My father on the river in his rowboat cast his line and then sat, silently. I often watched and wondered why he wasn't rowing but was just sitting there under his hat. Then at once he moved, jerked the line, brought up a fish. A trout? A bass? We'd never know until he came to shore, spread his catch on something he had previously concocted -- sometimes two small posts with a board across it, a piece of white canvas spread over the board -- especially for proudly displaying and measuring his fish for the eyes of his children, where they would learn some of his skillful tricks of slitting and cleaning, so that when he brought them to my mother in the kitchen they were ready for the frying pan.
