I learned how to fish from a master. My father, the consummate fisherman, used to take me along on his Wednesday afternoons off when he'd go in search of the perfect fishin' hole, usually somebody's pond.

I couldn't have been more than seven or eight but Daddy, father of two girls, would patiently wait on me to gather all my girlie paraphernalia before we could load the boat with the necessary fishing equipment and head out for the nearest body of water.

Mr. Rube Wansley's pond was a favorite as was one just off Soap Creek Road. I'm sure Daddy many times would rather have been alone on these expeditions just to have a little peace and quiet but he'd never have admitted it.

Motor-Mouth, as I was known in those days, would have asked him a hundred or so questions before the poor man ever got his hook baited, a little trick I never seemed to get the hang of. Not surprisingly, he always baited my hook along with his own.

"It makes me want to puke," I used to tell him when he'd attempt to teach me how to slide the hook in and through the slimy worms. I was utterly and pathetically hopeless.

Other days Daddy would take Preacher Buice, his son-in-law Mack, Uncle Lewis Myers, Dr. Pennington, grandson Flint, or his nephew Kimble on his fishing adventures. I used to love to hear all the fish stories they'd tell when they got home and, sucker that I was, I believed every single one of them.

Miraculously, when Daddy and I would go fishing we never went home empty-handed and always seemed to have plenty of fish for him to clean and Mama to fry.

I've never seen a man love fishing any more than my daddy did. He has fished the waters of Clarks Hill, Fishing Creek, every pond in Lincoln County, and all the way to Santee Cooper, South Carolina, and places in between.

8X10 glossies of grinning men holding up long strings laden with fish caught from the waters of north Georgia line the walls at my parent's home. The back porch is bait-shopcentral where his large collection of poles and his treasured tackle box sit as monuments to a lifetime of happy spring and summer afternoons.

In his last years, when he wasn't able to handle a boat anymore, Flint took him whenever the urge to fish hit him and they spent many a day together wetting their hooks, laughing, and telling tall tales. Daddy was with Flint the day he hooked "the big one."

A 20 lb. striped bass that hangs over my mother's reading chair is evidence of Daddy's lifelong passion for the sport and it has been a conversation starter for any visitor who has ever stepped inside their den. I suppose, other than his grandchildren's photos and football memorabilia, it was his most prized possession.

I wish I could say that I still love to fish or that I finally got the hang of baiting my own hook but I'd be lying if I did. I'll sit by hubby's side at the pond and watch him fish, but only for so long and then my patience wears thin and I head for the house.

This past weekend hubby and a few other family members charmed about a dozen bream out of the water for a nice fish fry and I'll admit the fish, cheese grits, and slaw were mighty tasty.

I admire anybody who can sit for hours at a time without getting a bite and yet have a marvelous time doing it. I know one in particular who catches fish, then summarily throws every single one back into the water. Weird.

Unfortunately my two sons have, like me, very little patience when it comes to fishing. If they haven't caught a bucketful five minutes after they've thrown out their lines, they have lost interest and are ready to go on to other more productive pursuits.

Still, there's something fascinating to me about a man who loves to fish. Someone once said there are two kinds of fishermen - those who fish for sport and those who fish for fish. I think I finally understand what that means.

I once painted a picture of my father with a fishing pole in his hand. Underneath the picture I included this Fisherman's Prayer: "God grant that I may fish until my dying day, and when it comes to my last cast, I humbly pray; when in the Lord's safe landing net I'm peacefully asleep, that in His mercy I be judged as big enough to keep."

An ancient Babylonian proverb adds this: "The Gods do not deduct from man's alloted span, the hours spent in fishing." If that isn't true, it ought to be.

Fish come and go, but the memory of fishing lasts forever.

Dear Hearts, ain't you wishin' you wuz fishin'?