File #997: "Mosaic_Spring2008_17.jpg"
Description
back over the rocks, I wiped my tears, remembering a song called "Big Girls Don't Dry." "I hate fishing." My expectation had been sorely disappointed, so on sunny, April mornings in the following years, Daddy would hurry to the river, but I would stay home. After we had bounced over the last pothole that day in '92, I ran into the house and left lunch sack behind me. I would not eagerly hold a fishing pole my until I truly became a "big girl."
Twelve years later, on a family vacation at the Vilano Beach in St. Augustine, Florida, Daddy was standing on the beach, contentedly reeling in the line. I stood beside him and scanned the horizon, humor- ing the idea of learning how to surf, but not at all interested in holding the pole. It was getting close to dinner time, and the sun was setting behind the hotels when Daddy leaned forward and squinted his eyes. "Wow!" he exclaimed, pulling me from my wandering thoughts. "Those are whales!"
"Where?" I held my long, blonde hair out of my face and fol- lowed his point, but still could not see them.
"Right there! There!" he hooted. "You can just see its tail stick way up." That was the day I noticed the way Daddy laughs like a jolly, little hobbit when he's excited.
"Whoa!" Look at that! Ha! Ha!" I thought I could have stayed there for days, watching for whales and dolphins. Whenever I saw one, like a little girl, I would explode, "Whoa! There's a dolphin! Look, Daddy, look.!"
Then, with a slight raise of his thick, bushy eyebrows, Daddy handed me his pole. Reluctantly, I accepted. Catching one fish after the other, I laughed with Daddy every time I got a bite. On that beauti- ful, sandy shore in October 2005, all my prejudice about fishing was sucked into the ocean like the sand under my feet. My four-year-old wishes from the passenger seat of Big Red had come true. I never saw a mermaid, but I saw dolphins, and whales, and Daddy let me hold the pole. That night, while reflecting on my first fishing story, I asserted that cool dads do take their kids fishing.. whether they like it or not!
The Old Faded Red Baseball Hat
Brooke Green
The baseball hat was deep blood red when it came from the factory.
After months and years of hot sun and sweat the hat turned to a faded dull red.
The faded fabric on the bill was torn along the edges.
The large blue "B" trimmed in white in the center of the hat has also faded over time and
is curling at the edges.
Along the base of the faded hat were dark and discolored spots from sweat.
The texture of the hat was thick and stiff in some places from the pools of sweat which previously drenched it.
The hat smelled of sweat and salt.
It also smelled of sweet victory and bitter loss.
You can smell beer, peanuts, and hotdogs at the baseball game.
You can smell the grass on the field and sweat from the people surrounding you.
You can hear the sound of the baseball cracking against the bat and the roar of the crowd when you look back at game day.
The old faded red baseball hat holds many memories and good times.
The hat may fade and tear and eventually be thrown away, but the memories that were made wearing the hat will last a lifetime.
Twelve years later, on a family vacation at the Vilano Beach in St. Augustine, Florida, Daddy was standing on the beach, contentedly reeling in the line. I stood beside him and scanned the horizon, humor- ing the idea of learning how to surf, but not at all interested in holding the pole. It was getting close to dinner time, and the sun was setting behind the hotels when Daddy leaned forward and squinted his eyes. "Wow!" he exclaimed, pulling me from my wandering thoughts. "Those are whales!"
"Where?" I held my long, blonde hair out of my face and fol- lowed his point, but still could not see them.
"Right there! There!" he hooted. "You can just see its tail stick way up." That was the day I noticed the way Daddy laughs like a jolly, little hobbit when he's excited.
"Whoa!" Look at that! Ha! Ha!" I thought I could have stayed there for days, watching for whales and dolphins. Whenever I saw one, like a little girl, I would explode, "Whoa! There's a dolphin! Look, Daddy, look.!"
Then, with a slight raise of his thick, bushy eyebrows, Daddy handed me his pole. Reluctantly, I accepted. Catching one fish after the other, I laughed with Daddy every time I got a bite. On that beauti- ful, sandy shore in October 2005, all my prejudice about fishing was sucked into the ocean like the sand under my feet. My four-year-old wishes from the passenger seat of Big Red had come true. I never saw a mermaid, but I saw dolphins, and whales, and Daddy let me hold the pole. That night, while reflecting on my first fishing story, I asserted that cool dads do take their kids fishing.. whether they like it or not!
The Old Faded Red Baseball Hat
Brooke Green
The baseball hat was deep blood red when it came from the factory.
After months and years of hot sun and sweat the hat turned to a faded dull red.
The faded fabric on the bill was torn along the edges.
The large blue "B" trimmed in white in the center of the hat has also faded over time and
is curling at the edges.
Along the base of the faded hat were dark and discolored spots from sweat.
The texture of the hat was thick and stiff in some places from the pools of sweat which previously drenched it.
The hat smelled of sweat and salt.
It also smelled of sweet victory and bitter loss.
You can smell beer, peanuts, and hotdogs at the baseball game.
You can smell the grass on the field and sweat from the people surrounding you.
You can hear the sound of the baseball cracking against the bat and the roar of the crowd when you look back at game day.
The old faded red baseball hat holds many memories and good times.
The hat may fade and tear and eventually be thrown away, but the memories that were made wearing the hat will last a lifetime.