These days, I miss my mom and dad so much, I'd love to go back to when I was a kid. My older brothers and sisters had all grown up and moved away, leaving just me to rattle around the house on my own. On weekends, my parents would pack boiled eggs, bologna sandwiches and sodas in the cooler. They'd gather up their fishing gear and bait. Then, off we'd go in Dad's pickup to one of the three reservoirs located in Curt Gowdy State Park, west of Cheyenne.
Crystal Reservoir, Granite Reservoir or North Crow. All seemed equally appealing to my folks, and I was just along for the ride.
We'd leave early in the morning because that was the best time for fish to bite. A pre-teen, I was pretty squeamish about baiting my own hook, so Dad would squish a worm on the end of my hook, cast my fishing line far out into the rippling water (I could never toss it very far) and leave me to my own devices.
I got bored almost right away. But I loved looking around at the watery blue depths nestled within carved brown banks. Scrubby bushes surrounded the lake and a rare covered picnic table dotted the mounded hills. The air was crisp and the wind blew most of the time, leaving my cheeks chapped and my lips dry.
Mom and Dad had their favorite fishing holes and they'd take their gear down to some muddy spot, sink their line, sit on a metal campstool and wait. I admired their patience, but I never quite understood it.
Me, I didn't have any particular places I liked to fish. But when I got a nibble on my line, I'd call out to my parents and one or the other or both would come running so they could help me reel in my catch. We'd have lunch around noon, then at some point, Dad would gut those fish, clean them, and throw the dripping entrails out toward the shore where seagulls (yes, we have seagulls in Wyoming) would devour the icky mess.
We didn't talk much on those fishing forays, but I remember one of my parents occasionally parting with some precious words of wisdom. What those were, I can't say because they have been lost to the mists of time. I know I felt, safe, comfortable and well loved. That's really all that mattered.
After a day at the lake and a cooler stocked with trout, we'd head back home. The next morning, I'd wake up to the aroma of frying fish and hash browns that my mom would make in her giant cast iron pan. Mom or Dad would carefully debone the fish, lifting the thin spine out of the juicy meat with a fork. Man, I was so spoiled!
Years have passed since those days, and I've never tasted fish so good.
So, if the possibility to time travel really existed, I'd go back to be with Mom and Dad on one of those lazy fishing afternoons.
Where would you go and who would you like to meet if time travel were possible?