essay

Uncle George and I would head out before it got light. The trek to the pond was always exciting. The earth smelled fresh and new, promising warmth, and as the birds awoke, they'd tentatively practice the prologues to their songs. We'd walk past the apple trees, and I could smell the sharpness of the rotten fruit that had dropped to the ground. Occasionally, I'd slip on a peel, so I learned to be careful not to run too quickly. We'd walk past the water troughs where the tadpoles were busy wiggling their way to froghood and pick up the pond trail on the other side of the musty-smelling old barn. At this point I had to be careful not to get my pole tangled in the underbrush--which constantly grabbed for my dangling hook and bobber--while Uncle George's flashlight jumped and weaved as he made sure the small circle of light was set for my height. He would hold my hand and tell me about the fish, and I was never scared Uncle George and I would head out before it got light. The trek to the po...