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My Only Fish Tale — First Quarter/Nineteen Years pg50
Colorful companion to my memoir The Incompetent Psychic
Almost being killed in nature was a daily part of my mother’s youth. It was fine with her that her husband had snuck off to go fishing with his buddies, and even better that her 10-year old daughter had wrangled her way along. When she found out I had caught the only fish her mirth was a wonderful thing. She made a huge fuss, took out her camera and had me pose on the beach holding it up with both my little hands and a big grin. Mom earned stink-eye glances for taking my side, but she didn’t let on she cared. — From Chapter 2
This was another magic moment memory when mom came through. Often art sparks a recall of the story. This is the other way around. There is a photo of me little me with a big red snapper somewhere, but I didn’t want to pull apart sticky, dusty photo boxes full of mystery relatives who are all dead. So I drew the fish instead of looking for a photo from 1965 (faster! more fun!)
Most all childhood fishing story memories are heartwarming dad/son bonding moments. I was a little girl who had to blackmail her father to get on that boat. It was the only fish I ever caught, and it was a good one. Since then I’ve only caught their likenesses.
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