Go Fish

I like playing cards, especially on rainy Wetcoast days in front of the fire with a nice cup of chai and a delicate Japanese bowl full of GORP. A day kinda like today. Well, not just kinda, more like exactly.

It is Father's Day. And my husband wanted to go fishing. So yesterday my younger son and I went to Canadian Tire and bought some fishing rods, a giant net, and a small box of tackle. This morning, breakfast done, we packed a picnic lunch, dug some worms up from the dirt around our compost, put on our hoodies, and set off to a nearby lake.

Fast-track to the lake. A small dock with some experienced fishers and us newbies. (By the way, did you know that my last name, Rybar, means Fisher in Czech? Coincidence?)

One rod didn't come with line. Another rod broke within 5 minutes. The line on the third rod became so entangled I spent twenty-minutes trying to unravel it before just cutting it loose and starting fresh. The fourth rod worked, then didn't, then worked, then didn't. Lesson of the day: don't buy fishing rods from a company whose name includes "Tire" but not "Fish."

The sandwiches were good. The weather was not. Needless to say, we packed up the tackle box less than an hour after the first worm hit the hook. Happy Father's Hour!

I like Fathers that care more about getting out than getting upset, and today Tony earned his fishing hat by being thankful of our chaotic, fishless excursion.

Back home, in front of the fire, cards dealt, my younger son says, "Ahhhh... this feels good."

"Do you have a two?" he asks, popping a peanut in his mouth.

"Nope. Go fish," I reply, slurping my chai.

I laugh. He laughs too.

We already did.