The Miracle of Fishing copyright 2014
Shortly after Dickey and I married, Mom and Dad moved from Tulia and bought a motel on a lake. Then my dad became a realtor on Lake Livingston. Here my mom truly felt at home. We fished. She has taught me and my seven brothers and sisters, most of her 25 grandchildren, many of her 34 great-grandchildren and wanted to teach her 6 great-great-grandchildren to fish before she died at 94.
A few years ago, she and I watched through the large windows of her house on the lake as the sun painted the water various shades of orange. I loved the peace there. Suddenly a loud thump drew our attention from the sunset to the window that framed it.
“What was that?” I asked.
“Another bird,” she answered calmly. She pushed up from her favorite chair and made her way out to the porch. Then she picked up a small cup of rainwater off the porch rail and stooped down to the small, still bird lying near the window. “They can’t see the glass windows and are always knocking themselves out.”
“Is it dead?” I knelt beside her. “What are you doing?”
“It may not be dead, just stunned.” She tilted the bird’s neck back and dropped a small amount of water on its beak. “I rub their neck, give them some water and then say a prayer for them. And they usually wake up and after awhile fly away.”
My mom, what a sweetie, I smiled tenderly. “But the bird doesn’t look like it’s going to wake up. What will you do next?” Mom looked at me as if I should know.
“Oh, then I’ll just chop it up and put it on my trot-line.” She did and caught a few fish, thanks to that bird.
Mom was quite a lady. She held nature, animals and the world with the highest regards, but she was also realistic and left nothing to waste. I miss her.
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