Memories You Can Taste
On occasion, my children and I fish at Swan Lake - a little patch of water up the hill and down the path from our home. We catch nothing most of the time and abandon our poles and skirt the ditch edge, looking for arrowheads or dinosaur bones. This past Saturday, however, the bass were biting top-water poppers, which make a bubbling gulp when jerked across the water's surface - irresistible to these quarter-pounders, these largemouth bass, who learned on this overcast day not to trust everything that looks like a frog, or fish, or whatever they see when they see a ruckus overhead.
My boy landed the first one and I surgically removed the treble hook from its lip and handed it to him. He recoiled, asking, "Where do I hold it?" "In the lip," I replied. "Just put your thumb atop the upper side of his bottom lip and pinch tight." He pinched and held, admiring the fish for a moment, when it swung its tail across his face and smacked him on the right cheek. "Turn the other cheek," I said. Actually, I didn't say that. I just laughed as he wiped fish from his face and tried to throw the baby bass back into its habitat. He failed. It hit the bank and rolled the rest of the way, swimming back to its school with a tale to tell and a lesson learned.
You can study bass in a textbook or magazine. Or, you can catch them.
You can hold a bass in your hand and admire its features, and if you're lucky, it'll smack you across the face and you'll smell it for the rest of the trip. If you're lucky, it'll hit you in the mouth and you'll taste it. The memories are better when you taste them.
This is Spirit-life. This is abundant life. Wild. Moving.
And its all around.