The Bad, The Good And Two Fly Fishing Women
A short (printable) novel
Now, as I approach the autumn of my life, how do I describe myself? As a wife and a mother who loves her
family, as an attorney who admires the law, and as a fly fisher who proudly says she learned from the Now, as
Now as I approach the autumn of my life, how do I describe myself? As a wife and a mother who loves her
family, as an attorney who admires the law, and as a fly fisher who proudly says she learned from the
greatest fly fisher she ever knew: her grandmother.
And whether by accident or not, my grandmother taught me something even more important than fishing,
something that, even after such a long, long parade of days, I still cherish, like an antique fly rod, and wish to
pass on.
The lesson happened near the middle of trout season, on the first day of summer, June 21st. I was fourteen
years old and very, very hurt and angry.
Why? you ask.
A year had passed since my grandfather died of a heart attack while fishing a nameless, but very beautiful,
pool on the Junction River. My grandmother and father came to believe if someone had been with him he
might have lived.
But in spite of their belief, my grandmother often told me, "Amanda, be thankful he at least died doing what
he loved. Besides, I know he's waiting for me. Maybe by the time we meet again he'll stop burping at the
table."
I tried to see it my grandmother's way, but couldn't. Deep down inside the truth was I desperately wanted him
back so he could hug me and tell me fishing stories I knew weren't all true. Besides, he lived close by, so he
was the one I often ran to when the fighting between my mother and father got real bad.
Whom did I blame for the fighting? I guess both, even though I knew my father was only trying to stop my
mother from getting high. And I wanted her to stop. I hated the smell of marijuana. The smell meant my
mother watched television with a stupid grin on her face, a grin saying silently, but loudly: don't even try to get
me to help you with your homework.
To make things worse, I couldn't look forward to my father coming home, because his coming home usually
lead to another fight, and to me running to my room, slamming the door and putting a pillow over my head.
The pillow filtered out most of the words, but the anger always found a way through, and made me pray for
my mother to stop getting high.
She didn't. So every day when I walked home from school and passed our town's beautiful, old white church, I
wondered if there really was a God.
On one of those days the sky was so clear and the sun so bright that winter felt like spring. Suddenly I forgot
about all the bad things in my life, and dreamed of fly-fishing and catching a big trout.
I walked up the wooden steps to my house, and into the dim kitchen. My father sat at the table, staring out the
window as if he were lost in space.
"Dad, why are your home so early?"
He looked up at me. His eyes were red, as if he had just cried. "Your mother ran off with, with another man."
Surprisingly, I didn't feel much of anything, maybe because I felt both good and bad at the same time: good
the fighting was over, bad my mother wasn't going to change into the loving mother I wanted her to be.
During the next few months my feelings froze into opposite halves.
As for my father - well, he tried hard to hide his feelings, but he didn't do a very good job. Hour after hour he
sat in the kitchen all by himself; so even though he threw out all my mother's pictures and never mentioned
her name, I knew he still loved her - for whatever reason - and he couldn't kill his pain. And so he worked
long, long hours in his tire store; and I usually came home to an empty house, put on the TV and ate dinner
by myself.
Maybe that's why my pain and the angry voices inside me swelled and soon drowned out the TV. Night after
night, I put down my knife and fork and cried. Is it any wonder, therefore, I was thankful when my grandmother
moved in with us and tried to take my mother's place?
My grandmother cooked, helped me with my homework, and tried to make me feel loved. There was
something, however, she couldn't do: erase my deepening shame, a shame I tried to hide by telling my
teacher and classmates, "My mother is in New York taking care of her sick aunt."
But in a small, close-knit town, I soon learned, some things, like the moon and the stars, are impossible to
hide. My classmates made fun of me behind my back, then to my face.
What did I do? I punched one, but then I just turned away, and fished more and more. You see, being in one
of nature's poems, a beautiful river, made me feel I was a part of the good side of the world. Sometimes I
even came close to believing there was a God.
Whether or not there was, my grandmother and father became scared of my being alone on a river; so one
day when I was at school, they went to the pound, adopted a German Shepherd and put her in my room.
When I came home I heard her bark. I ran to my room. The dog looked at me, then tilted her head. Her eyes
seemed to ask, "Who are you?" Her face was almost all gold, her body almost all black. She struck me as
being funny looking.
I got down on my knees. "Hello doggy."
She walked to me slowly, as if a part of her was scared of me. I petted her and looked into her eyes. She
jumped up, licked my face and suddenly seemed beautiful. I hugged her. Right then and there I named her
Shana. And from that day on she looked at me with so much love in her eyes, I wondered if she was really a
person in a dog's body. Often I asked, "Shana, do you miss whoever raised you? Well, I promise to love you
so much that pretty soon you'll forget all about them."
She answered by licking my face; and I wished I could forget bad things as easily as a dog could.
I took Shana fishing with me, and I tried to train her to wait on the bank, but she always insisted on following
me into the river, except where it was fast and rocky. Then she stayed on the bank and barked. Angry, I often
called her a bad girl and told her to be quiet, but she wouldn't listen. I wished there were wading sticks for
dogs, but there weren't; so soon I stopped wading into fast water, and lost opportunities to catch a lot of big
fish. At first I resented Shana for it, but having Shana and her love close to me, I learned, was a good tradeoff.
One day, as I retrieved my fly, I looked at Shana and said, "Unlike my mother, you'll never leave me. Maybe
having you is better than having a real mother."
My mother never visited or called.
Day after day I still cried, but never in front of my father, even though my grandmother told me crying was all
right. One day she said, "I'm sure that your mother still loves you."
I insisted, "If she did she wouldn't have left."
"Don't be so sure. She's probably just confused. That happens to grownups sometimes. She'll again be a
mother to you, probably real soon. You'll see."
"I won't, because I'll never even talk to her again. I hate her!"
"You mustn't hate, Amanda."
"Says who? People hate all the time."
"That doesn't make it right."
A month or so later another really bad thing happened: my grandmother got sick and underwent all sorts of
medical tests. We anxiously waited for the results. Finally, as my father and I stood in the long, narrow
hospital hallway, the doctor walked up to us. His eyes spoke sadness. I took my father's hand. The doctor told
us my grandmother had cancer. Immediately, I ran into her room. She smiled. I hugged her and said I was
scared of losing her and of not having any sort of a mother.
She kissed my forehead. "I'm not ready to die. I'm going to beat this cancer, you'll see. I guess worse than
losing my hair is, for the first time since I met your grandfather, missing the opening of trout season."
"I'm going to miss it too, because I don't care anymore about fishing. I want to stay with you."
Opening day and then the cold-as-ice winds of April came and went. Finally, my grandmother left the hospital,
but three times a week she went back for chemotherapy. I always visited her, even though I soon I hated
seeing so many old and sick people. I said, "Grandma, when I get old I'm never going to get sick."
She smiled. "Amanda, we don't always have the choices that we want, but right now you have the choice to
go home, take my Heddon Rod and catch some trout for the both of us."
"I'm not going to leave you."
"Your father will be here soon. Please listen to me. The pain and sickness of one old woman doesn't stop the
world. The leaves have already bloomed. Your way past fishing time."
I muttered, "All right." I trudged home, put on my waders and boots, and went into my grandmother's room. In
the corner stood her bamboo rod. Its finish shined like polished gold, a gold I felt I shouldn't smudge. I looked
at Shana. "Girl, do you want to go fish?"
Shana barked.
"All right. Let's go."
Shana and I waded into the shallow, gentle riffles of School House Pool on the Junction River. I didn't feel
right being there, knowing my grandmother was probably throwing up from chemotherapy. I looked at the tall
trees lining the bank. The branches looked too long for their narrow trunks. Maybe that's why the trees
reminded me of a giant, chain-link fence. Feeling protected, I stared at the clear water and waited for insects
to hatch.
They didn't, so I tied on my grandfather's favorite searching fly, an Adams, and pulled line off my
grandmother's black Meek reel. I cast to the far bank and watched my fly float downstream. The slow,
shimmering water, the different, but merging melodies of unseen birds, washed out the angry thoughts in my
mind and, like a river flowing backwards, towards its mouth, swept me into the long-past to the moments I
caught and landed my first trout, and heard my grandfather tell me how proud of me he was.
My Adams dragged in the slower water near the bank. I retrieved line and again cast.
A few hours and two-landed-trout later, when the long, wide shadow turned the color of the water to dark
gray, I left the river knowing I'd be back the next day.
And when I was, I fished the pool that got its name from its shape: Banana. In middle of the pool, the sun
engraved a long, thin triangle. For an hour or so I had no luck; then I made a bad cast and landed my Royal
Wuff in a long, low branch. Gently, I pulled my fly free. It landed in the water, behind a big boulder. A trout
gulped it. I pressed my finger against the fly line and the rod handle. Calmly, the way my grandmother taught
me, I swung the rod tip up and set the hook. The trout bolted downstream, jolting the line, the rod and me with
life. The rod throbbed like a lovesick heart, and sent invisible, shapeless, but real surges rushing down my
arms and through my body. Suddenly it seemed as if a little dam was opening and closing inside me. As fast
as I could, I reeled in all slack line. Holding the rod still, I let the trout run. The spinning reel shrieked. To
Shana it must've sounded like a cat. She barked wildly. The trout neared the fast, foamy tail. Knowing I had to
keep him away from it, I palmed the reel and slowed it. The trout - a big rainbow - jumped out of the water and
shook its head. For some reason I saw the strange image of a quarter-moon trying to escape the earth's
orbit. I pointed the rod tip down about three feet - the way my grandmother taught me to fight jumping fish -
and reeled in line. The rainbow dived back into the water. The fly line went dead.
I lost him, I thought. Damn!
I reeled in line. Suddenly it jumped up from the water like a grasshopper and snapped tight. The rainbow was
still on. He broke toward the far bank, nearly yanking the rod out of my hand. I pointed the rod up, squeezed
the handle as tightly as I could, and pulled my elbows close to my body. I breathed hard and fast for air.
How could a trout, I wondered, seem to weigh three or four times its weight? Hold the rod still. He's taking
more line, and seemingly pulling me with him, taking me deeper and deeper into the obsession, the killer
instinct, that's boiling inside me. Am I any different, than a wild animal? Than Shana?
At least I talk instead of bark.
The trout pulled my rod tip down. Is he going to win? In my mind I heard my grandmother say, "Amanda, stay
calm. Wait until the trout lets up a bit, then to get leverage on him, lift his head out of the water and reel."
With my reel hand, I grabbed the rod above the handle, and slowly, slowly pulled the rod tip back up, and the
trout's head out of the water. The once-throbbing rod now pulsed as if it were on life support. Steadily, I
reeled the trout closer and closer, not expecting him to make another run.
He bolted right towards me. As fast as I could, I reeled in line, but not fast enough. He lowered his head. Now
he had the advantage. He swam past me. I let him take line. He slowed, finally. Again I lifted his head and
turned him toward the bank. I reeled him closer, and closer. Yes, he was tired too!
"Mr. Trout," I said, "if you don't run, I promise I'll let you go."
He believed me. Easily, I landed him. I won! Shana barked wildly. The rainbow was about three - no but at
least two - pounds. He was scarred near his tail, as if he had been another fight.
Was it with a human or another fish? Is that fear in his eyes? If he could, wouldn't he beg me to let him live?
But if I do, who, except my grandmother, will believe I caught such a big trout?
No one.
"Shana I promised to let him live." I took the fly out of the rainbow's mouth and let him go. The funny thing was
that he didn't leave. Like me, maybe he wanted friends. Shana lunged at him. He darted away.
"Bad girl!"
Shana licked my face.
"I still love you and, like a good mother, I always will."
An hour later, I went straight from the river to the hospital, and walked into the hospital and told my
grandmother about my victory, then asked, "Should I have taken him grandma, to show people?"
"You showed yourself you can land a big trough. That's all that should matter."
But it doesn't! What's wrong with me?
I fished the next day and caught three small trout. The sun slid behind the tall trees and the water darkened
into gray and the breeze quickened into wind. I left the river, walked home and told my grandmother the flies
and the tactics I had used, and which ones caught fish.
"Rivers are like poems," my grandmother said. "No matter how beautiful they are, your first have to study
them, and read between the lines before you plan your attack. The answers to catching trout are half in the
rivers, and half in our ourselves."
I wasn't exactly sure what she meant by that, but knowing how tired she was, I didn't want to ask.
"Now tell me, Amanda, what was the water you fished like?"
"It was slow and clear and littered with big rocks."
"You might want to try a longer, thinner leader the next time. And where was the sun? Fish run from moving
shadows the way people run from the deep shadows inside them."
And so day after day, my grandmother made more and more suggestions. Each one I tried; and as the days
got longer and the trout season went on, I caught more and more fish; so many in fact that pretty soon
desperate men anglers ate their pride and asked me for advice. Something - maybe the good inside me - told
me to give it.
Unexpectedly, I was rewarded. Soon I felt real special, even though I still had no friends. And feeling special, I
quickly learned, was far more important than all the flies the men gave me.
So that's where I was, emotionally I mean, on the morning of June 21st when I cooked my family's breakfast.
My father left for work. My grandmother went to her room to rest, or so I thought, because after I washed all
the dishes and cleaned up, I went upstairs to get my books. The door to my grandmother's room was open.
She wore her fly fishing vest and hat, but not her gray wig. Her Heddon rod and my grandfather's antique fly
box were on the bed.
"Grandma, what are you doing?"
"I'm not going to miss the whole trout season. I want at least one day on the river."
"But you're sick."
"These doctors don't know everything. There's more to life than new science. I think fishing will do more for
me than chemo. Now you go to school and don't worry about me."
"Take Shana with you."
She smiled. "I'll be all right."
"If you don't promise to take her, I'll call my father and tell him what you're doing."
"I promise," she swore.
I hugged her. Something hard and round - my grandfather's revolver, I knew - pressed against my chest.
"Why are you taking a gun?"
"A woman needs to protect herself."
"From what?"
"Bears."
"No one has seen bears around here for years."
"You never know, and I can't walk as fast as I used to. Don't you want to know that I'm safe?"
I left for school; but as I sat in that small, dingy classroom, all I thought about was how my grandmother
probably wasn't strong enough to fish, and about how my grandfather died fishing by himself. Suddenly
terrified, I wanted to be with my grandmother more than I wanted anything.
"Amanda!" My teacher called my name. I came out of my haze. My teacher folded her arms and stared at me.
"Amanda, didn't you hear my question?"
I shook my head no.
Everyone laughed. I wanted to crawl under my desk.
"You're a fish brain!" yelled Mark Klinger.
I jumped up, clenched my fist, and ran up to him. I froze for a moment, then opened my hand and slapped him
real hard on the back of his head.
"Amanda!" my teacher yelled.
"I'm not a fish brain!" I ran out of the school, and away from the wrong I did. I kept on running until I reached
home and opened the door. Shana jumped all over me.
Grandma lied! Why? She's supposed to be good.
I looked into Shana's eyes. "We're going fishing."
She licked my face and followed me to my room. As quickly as I could, I put on my waders, my vest and my
hat. I turned to get my rod. My grandmother's rod was in its place. On the floor was my grandfather's antique
fly box
Maybe the cancer, the pain, is really why she took her gun. But I'm not going to let her leave me.
I stuffed the fly box into my vest pocket. "Let's go Shana."
I could barely breath when I reached one of my grandmother's favorite spots on the Junction River, the wide,
slow-moving bend just below Bennett's farm.
My grandmother wasn't there.
Vernon was. He sat on his wooden milk box. He was a very big black man, older than my father. His tile-like
teeth looked too big and white for his mouth. Often I wondered if they were just bad fakes. Vernon's big straw
hat had a hole in the brim. He worked, I knew, as a night watchman in the glass factory, and always fished
worms on an old spinning rod. My grandmother, however, told me not to hold it against him. He fished for
food instead of for sport. Besides, he never broke the law and kept trout shorter than the eighteen-inch limit.
A bottle of half-full whiskey was near his feet.
I asked if he had seen my grandmother.
"No." He didn't look at me.
I read a lie between his lies. I walked towards him.
"I told you: I ain't seen her!" His tone was like a jab a boxer used to keep his opponent away.
I walked through the punch. On the other side of his milk box was a creel, decorated with the small trout my
grandfather had painted. It was my grandmother's creel.
I asked, "Did you try downstream, just behind the fallen tree?" He turned. I snatched his bottle of whiskey and
ran. When I felt far enough away, I stopped and faced him.
"What you take that for?" he shouted.
"Because you lied to me, and if you come after me I'll put Shana on you. How come you have my
grandmother's creel? Did you steal it from her?"
"Looky here, I never stole anything, since I was a kid, I mean."
"Then how come you have it!"
He didn't answer.
I pulled the cap off the bottle. "You'd better tell me the truth or I'm gonna start pouring this on the ground."
"It ain't yours to pour."
"That creel isn't yours either. Tell me the truth."
"She gave me the creel as a present."
"No. She loved that creel!"
"She often gave me things, like flies she tied herself."
"You don't even know how to fish with flies."
"I still like havin' and lookin' at them. To me they're like little pieces of art."
"Just tell me which way she went, upstream or down?"
"I promised her."
"She's very sick with cancer. She shouldn't be fishing by herself. Remember what happened to my
grandfather?" I poured out a little of his whiskey then, trying to look real mean, I glared into his eyes.
"She went down river."
I pushed the cap back on his bottle.
"Let's go Shana." I put the bottle down.
"Wait!" Vernon yelled out. "You ain't goin' by yourself."
"I am too!"
"You're a girl and girls shouldn't be alone."
"I'm alone all the time. Shana will protect me."
"I'm goin' with you."
"You're not!"
"I am too!" He got up and reeled in his line.
I knew I couldn't stop him. Besides, was his coming with me such a bad idea, especially because I had always
liked him?
No, it wasn't.
He put his whiskey into my grandmother's creel.
I suggested, "Why don't we hide your milk box?"
"When we come back it will still be there. You'll see."
With the bright, hot sun shining on our backs, we hiked downstream on the narrow, riverbank path.
At first Vernon and I didn’t say anything. We reached Heartbreak Run. The run was long and narrow, and
strewn with boulders that reminded me of tombstones. The run got its name because it was fast and foamy,
and trout therefore could easily refill their gills with oxygen-rich water and, like a hungry boxer, mount a
strong fight.
Someone fished the back of the run.
It was Bill Lovett, an angler I never liked him because he always lied about the size and number of fish he
caught.
He looked at me and waved. “Caught two big ones!”
I whispered, “I hate when he lies. Doesn’t he know we see right through him?”
“He lies because he really don’t feel good about himself.”
“You mean with all his expensive fly rods, he still has shadows deep inside? I don’t believe it.”
“What shadows?”
“Never mind.”
“Bill, save some for us!” Vernon yelled.
We hiked on and seemingly into a life-size picture postcard: Paradise Lost, a long pool. Dividing the pool in
half and into two levels, was a two-foot high waterfall. Sunlight filtered through the dense, overhanging
branches in a crisscrossing pattern; but only one small, flickering X reached the calm water. The pool,
therefore, looked like a huge, upside-down photograph of the trees lining its bank.
Yes. Nature, unlike photographs of people, never needs a frame.
“Looky how beautiful God’s work can be,” Vernon said. “Tomorrow I’m gonna come down here to fish.”
“You’ll be wasting your time. The bottom is mostly sand. It has few rocks or plants. The pool is trout-starved.”
“Sometimes I guess even God wants to be left alone.”
Is he really just stupid? “Vernon, your shoes are getting all wet and muddy.”
“Don’t you worry about my shoes.”
“All right, I won’t. They’re yours to ruin.”
“You did a bad thing back there, pourin’ my whiskey.”
“No I didn’t!” But did I? Am I really bad? Is that why I’ve told lies and felt like I wanted to hurt my mother? I said
as if I meant it, “I had to know the truth.”
“The truth was, the truth is, it wasn’t your whiskey.”
“You shouldn’t be drinking so much whiskey.”
“Says who?”
“Me.”
“I suppose you know how it hurts when God takes your son.”
“I never knew you lost your son.”
“That’s why wife and I moved to this town, to forget. But we didn’t.”
Yes, he has a right to run from his shadow. It doesn’t seem right that good people have to endure such
horrible tragedies. Why can’t the world be like one great, big Shana: filled with endless love?
I waited for Vernon to tell me how his son died. He didn’t. I had the sense not to ask, but not the sense to
know what to say to comfort him. Instead, I said to myself that pouring some of his whiskey on the ground was
wrong. Without talking, we hiked down the soggy bank, then around the wide, trout-filled Restoration Bend.
The silence between me and Vernon seemed to turn into bulletproof glass.
I didn’t like it. I wondered if I should apologize to Vernon. Though a part of me wanted to - the good part, I
suppose - I just couldn’t apologize. I suppose I felt the way I did when I ran out of my school’s auditorium
because of stage fright: tongue-tied.
The river ran straight again.
Finally, I broke the silence. “Vernon, why would my grandmother leave her favorite rod in my room and give
you her cherished creel?”
“She must’ve had a reason.”
“What?”
“Well, maybe the cancer is, is just makin’ her think real hard ‘bout things; and since she was always a
generous woman, givin’ away things she loves makes her feel better than any medicine can. Yeah, that must
be it, because it’s gonna be God’s job to-”
“To what?”
“Nothin.’”
“No, you meant something.”
“Your grandmother told me so a couple of weeks ago that only God, and not cancer, will take her from you.”
Should I believe him? How many times did I believe my mother? And didn’t she leave me? But Vernon goes to
church. He doesn’t lie.
I looked at his cheap spinning rod and wished I had a good one I could give him. “Vernon, when I get old
enough I’ll buy you more whiskey.”
He smiled. “And I’ll be happy to take it.”
We came to the big, slow-moving, McCarthy’s Pool. It was named after Michael McCarthy, who luckily, had
survived the killing fields of World War One, only to come home, get drunk and fish the pool. The next
morning two anglers found his body floating face-down, and from that day on his father swore The Junction
was a murderer; and though I didn't see the river that way, as far as I was concerned, it didn’t matter that the
pool was filled with plants, moss-covered rocks and insects trout loved to eat. I always passed the pool by. In
my mind it was haunted. I didn’t want any part of it, the way I knew I didn’t want any part of liquor or war, even
though I knew they weren’t the only things that led to McCarthy’s death. You see, the water in the pool was so
clear it acted like an invisible magnifying glass, and disguised many of the drop-offs and holes, and caused
many sobers anglers to get drenched.
“Vernon, were you ever in war?”
“Well, kind of.”
“What does kind of mean? Either you were or you weren’t”
“Well, I got sent to Europe as cook. I didn’t see any fightin’.”
“Then you weren’t in war.”
“Soldiers, like fish, have to eat, don’t they?”
“I guess so.”
“Besides, I enlisted. No evil Nazi was gonna scare me. Was it my fault I knew how to cook?”
“Sometimes I’m glad I’m a girl, Vernon. Even though I’m not supposed to fish, I’m also not supposed to go to
war and shoot at someone.”
“That’s a good way of lookin’ at it.”
“Why do you think countries go to war?”
“Damn if I know, but war is in the Bible.”
“That doesn’t make it right.”
“I didn’t say it does.”
“You know what else I wonder about. How does moss grow on dead rocks?”
“I don’t know that either. I guess nature has a way of givin’ life.”
He has a simple answer for everything. I was foolish for asking him a question about science.
We left the pool and walked alongside a long stretch of shallow, gurgling riffles. I asked Vernon if he wanted
to rest. He said no. I offered him some of my water. He looked at me and smiled suddenly looked much
younger. “I can drink from the river,” he said.
“No you can’t. You’ll get sick.”
His eyes became as big and round as quarters. “How do you see me?” he asked.
“See you? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m black and you’re white.”
“And I’m a fly fisher and you’re not.” I held out my canteen.
He took it. Without touching the canteen with his lips, he poured water into his mouth. Some of the water ran
down his neck. “I never thought water could taste as good as whiskey.”
“You didn’t have to hold the canteen away from your lips.”
“I didn’t want to spread germs.”
“Maybe you don’t have any.” I cupped my hand and poured water into it. Shana licked the water up. I poured
her more.
We came to Banana Pool. Its short, fast tail narrowed like a funnel. On one side of the funnel a fallen tree
slowed the current. The tree still had leaves on it, but it was only a matter of time before it was completely
dead. It just didn’t seem right that a beautiful river could wash away the banks and kill a hundred-year old
tree. If there is a God, why didn’t he give the tree a way of fighting back? But I won’t ask Vernon.
In the slow water two beautiful swans rested. To me they looked more beautiful than any trout I had ever
seen, maybe because I knew the swans were in love and, in their way, married.
Will I ever get married? If so, will my future husband be as good as he hopefully looks? Where is he now?
Fishing, I hope.
In the middle of the pool the long, triangle of reflecting sunlight went out. A big cloud blocked out the sun. I
got into a crouch and walked close to where I had caught Mr. Trout.
“Vernon, Mr. Trout is here!”
“We got no time to look for fish.”
“I caught him once. Maybe he remembers me.”
“He’s a fish. He doesn’t - well maybe he does.”
I moved closer. My image scared him. He darted away and I found myself looking at my reflection. I pulled
down the front brim of my hat, and wished I could live and stay pretty forever, like the Junction River.
Shana barked, jumped in the river and swam towards the swans.
“Shana come back! Bad girl!”
Shana ignored me and got caught in a seam of fast water. She barked frantically and paddled faster and
faster, but the seam carried her downstream. The swans flew away. Shana was pulled into the fast tail.
“Please, don’t drown and leave me!”
“Dogs are born to swim,” Vernon assured me. “Looky here, when she gets to the next pool she’ll just swim to
the bank.”
“Which one though? The near bank is lined with bushes.”
“I’ll go down this bank. You cross the river at the riffles and we’ll meet at the stone bridge.”
“Vernon, the bottom is rocky. I don’t have my wading stick.”
“There must be a big stick in the woods.”
“I don’t like going in the woods by myself.”
He smiled in a funny way; or at least I thought so. “I’ll go with you,” he said.
“Thanks.”
We quickly found a big stick. I ran back to the river. Slowly, making sure I had good footing and balance, I
waded to the far bank. I looked at Vernon.
He gave me a thumbs-up. We marched downstream at the same pace. The river soon widened and snaked
to the left.
I crashed into a long wall of thorny bushes, and was stabbed in a hundred places, or so I felt. I screamed,
then wiped my cheek. It bled. Now I, like Mr. Trout, was scarred. Even worse, I had to go into the woods to get
around the wall. I wished I had my grandfather’s gun, even though I never fired it. I looked at the bottom of my
stick. It was pointy, like a spear.
No, I won’t be scared, but even if I am, if I don’t save Shana she’ll never forgive me, and neither will I.
“Vernon, I’ll meet you downstream!” I walked into the thick woods. The shade was dark and eerie, and made
the woods seem haunted. I wanted to turn back.
Damn you Shana. Why did you have to jump into the river? But shouldn’t I be hoping that you and
grandmother are okay? Maybe I really am bad. Maybe that’s why my mother left.
I walked deeper into the woods, then hiked up a long, low hill.
He stood on the other side as if he had been waiting for me. His arms were folded. He wore an old, green,
army jacket. His image hit me like a punch. Numb from the blow, I tried to step away from him, but my legs
didn’t move.
Should I yell out to Vernon? If I do the man might do something bad before Vernon can save me. But maybe
the man’s not all bad.
He was about thirty, and I must admit, good looking in a sort of cowboy way. He was unshaven, and wore torn,
dirty jeans. His blue eyes studied my grandmother’s rod. He smiled. He was missing a front tooth.
“What happened to you face?” he asked.
“The thorns got me.”
“You should watch where you’re going.”
“From now on I will.”
He grinned. “That’s fine, fine looking rod. May I see it?” He spoke softly, politely.
“No,” I backed away, pointing my stick at him.
He laughed loudly and looked up. I must’ve looked up too, because before I knew it, he grabbed my stick and
threw it behind him. “I just want to see your fishing rod. When I was a boy I had also had a real good one.”
“What happened to it?”
“Didn’t anyone tell you that sometimes you shouldn’t ask people certain questions. Now I’m not saying that to
hurt you, but to help you.” His look, a vagabond’s, clashed with his voice, a politician’s. For a second I
believed him.
I said, “You don’t want to see my rod. You want to take it.”
“What makes you think I don’t have a real fine rod of my own?”
“Because if you did, you’d be carrying it.”
“I too was a real smart, freckled-face kid.”
“Who are you?”
“Someone who fished this river a lot until my mother was forced to move.”
Forced by what? But I didn’t ask the question. Can the shadow deep inside me make go wrong, as he has?
“Look, if you’re hungry and don’t mind going into the river and getting wet I’ll show you one of my secret
spots. I’ll let you use the rod to catch a fish, but you have to promise me that then you’ll leave me alone.”
“I promise,” he insisted.
This time real life won’t let me run away from playing a part. I just wish I wasn’t so scared. I said, “We’ll go
downstream.”
“Let’s go, little girl.”
“I’m not little.”
“That’s right, you really aren’t.” He grinned, and suddenly I thought that maybe he wanted more than my
grandmother’s fly rod.
Still numb, I wished I could momentarily turn into a big man and wallop him right between the eyes.
But I couldn’t; so I decided not to let him see Vernon and Shana walk down the other bank, because then he
might grab the fly rod and run. I led him through the woods, parallel, but about twenty yards from the river.
Finally, when I guessed we were almost even with the bridge, I turned towards the river, praying that Vernon
and Shana waited there for me.
They didn’t.
Stay calm, as if I’m trying to land a monster fish. Stall for time. I said, “Let me tie a fly on.” I had made a
mistake. Now he would see my grandfather’s fly box. Reluctantly, I took it out, picked out an Adams and
pretended I couldn’t get the line through the fly’s eye.
“Let me do that,” he demanded.
I got the line through the eye, and tied the fly on. Shana barked. I looked up. She streaked across the bridge.
“Get him Shana! Get him!”
“Damn you little bitch!” He lunged for the rod. Ready, I jumped back. He fell, then got up and ran into the
woods and out of my view.
Shana jumped on me, almost knocking me down. She was all wet. Her muddy paws dirtied my vest, but I didn't
care. I kissed her. “Good girl, Shana. Good girl. You saved me.”
Vernon crossed the bridge.
I yelled, “What took you so long!”
He gulped air. “Shana wouldn’t come with me at first.”
“That man tried to steal my grandmother’s rod.”
My heart beat fast and hard, like a throbbing fly rod. Suddenly, uncontrollably, I laughed. “I tricked him. Did
you see the way he ran?”
Vernon’s breath smelled of whiskey. “Maybe we, we should head back,” he said.
“He won’t be back. He’s a coward. Besides, my grandmother brought her gun. We’re closer to her than from
where we started. I should’ve brought Shana’s leash.”
Vernon took off his belt. “We’ll use this.”
“If Shana hadn’t gone after the swans I wouldn’t have run into the bad man.”
“Now don’t go blaming Shana.”
“Who should I blame? Me? I have to find my grandmother.”
“Don’t blame anyone. Sometimes things just happen.”
“That doesn’t mean they’re good.”
“What does it mean?”
“That things happen for a - that things just happen.”
We hiked downstream. The tall trees protected us from the hot, sinking sun. My heart stopped beating so
hard. I turned to Vernon and said, “The funny thing is, I wasn’t so scared while it was happening.”
“Sometimes God hides fear from us when he needs to. Sometimes - Amanda you got real courage. Maybe
you’ll never need a drink.”
“Vernon, I’m sorry for yelling at you. That was stupid of me.”
“I would have yelled too.”
“I bet you my grandmother is fishing the pool where my grandfather died.”
“It might be her way of feelin’ real close to him.”
“I’m still scarred that maybe she took her gun because she doesn’t want to come back.”
“Look at what just happened. A woman out here by herself is smart for takin’ a gun.”
“She never took one before.”
“Maybe God told her there was a bad man out here.”
“How? God doesn’t talk to people.”
“In his way he does. We’ll find your grandmother real soon. You’ll see.”
I desperately wanted to believed him - about finding my grandmother. Maybe that’s why I did.
Our steps quickened into a march. Soon we reached the treeless meadow. The sun felt real hot again.
“Vernon, did you ever think of leaving your family for another woman?”
“Being scared of God is a good thing.”
I didn’t want to hear any more talk of God, but not wanting to argue, I knew I had to let him have his say. “My
mother was never scared of God.”
“Then I feel sorry for her, and for the man who tried to rob your rod.”
“Do you think they’re evil?”
“The Lord put evil in everybody. That’s why we need the Lord.”
“That doesn’t make sense. If there’s evil in them, then they’re evil.”
“If there’s no life in one pool does that make the whole river bad?”
“That’s not a fair comparison.”
“Why not?”
I still didn’t want to argue. I asked, “Do you want to rest?”
“I’m fine.”
“Thanks for coming Vernon.”
He smiled. “You’re welcome.”
We left the meadow and reached the tree-lined Hourglass Run. The cool shade felt good again; and I was
grateful for giant umbrella-like trees. A pod of trout saw us and streaked like bullets towards the far bank. For
a second that fishing instinct exploded inside me, and I thought of casting my Adams to the trout. Then I
remembered I didn’t have time to fish.
I heard the splashing of Ruth’s Falls, a waterfall a rich landowner built and named after the poor woman he
loved and married. To me the Falls, and the deep pool just upstream of it, were drenched in love. They were
my favorites places to fish.
“Vernon, we don’t have far to go.” I marched faster.
“Slow down. I’m old and fat, remember?”
Waterfall Pool was and deep and wide. Joe McGlinn fished its mouth. Joe, I knew, was more like a crazy
scientist than a happy angler. He was obsessed with using the right fly, and therefore spent more time
changing flies and leaders than he spent fishing. But he must’ve known what he was doing because he wrote
a weekly fly-fishing column for a local newspaper. Even I could see his sentences were beautifully written,
seemed to change speeds and flow like a river. In person , however, Joe was so shy he rarely looked you in
the eye and never said more than a few words at a time. Because he was a lonely bachelor, I felt sorry for
him; and that’s the real reason I sometimes fished with him, not because he always gave me one of his secret
flies.
“Where are you heading?” he yelled out.
“Vernon’s house. I’m going to set up his new fly rod.”
Vernon stared at me.
I whispered, “Not all lies are bad.”
“It’s about time Vernon became a real fisherman,” Joe said.
“He already is!” I looked at Vernon. “I know it sounds crazy, but sometimes I think he’ll rub off on me, and I’ll
grow up and be as lonely as him.”
Vernon laughed, but didn’t say anything.
I felt stupid. “Why do you think he never married?”
“Could be a lot of reasons. Maybe a woman really broke his heart.”
“But don’t hearts heal, like cuts?”
“Not always.”
Yes, death broke Vernon’s heart so it couldn’t heal. I feel so sorry for him. When I grow up I hope I’m as good
as him, even if I don’t believe in God.
We reached the waterfall, then baby-stepped down a short, steep hill. Above the waterfall was a gap in the
overhanging branches. The sun poured through the gap, making the tumbling, splashing water shine like
bouncing diamonds. As always, I was mesmerized by the beautiful sight.
“Amanda, we got no time to stop and look at things.”
“I’m sorry. You’re right.”
Below Ruth’s Falls the water flowed into the long, narrow pool named Devil’s Valley. The pool was called that,
I was told, because most of it was deep, fast and rocky; so only a few courageous humans risked fishing it.
Besides, lining most of the pool were banks too steep to hike. The pool, therefore, was almost always
deserted and left, supposedly, to the devil to fish.
To get around the pool, we headed into the woods, then we followed the bottom of a hill and headed south. I
looked at Vernon. Maybe my mind was playing tricks on me, but he now looked taller. I was very grateful I
wasn’t alone. The trees were so tall that I hoped one day they would grow even higher and link heaven and
earth.
Shana saw a squirrel, bolted, and almost pulled Vernon’s belt out of my hand. I pulled her back, wrapped the
belt around my palm and clenched my fist.
We circled north.
“Vernon, how old do you think the Junction River is?”
“I guess about as old as the earth itself.”
I knew he was wrong, but I didn’t want to tell him so. “Why do some people call fly fishers anglers?”
“Because of a woman, English writer, I think.”
“I didn’t know there were women fishing writers.”
“That was a long, long time ago. Maybe you’ll be become a fishin’ writer.”
“I want to be a movie star - and I can.”
“Why do you want that?”
“Because - everybody wants to be famous.”
“I think it’s because you want somethin’ else.”
“What?”
“Your grandmother told me that your mother did -”
“She wasn’t supposed to tell!”
“Amanda, looky here. God made us so that deep down inside we want love.”
“Love has nothing to do with it. If you believe in God so much than why do you drink so much whiskey?”
“Maybe I should just go back.”
“Why don’t you. I’m almost there.” I knew he wouldn’t, especially with the bad man lurking around.
Vernon stopped walking. Shana barked and tried to pull me back. I didn’t let her. Again I heard the river
murmur as if it sang a hymn, then I heard Vernon breathing heavily and walking behind me. Comforted, I
walked to the bank. I stopped and waited for Vernon. Shana drank from the river.
“Amanda, I’m sorry for what I said. If you want to be a movie star that’s fine with me. Can I tell you somethin’
about me that only my wife knows?”
“If you want.”
“The truth is I was drinkin’ almost from my start. I never even knew my father. Lookin’ back, I guess wasn’t like
you. I was afraid to ask why, so instead I just tried to believe in and wish for things that I knew probably
wouldn’t come - like, after my boy died, I wished that my father would show up and tell me he wanted me for a
son, but he never did. You know what I wonder about: Is he alive anymore? For some reason God won’t give
me an answer.”
I never knew anyone who didn’t know his own father. “Vernon, you had it worse than me. You’re a good man.
I just wish you were my age and could be my friend for life. If you want some whiskey now it’s all right by me.”
Vernon took his whiskey out of the creel, took off the cap and raised the bottle to his lips. “If, if...” Suddenly,
he poured the whiskey into the river. “I ain’ makin’ any promises, except no more whiskey for today.”
“Now the trout will get drunk.”
“If my boy were alive would he hate my drinkin’?”
“If he were alive he’d love you.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I just do. Girls, women just know things like that.”
Vernon smiled. We hiked downstream, past the long stretch of knee-deep, riffles. I thought it was strange
how, even though the water kept flowing, the riffles kept their bubble-like form, as if they were made up of two
parts, a part that always changed and a part that always stayed the same. But then I remembered that after a
heavy rain, or a drought, the shape, or at least the size, of the riffles changed. I looked for trout. Though I
knew they were in there, I didn’t see any; then I wondered if there were things in the universe - reasons why
things happen, for example - that hid from us like trout in a stream.
Vernon and I hadn’t spoken for a few minutes, I realized. The funny thing was, there didn’t seem to be a
silence, or even a breakable glass between us.
Maybe Vernon, in spite of his age, is a real friend. “If I buy a spinning rod will you teach me how to fish with
worms?”
“As long as you teach me how to fish with flies.”
“You got a deal. Do you mind if I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
“How did your son die?”
“God gave him a bad heart when he was born.”
“Why would he do you that?”
“We can’t always understand the Lord.”
“Do you think there’s evil in him the way there is in all of us?”
“No, not in that way.”
“Then in what way?”
“He wants there to be evil so we turn away from it.”
His explanation sounds like cliché. But with everything Vernon went through, I have no right judging him.
Besides, maybe things become clichés because they’re made up of sense or beauty. “Do you ever have
times when believe less in God?”
“Yeah, but I always come out of it.”
Circles popped on the water. The circles, any angler knew, were signs of feeding trout.
Wouldn’t it be funny if I wasn’t an angler and thought the circles were caused by big raindrops - raindrops not
falling from the sky, but somehow shooting up from the bottom of the river?
We hiked around another sharp bend. From behind a tree, the man in the army jacket stepped out. He stood
as still as a statue. His arms were at his side. He pointed a black revolver at the ground. The gun’s handle
was broken and wrapped with black tape.
Shana barked.
“You’d better close that two-tone creature’s mouth or I’ll close it for you.”
“At least she has all her teeth.”
He thought a moment, then laughed. “That was pretty good, blondie.”
I took his remark as sort of an apology and a sign that, bad as he was, he wouldn’t shoot anyone. I held
Shana’s mouth shut. She tried to knock my hand away with her paw. I wouldn’t let her.
The bad man said, “You think you made a fool of me, so I’m going to teach you a lesson and take that real
fine rod and that fly box.”
I asked, “What would make you steal a rod from a girl?”
“You don’t know the things I come from.”
“That goes both ways.”
“You really are a smarty.”
I stepped backwards, pulling Shana with me.
“Where, my new fishing friends, are you going?” he asked.
“Looky here, ” Vernon said. “I too once had to square myself with the Lord.”
“I don’t believe in such easy ways out.”
Me too.
“Then you don’t have to worry,” Vernon answered. “The Lord doesn’t always mark his way.”
“Be quiet, black man. If it wasn’t for that stupid painting of a trout I’d take that creel.”
“That’s my grandfather’s painting.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t good, just that’s it’s stupid, to me anyway.”
I glanced downstream. The river curved sharply. I couldn’t see most of the pool my grandfather had died in.
Grandma, please be there. Please.
“Blondie, give me that rod.”
I looked into his blue eyes, then again glanced downstream. A green fly line flew out from behind the bend.
The line’s tight loop unrolled. The fly turned over perfectly, floated down and landed on the water like a
gentle kiss. Few people, I knew, could make a cast like that. My grandmother was there!
Maybe there really is a God. “Look at that gun. I bet you it doesn’t even work.”
“You want to find out?”
"Be quiet Amanda,” Vernon pleaded.
“Even if it does work, I don’t think he’s brave enough to shoot out here where someone might hear it. You
want this rod? Show me your piece of junk gun works and that you have the guts to shoot it.”
He looked behind him. Stone-faced, he pointed the gun at the sky and grinned.
The gunshot sounded like thunder. I jumped back. Shana jerked her head free and barked. I grabbed her
mouth again and squeezed it. Shana cried, but I didn’t let go.
“Scared you, blondie, didn’t it.”
I stepped backwards and, pretending I was more scared than I was. “Okay, mister. You win.” I put the rod
down, then stepped into the river. Shana followed me in. I reached into my vest, pulled out my grandfather’s
fly box, and made believe it slipped out of my hand. It floated downstream.
“I’ll get it!” the bad man yelled. He picked up the rod. “Now get out of here.”
Shana and I stepped out of the river. With Vernon, we walked upstream about fifty feet. I looked back.
The bad man walked along the bank, following the fly box.
I said, “I’m not going to let him hurt my grandmother.”
Vernon grabbed my arm. I pulled it free and said, “Take Shana. Hold her mouth shut.” I got into a crouch, and
picked up a big rock, and slowly followed the bad man.
My grandmother, I saw, didn’t make another cast. The gunshot, I knew, alerted her.
The fly box floated around the bend, then disappeared. I stood up, walked faster and closed in on the bad
man. Suddenly, I saw my grandmother. She walked towards me. Her hand was under her vest, on the gun, I
knew. She stared at the man, then saw her rod in his hand.
Now! I stood up and threw the rock with all my might. It hit him square in the back. Like a scared trout, I bolted
behind a tree.
“I’m gonna get you blondie!”
I closed my eyes, and heard a gun hammer being pulled back.
“Hold it right there mister,” my grandmother said calmly. “Don’t turn around.”
I yelled, “He’s got a gun!”
“Stay still, Amanda. Mister, take that gun out real slowly, and drop it on the ground. I’ll kill you in a minute if I
have to.”
I peeked out from behind the tree. The bad man dropped the gun.
“Now put down that rod,” my grandmother demanded. “Get out of here and don’t ever come back.”
The man dashed into the woods like a frightened deer. I ran to my grandmother, hugged her real hard and
said, “I was so scared.”
“It’s all over now.”
“She acted like a real hero,” Vernon said.
“Grandma, I was scared that, that maybe you weren’t coming back. That maybe you didn’t want to suffer
anymore, and instead wanted to die where grandpa did. Tell me you’re not going to die. Tell me!”
“Amanda, why would I want to die when I still have you. Besides, I still need time to teach you how to tie flies.”
That night we went into her room, and sat at her desk. I tied my first Adams. To me it looked more beautiful
than a real insect. I tied another, and all during the summer my grandmother taught me how to tie Cahills,
March Browns, Hendricksons, Blue-Winged Olives and all the other patterns that took trout on the Junction
River. Before long I learned to tie them almost as fast as she could. Then I began selling them on the river;
and soon I no longer needed an allowance for money to feed Shana.
But not all was perfect that summer. Grandmother refused to take more chemo, in spite of my father’s
pleadings.
“I can’t stand the nausea anymore,” she said. “Besides, I want to enjoy whatever time I have left.”
Strangely, she rallied like champion boxer. Her energy surged. Her hair began to grow back; but usually she
still wore a wig. Right before Labor Day she promised me that we would travel upstate and fish the legendary
Ausable River, but about a week before we were to leave, her cancer counterattacked. Grandma went back
into the hospital. She insisted, “No more chemo!”
The doctors gave her some more pain killers and sent her home. She rallied again; and I was sure that, over
her cancer, she scored a late-round, knockout win. Often she went with me to Vernon’s spot on the river and,
as the gold and red leaves fell around us, taught me how to make curve and wing casts, and taught Vernon,
said he stopped drinking, how to make a basic fly cast. Then one cold November day she taught me how to
execute the double-haul cast. Two hours later, I got the hang of it, so to speak.
“That’s enough for today,” my grandmother said.
“Are you tired, Grandma?”
“There’s nothing more I can teach you about casting. Besides, it’s getting close to dinner time, and tonight I
want to cook.”
She cooked one of our favorites: chicken in a mushroom sauce.
After dinner we went into the living room, turned on the TV and watched Jeopardy. Using spoons for buzzers,
we played along. My father was in first place when the first round ended. After some commercials, the second
round started, but my grandmother didn’t answer any of the questions. I turned to her. She slept. A peaceful
expression was on her face. Not wanting to wake her, my father and I stopped playing. When the game ended
I again looked at Grandma. She hadn’t moved. She was dead, I knew. Inside me surged something that felt
like a wave as ice.
It took about a week for me to feel strong enough to go into my grandmother’s room and sit down at her desk.
I decided to tie the first fly she had ever taught me, an Adams. I opened her top drawer and saw a note in her
handwriting It read:
June 21st,
To my son and granddaughter:
Some things in life we can choose, others we can’t. God has chosen
me to die soon. I’m not going to try understand why. Instead, I’m only
going to thank him for all the blessings and trout he gave me in life.
But there is one thing I still want: to die, unlike my father, without
suffering, and where I want. That’s why I went to the river today, to fish
one more precious day, and then to take my life and pass into eternity right
where my beloved husband did.
I pray that this is the right time, and that now you’ll both be able to put
your hurt behind you and enjoy the flowing, twisting, and sometimes fast,
and rocky river of life.
That’s the ultimate choice we’re all left with.
Your loving mother, your loving, loving grandmother.
Good-bye.
Crying, I read the note over and over again, then showed it to my father. He read it, folded it slowly, but didn’t
say anything.
I said, “Maybe it doesn’t really matter if mom ever comes home.”
My father hugged me. “We’ll always have each other.”
We cried together, for the first and last time.
The next day after school, I went to the hardware store and bought a small piece of wood, a narrow brush, a
can of green paint and a can of varnish. I went home and painted, as neatly as I could, my family’s last name,
followed by an apostrophe and the word Pool. When the paint dried I varnished the wood. A week later, on
the first, cold November day, my father got his step ladder and hammer. He, Vernon and I went the pool my
grandfather had died in. Vernon and I held the ladder as my father nailed my sign on the trunk of a tree.
My father climbed down the ladder.
I said, “I bet you this pool was always waiting for a name.”
“Yeah, it probably was.” He kissed the top of my head.
I looked into Shana’s brown eyes. “One day I’ll name a pool after you.” Shana barked as if she understood
what I said. I knelt down. She licked my face the way she did the first time we met. I hugged her. You’re such a
good girl, Shana. Yes, one day you’ll have to leave me and go to doggie heaven. That’s the way it has to be,
but I’ll always be grateful for the love I gave to you, and you gave to me.
That night, after I finished my homework, I went to my grandmother’s room and tied about twenty flies. I took
them down to the local fly shop and sold them; and all through high, college and law school, I earned pretty
good money selling flies and teaching fly casting. Because my father had to struggle to pay my tuition, my
small business helped him as much as me.
Did I ever see my mother again?
About four months after grandmother died, I came home from school and saw her sitting on the porch. I didn’t
know if I should run to her, so I didn’t. Numb like a boxer hit by a good punch, I climbed the steps. My mother
wore a lot of makeup and a wool, fur-collared, coat - the kind women in New York City wore. Her fingernails
were well manicured and polished-gaudily I thought - bright red. I wondered if her boyfriend had a lot of
money.
She said, “Let me hug you.”
“No. Look here, if you came back to live with us I’m going to tell my father we can get by fine without you.”
“I can’t say I blame you, Amanda.”
“Then why did you come back?”
“You’re my daughter. A good daughter.” She closed her eyes, then covered her face with her hands. She
cried uncontrollably. Suddenly, I cried too. I fought back my tears the way I had fought trout.
The tears won, and soon I didn’t care that they had. Crying, I learned, could feel real good.
Yes, a part of me loves my mother, and I hope always will.
My mother pulled her hands down from her face. Her makeup was all messed up. “Amanda, I’m so sorry.
There are things -”
“Yes there are,” I interrupted. For some reason I thought about Vernon, the bad man in the woods, and my
grandmother. The events of June 21st fast forwarded through my mind, and seemed to somehow condense
into a few vivid seconds. I was thankful that something that once looked bad - Shana going after the swans -
turned into something that now looked good. Whether it was true or false, I felt the 21st happened for a
reason.
Yes, I decided, I want to be more like Vernon and my Grandmother than like the bad man.
I walked over to my mother. I put my hand on her shoulder, and said, “Okay. Let’s go inside and I’ll introduce
you to my girl, Shana.”
She grabbed my hand. “Thank you, Amanda. Thank you.”