Patience

My parents divorced, I believe when I was 9.  And if I remember correctly I was either 11 or 12 when my mom remarried.  It's been a long time, how am I supposed to remember.

If I ever would have been asked, I never would have described my stepfather as a patient man, he didn't have a short temper by any means, I just wouldn't have described him as patient.

Something happened this weekend to make me rethink this.  I took my own two kids, 6 and 9 years old, fishing.  I don't know how that man did it.  There were often three of us in a boat plus my mom.  So really, in a fishing scenario, four kids plus him.  Swinging empty hooks and flopping fish in his face constantly, getting lines and hooks tangled in just about everything.  He may not have been a saint, but he certainly was patient.

So P and Mel and I went fishing Saturday.  Trout fishing to be more specific.  Along one of Southern Wisconsin's small, often tree lined, or weed entangled creeks. With two little, independent, let me do it, kids.  What was I thinking? 

Lures were sent onto bridges and railroad trusses, into trees, weeds, and rocks on both sides of the creek.  Rod tips were jammed into trees, weeds, rocks, brothers, and sisters.  Between all that and Mel's technique of jump casting, it's a wonder no rods were lost or broken.  It was at times a true test of patience.

In the end we fished for about 4 hours, caught one fish (I didn't have the heart to tell them it was a sucker and not a trout), and regardless of it all, I still had to be the one to tell them it was time to quit.  We ate dinner at a restaurant near the creek and later drove by it again on the way home.  They both asked if we could stop and fish some more.  Next time.