To Fishing

[By Tom Byrne, guest blogger, fisherman]

My family is a family of fishermen and women. Both my grandfathers were expert fisherman in two very different environments: the Louisiana Bayou and the Atlantic ocean. My siblings and I all learned to fish, bait our own hooks and gut and clean what we caught. It was like opening Christmas presents to find out what the bass were so happily feasting on just an hour ago.

The author and his father. And the catch of the morning.

We never needed a guide - we were smarter than the fish, we just had to be quiet enough to place that spinner or topwater where they couldn't resist.

Before we were old enough to stay home because of jobs, or girlfriends, or because we were too cool to go camping with our families, we would go to lake Texoma for two weeks with another family - the Wolfes. Four adults and eight kids running around, eating, making campfires, and fishing - lots of fishing.

Dad would try and wake you up around 5 to go fish. If you were able to get up, have a cup of coffee and head down to the rocky point, you got to see two things that I can still see clearly: bass chasing minnows on the top of the water and the silhouette of my dad waiting to cast his line while the sun rose behind him.

He says he wants to be cremated when he passes.

I asked him what he would like me to do with his ashes. My father was born in New York, but has close ties to Louisiana and Texas.

"I'm not sure" he said.

So I told him my plan: I'm going to take your ashes to the point at Texoma and toss them into the lake at sunrise.

He smiled a little and said, "Not a bad idea."