About eighteen winters ago our first-born son began to read about trout fishing with flies. After a winter of reading and fly-tying and investigation and investment in the vestments of fly-fishing, and after listing to the lore of fishermen, the day finally came when he waded into the stream near where we lived. We lived in Fremont, Michigan. He first fished the Muskegon River. He caught a fingerling trout that night. I was there to see it.
Last night he took his first-born to the same place in the river. To be where trout live with someone you love, quiet on a summer evening save the burble of the stream and the whisper of the wind in the leaves of the trees lining the banks of the river is a rare and wonderful memory, likely to be cherished more and more with the passing of the years.
It pleases me to see with the passing of the years that my son loved the things we did together so much he wants to repeat them with our grandson.
