Gary, LucyBelle Leadbottom and I left to fill our home in song—Howard Prairie is still there all the while reminding us she still shines in the summers and she’s waiting for the next child to skip the perfect rock ‘cross her waters of good fortune. Howard Prairie, one of the many jewelry boxes which hold family stories for my brother, sister and I. Everyone deserves a Howard Prairie in their life. It is my wish, you all have one to recall as you read this snippet of many happy memories I hold so dear. Just a babe I dine on many a fish tale; Watchin’ my Father Hold my Mama’s hand;
While holdin’ a pole Waitin’ for a fish to bite. Just a babe I still dream of the snap: That snap and fond zing of a line Flyin’ ‘cross Rogue water’s deep; Charmin’ some lucky fish To make a family strong with memories, And waitin’ for all of us to bite. Just a babe I remember all the love
There was to give, To take, Served up at our family table: Like a fish fry built for heaven. Still a babe. In the scheme of livin’, I’d say… Today, is heaven’s lucky day.