From the time she could walk her grandfather took her on his fishing trips. At three she could hold her own pole, jumping up and down when a fish would strike. She stood on the banks of many rivers with her grandfather, watching him cast his line over and over again into the water. Watching the wriggling fish as he took them off the hook and put them in his creel. He opened the basket and dropped them in and she remembered how slimy they felt and how beautiful the rainbow colors were on their skin. They fished the Arkansas, the Frying Pan, the South Fork, the Colorado rivers. She stood patiently until her legs tired and then sat patiently until her grandfather signaled time to go. They took the fish home to her grandmother who dredged them in cornmeal and flour and dropped them into hot oil. Grandmother made white, fluffy biscuits hot from the oven to eat with the fish. The girl drenched the biscuits in honey and the sweet biscuity crunch mixed with the salty, lemony fish in a jarring collision on her tongue. She never felt sorry for the fish or repulsed at the idea of eating them; considered her patient waiting on the banks of the river as sufficient penance for killing them. It seemed a fair exchange to her.
Each year at the end of the summer her grandparents took them to the Huck Finn day picnic. Her grandmother dressed her in a Becky Thatcher style with a long, cotton dress yellow with white flowers, and yellow crepe paper braids over her own brown ones. A bonnet of matching material would be the crowning touch. Her brother looked bedraggled and dirty in his Tom Sawyer costume no more so than usual in her opinion. He resisted the encouragement of her grandmother to hold still while adding touches of realism to his costume, a dirty bandage on his toe, a straw hat, a cane pole to carry over his shoulder. They stood with the other children for the judges, each child skittery and nervous, uneasy under the gaze of the adults. Finally, the contest would be over, prizes awarded, and lunch served. Every year she won a brand new fishing pole, her Becky Thatcher always won!
After the judging they stuffed themselves with hot dogs, potato salad, and soda pop and then ran along the river's edge in their costumes, sticking their feet in the water and splashing at each other until the sun lowered in the sky and the calls went out for the children to gather their belongings and head home. Her Grandmother pleased with the outcome of the judging that once again verified her talents as a seamstress and costumer.
Years later her grandfather died and her grandmother moved into an assisted living facility. There she participated with the other residents in plays, once acting the wicked witch in "The Wizard of Oz." She lent her seamstress ability for the creation of all the costumes for the plays and her fellow residents applauded her creativity and ingenuity. Her mother shared pictures of her grandmother in her witchly costume, her hair green and teeth black. The very idea unseemly but she smiled at the thought of the beautiful Becky Thatcher costumes of her own childhood. Her grandmother seemed happy not appearing to mind the loss of stature and dignity the photograph embodied to her granddaughter. She could not cross the chasm of time that separated them, could not relate to this old witch of the pictures. She consoled herself with memories of her grandmother in the old days. She saw her standing at the water's edge, high waders covering her jeans, an old flannel shirt over a white cotton undershirt, a belt cinched tightly around her narrow waist. A cigarette hung from her mouth and the intensity of her gaze on the water warned those around her to hush. She flicked the fishing line across the water casually and slowly reeled it in, patient and methodical in her method, waiting for a strike. This jean clad, fisherwoman and the witch both notable for their deviation from any "Grandmother" norm.
