I’ve got a story inside of me. It’s trying to worm its way out through my brain cells like a kidney stone. A solid thing trying to pass through meat. Growing at an agonizing pace, I can’t push it out any faster. It feels like a race against time before it swallows me whole. Occasionally I have glimpses of the final product. It’s something like this. …

The floor creaks and a few seconds later I hear the doorknob. My dad utters, “Mary?” in a low whisper.  I grunt and push back my covers, the only acknowledgement he needs. I try not to wake my sister while clamoring quietly through my overnight bag for clothes. Getting up before sunrise is surprisingly chilly but I resist the urge to wear long sleeves.  It’ll be hot when we come home.  Light flickers on in the kitchen and I know my dad’s making toast.  After breakfast, I gather the tackle box and fishing poles while he secures the boat. Checking that we have everything he slams the tailgate closed on the SUV. That means it’s time to go.

I ascend the passenger seat of our Oldsmobile Bravada and stare out the window while my dad drives to the Little Red River.  Watching the tree branches form jagged outlines against a grayish blue sky in the light before sunrise.  The colorless wash of predawn, sprouts and buds resemble fungus clinging like cancers to their respective tree branches.  Marring smooth lines and reminding me of death.  In the shining spring daylight the same trees bear refreshing sprays of color against the shit brown of snow-less winters.  I prefer fall weather myself.

Fishing is one of the few things my dad and I did together just the two of us.  I think we appreciated the silence.  Our household communicates by shouting.  Why walk a dozen paces when sound is so much easier to throw around?  It didn’t start that way, I imagine.  Living in 1200 square feet with my husband taught me an important lesson.  Close quarters means you hear everything the other person does, whether you want to or not.  Personal space changes meaning at that point and privacy is a courtesy, meaning optional.  If there is one

I’m not sure what size quarters my parents kept at first but I know the houses got bigger as I grew.  By the time I was in high school our family of five lived in 4400 square feet.  That’s a lot of distance and walls to shout through but the behavior was already set.

This particular morning was just crisp and cool enough to warrant a jacket.  I had my pink windbreaker on before mounting prow of our shiny aluminum fishing boat.  I’m clutching the fishing poles and keeping steady with my feet pressed into the rounded bottom of the craft.  After getting the boat in the water its my job to keep her ashore until my dad can park the car.  I sometimes wonder if that’s the whole reason he took us along but I’m cynical like that.  I know better now.  We all desire companionship and very few of us get to choose the company.  A 9-year old me was probably better than nothing.

Pulling up to the river we cross a land bridge that marks the official start of the river.  The Little Red runs all the way through Arkansas and is a favorite spot for trout fishing statewide.  My dad made sure we knew little facts like that.  The ones that don’t matter except to the other people on the docks that take pride in their placement upstream.  Once the boat is adrift in the water my dad fires up the trolling motor to take us toward the mouth.  There’s only one other boat out at this hour.  All the weekender fishing groups are just now waking, as the sky blushes dawn.

Gently floating to the other side of the pool from the ramp my dad and I get down to business.  After unloading the boat all the fish are likely to be on the other side of the shore.  I prep my hook and reach for live bait, convinced that blood sacrifice is the only real way to catch a fish.  My dad is trying a new tact this morning and ties something shiny to his reel.  He’d gotten a lure for his birthday called the Superbait.  A collection of nickel-plated ovals attached to spin in the flow of a river current, the idea is that the light mimics minnows swimming.  He bought it off an infomercial and I didn’t think any fish would fall for it.  Stabbing my first cricket through its crunchy thorax I dropped my line into the water near the shallow bank and wait.

The silence on a river is unique.  There’s a constant babble of running water that softens the landscape and masks the quieter movements of nature.  Drips and plops of small animals stirring echo at water level but then disappear into the sky before you can pinpoint a source.  Insects click and whir as they shake off the morning dew and birds begin to chirp again after a while.  Light increasing steadily, the heat of approaching dawn makes the morning air shiver with anticipation.  A soft chill in their quickly melts as heat from the sun rushes ahead of the coming dawn.

In my youth, the simplicity of sitting in a boat and watching a bobber is the closest I ever got to meditating.  Focusing on that red and white ball waiting for a telltale bloop of fishy interest.  That morning it didn’t take long before I’d caught my first fish.  Only one other boat joined us and he politely trolled further down the river to give us our own space.  We waved to each other and smiled, no need to use words.  The repeated reeling and casting said everything.  My dad didn’t need to use a bobber because his experienced hands could feel if there’s a fish on the line.  Casting downriver and then slowly reeling the line in, he let the current of the river dictate his rhythm.

By the time we could see the sun peeking through Eastern tree branches we’d caught a respectable half dozen fish or so between us.  A pretty good haul, my dad considered moving downriver a ways knowing the fish don’t keep biting forever.  When we heard a truck engine rumbling down the nearby road we decided to at least find somewhere quieter.  Fish don’t like morning traffic.  I look up at the garbage truck crossing the land bridge and wonder why he’s doing rounds on a Saturday.  My dad see the truck too and stops packing his rod.  He sees something I don’t.

The muddy dump truck slows to turn down the hill leading to the boat ramp.  Moving slowly on the gravel road, I’m still looking for the garbage cans he’s there to empty.  Asking my thought about aloud dad replies, “He’s not here to pick up anything.  Get your hook ready.”

Still confused I see the truck turning to park in the adjacent lot.  Then it stops and two white reverse lights blink on followed by a loud BEEP…BEEP…BEEP.  The garbage man is about to empty trash into the river!  I look at my dad assuming he’s as outraged as I am.  He’s smiling in a way I rarely witness.  The beeping stops and I look back just in time to see the truck bed start tilting.  To my shock and amazement a sloppy mass of shining, writhing fish start pouring out of the truck’s container.  A payload of adult rainbow trout from the nearby hatchery.  They stock a fish population that keeps up with the demand vacationers put on the river.

Any moral qualms I had about metaphorically shooting the fish in this barrel were answered by my dad’s flurried motions, “Hurry, get your line out there!”  I obeyed and we spent the next 15 minutes reeling in 3 and 4 pound fish as fast as we could catch them.  At the end my dad was holding them up to compare for size before reluctantly releasing everything but out legal limit of 12 – 6 fish per person.  I’d never seen him so excited to bring home a catch.  We had trouble fitting them all in the cooler before heading home.

I remember my dad telling me not to tell anyone about the dump truck.  I thought that was pretty funny so I let it leave my mind while savoring the delicious taste of something unique happening right in front of me.  I remember eating those fish for dinner and my dad told everyone at the table about how he and I are great fishermen and that’s why we came home with prize-winning, dinner-worthy fish for everyone.  After that, the story faded from my memory.

Until Thanksgiving when I told the whole family about our adventures on the Little Red.  The entire time I’m telling the story, my husband watched my dad’s face.  He said my father’s face almost split in two holding quiet while I told my mom and sisters about the giant truck full of fish.  I couldn’t believe they’d never heard this before and when I was done I looked at my dad to back me up.  Red-faced and grinning like an idiot he could only laugh while my mom turned to him and screeched, “You told me it was the Superbait!”