When I was younger, I couldn’t wait for Saturday mornings when dad would take us fishing. That entire day revolved around its own special routine away from school, housework, homework, and other chores. I say routine because dad orchestrated it such a way that things just happened throughout the day; getting up early and making bologna sandwiches, a gallon jug of lemonade, and surprise desserts, getting dressed in our old play clothes, buying worms at the bait shop, and setting off early while everyone else in the neighborhood was sleeping in for the day. Fishing wasn’t a chore but a labor of love. I’m grateful for the memories my dad help create with us.
As I grew up and married, we carried on the tradition as well as starting some new ones while we took our kids fishing and camping on weekends. Though we had the poles, we did more camping than fishing. But while they were young, we exposed them to nature whenever possible. Now I have those fond memories as well.
Today, I sit by myself and enjoy nature, and I remise on good times past. And, today, I can appreciate what I have within my reach that I am still enjoying. It hasn’t changed; it’s still a labor of love.