Less than two weeks ago I wrote “The Last Time You’ll Fish.” I’ve included a link to the article below, but here’s the gist of it: There are places that you have gone fishing that you will never fish again. Some of these places aren’t anything special. Others, when framed in this manner, are the kinds of places that you’ll make a concerted effort to get back to. Sometimes you can do something about it. Sometimes, you can’t. My goal in writing? It wasn’t to cause anyone to mourn. Rather, the intention was to share a few works with the intention of getting you to think.
So here I am, two weeks later, realizing I’m having to think about my own words.
When I started fishing in earnest I was in 8th grade. The summer of that year, I moved to a new house that was only a five minute walk from a large pond. The Northern Virginia pond was surrounded by townhomes, ballfields, and a public pool. But it held fish. There were big bass, plentiful sunfish, and monster catfish. I could fish there whenever I wanted. Homework was a priority in those days; but it was behind fishing in the overall hierarchy. Following Saturday morning fishing shows, I’d head to the pond to emulate what I learned from Bill Dance and Roland Martin.
I fished in other ponds in town. Once I could drive, I would fish all over the Mid Atlantic. I went off to college. But I would always return to that pond. For nearly a decade, that pond was an integral part of my life.
