When I was ten or eleven, I used to go fishing with my buddy across the street during the summer. We always started out in the morning when it was relatively cool and came home before the afternoon sun got too high. The night before each fishing trip, we would catch a bunch of grasshoppers and crickets for bait and put them in a coffee can with air holes in the top. We would then tie our fishing poles and tackle boxes to our bicycles and make a sandwich for lunch. Then, early in the morning, we would ride our bicycles five miles to the creek where we liked to fish. We would catch crappie, bass, and catfish and bring them home on a stringer before it got too hot. When we got home, we filleted the fish on the side of my house and gave the fillets to our mamas. Later in the evening, our mamas served fish for dinner.
All of this is strange to consider today. The empty country roads we took are now major arteries. The fields of sunflowers are strip centers, and I can not even remember the last time I was on a bicycle. On those trips, no one but God and us knew where we were, and our mothers simply knew that we would be home before supper. It all seems like a dream today, though it is a dream I am glad that I had.
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