June 1958
"Like this," my father said. He pinched the worm in half with his thumb and forefinger, then slid one half onto the hook end first. "Run it up to the top of the hook, and cover the barb." He handed me the other half.
"Does it hurt them?" I asked.
"Nope."
I pushed the hook into the worm.
"Now, all the way up. You want to cover the entire hook. Good," he said. "Rinse your fingers off."
I reached my hand into the water and washed the blood off my skin.
The pond was small, not far from our house. It was full of sunfish and bluegill. We were using bamboo poles with filament tied to the tip. My father adjusted the bobber on my line. "Toss it in."
The round bobber floated not far from shore.
"How's your leg?"
"It's fine," I said.
"Let me know when you get hungry. I packed sandwiches for lunch, and your mom threw in some cookies." He reached into the waxed canvas satchel he'd packed everything in. He filled two cups with coffee and handed me one. "Here," he said.
I took the cup and looked into it. "I've never had coffee."
"No? Well, let's hope it doesn't kill you. Don't tell your mother, okay? She'll be worried that it'll stunt your growth."
I considered that. "Will it?"
"What--kill you?" He smiled.
"No. Stunt my growth."
"You'll be fine," he said. "As tall as anyone else, I'd say."
It was rare for my father not to work on Saturdays. It was the one day he got paid overtime, what he called "my beer and fun money." School had been out for just a couple of weeks, and I was still getting into summer's rhythm. The sun was low behind us, and the water was calm. The coffee was dark and bitter, but I sipped in anyway. My father sat in the grass and drank from his own cup, smacking his lips in a way that I knew my mother would disapprove of. He had yet to put his line in the water, so I watched my bobber and waited.
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