So Kathy and I sat while he fished for six hours. Such is grandparently love. After a while the battered cooler Josh uses to store his catch had a couple of crappies and a perch swimming around, and one occupant he wasn’t sure of, all destined to be bait for catfish, the real fishing he does with Grandpa Galen. None of this half-day stuff.
He suffered my camera and humor (“C’mon, fishy, just a little smile…”) and concentrated on the bobber, line, and…on what else I can only guess at. His joys and concerns at twelve years old are his own, hidden like those fish, waiting to come to the surface.
Happy Birthday, Josh. We hope you always catch your limit.