I just remembered something, and I'm dang glad that I did. I remembered 1961, when Dad would take my brother and me fishing. Twenty miles east of El Dorado, Arkansas. Over to Moro Bay -- a branch of the Ouachita River (wash-e-taw).
We get out of the car, and there is the water! And those wonderful, ordinary flat-bottom boats for rent. But here on the ground, I look around: the terrain is completely flat, with pecan trees every-freaking-where. The ground is covered in a gray litter of old leaves and rumors of peculiar squirrels. Fantastic in its lack of color, here on the ground.
And then the resonant sound of tackle boxes, fishing poles, cricket cage, paddles, and ice chest being stashed on the floor of the boat. We shove off, to the purring of that old, small, light-blue Mercury outboard motor.
And then it happens. I catch the intoxicating perfume of carbon monoxide exhaust from our motor as it intermingles with the fishy smell of this river backwash! Ah...contentedness.
Maybe I will catch a large fish. Maybe I will catch many small fishes. Maybe I will just scoot or float along on this strange water all day long. And smell stuff while looking around.