This evening, my husband and I found ourselves alone, without any of the boys. It was a rare occurrence.
After being on the dozer all day, I was certain he’d want to kick back, relax and watch a movie while I fixed T-bone steaks and creamy mashed potatoes for dinner.
Instead he asked if I wanted to go fishing.
“Fishing?” I asked.
It took me a little off guard. I was already washing the soil off the new potatoes I’d stashed in the cellar during the hot summer months. I had been admiring how surprisingly preserved the potatoes were and wondering how much longer our supply would last.
Plus I was hungry.
But we hadn’t been fishing in quite some time. At least not without a bunch of line-tanglers tagging along.
So we took off down the newly cleared trail, passing a turtle and a grass snake along the way.
My husband caught a few nice bass near the riffles at the creek.
I didn’t get their picture.
While my husband worked his way up the creek, I found myself admiring the scenery…. the rocks, the trees, the trickling of the water, and the native plants.
Some plants I’d seen before.
This one was new to me.
I always wondered what the Indian’s used for drinking and blowing spitballs.