It had been an old farmstead…perhaps. Some open fields hugging a two-story house above an inland lake in Michigan’s thumb. Hard to imagine as a farm. But that’s what my uncle called it, his retreat from running an Italian restaurant in Detroit’s inner city, a throwback getaway with a two-seat outhouse, a hand pump in the middle of a warped-wood platform and a rusted glider under the maple tree. But to an inner city twelve-year old, it was marvelous. Especially since there was a path, just past the two-story house, that fell down to an inland lake where an aluminum boat snugged against a rickety dock.
A typical inland lake with ten yards of soggy, weedy shoreline did not serve as a beach. But who needed a beach? For a kid walled-in by asphalt streets and dusty alleys, this was a magic lake full of bass and bluegills aching to be caught.
The first morning, he rose with the first sun. Eager to rouse his uncle to take him fishing, he ran down the steps to the front bedroom. He peeked in the door to spot his uncle and aunt sleeping and quickly popped back out. Aunt Sarah, one arm flayed across the pillow, had a marvelous brown nipple poking out of her night shirt. Two things: one, he had never seen a woman’s breast before. Whoa! Two, now he couldn’t wake his uncle without embarrassing his aunt. Shoot!
Plan B. Back in his room, he pulled on jeans and tennies, quietly slid outside, grabbed his pole and tackle box and headed down the hill. He had never seen a lake first thing in the morning. So still and flat. Skinny seams of fog hovered over lilly pads and drifted over coves along the edge. He had never done it before, but how hard could it be to row out and cast lures along the shoreline?
One oar squeaked in the spooky quiet as he pulled toward the pads on the left. A rooster sounded off somewhere. A bird chimed in the trees. Then a splash and ripples spread in an open spot between the pads. He quietly opened his tackle box, pulled out a yellow Flatfish, tied it on his line and cast. He let it sit for a second, then slowly began to retrieve. A surge of water and then a strong tug. Uh-huh! He would show his uncle it paid to get up early.
Retired trainer, and writing instructor, Joe Novara lives in Kalamazoo, Michigan. Writings include novels, short stories, a memoir and various poems, plays, anthologies and articles. Read more at https://freefloatingstories.wordpress.com/
