Who is that man, and what's that he's holding?

Now, the men in our family liked to fish. Dad would rather have fished than just about anything else I can think of, but going fishing wasn't usually something he did to actually catch fish. It was the thrill of the hunt rather than the catch that he wanted, being on the water with a rod and reel, a bucket of "minnies" or worms, and his tackle box.

So rarely did actual fish result from any fishing venture that I was astonished to find this old photo of Dad in Canada with a whole mess of fish -- and big ones, too!

The last time I went fishing with Dad was at a pretty stream called Little Antietam at a park known as the Devil's Backbone, over near Sharpsburg, Maryland. That was about four or five years ago, and Momma sat at a picnic table, while Lois wrapped up in a blanket and snoozed. I fished alongside Dad, just to watch the look of pleasure on his face.

I think Dad really enjoyed that day, and even the tremor in his hands didn't keep him from baiting his hook. Fish? Not a one. But that really wasn't the point, was it?