We'd never make the Saturday Evening Post cover

I was at home awhile back and went fishing with my grandfather. For those of you who don't know him, you really should. This guy is awesome.

We were walking the creek bank and hoping for a bite. The creek holds mainly rock bass, perch, and a few small mouth. There is also the occasional snapping turtle or water moccasin, but we don't really fish for those. We bring a pistol for them. They are particularly vulnerable to lead poisoning. It would be a great Norman Rockwell kind of moment if I could say that we were talking and sharing stories, but my grandpa isn't much of a talker. Luckily for him, I am.

I was chattering on about school, surgery, fishing, how to make soap, my dog - pretty much anything that crossed my mind. My grandpa once told me that if any thought got stuck in my head it would die of loneliness since all the other thoughts had escaped through my mouth. Apparently, I have a problem just "being" sometimes when I'm with someone I love.

The fish were ignoring my best attempts to catch them, so I started skipping rocks. I took my time to find the perfect round, flat, smooth creek stones. I eyed the water movement, tested the wind, and flicked my wrist.

Thunk.

I stink at skipping rocks.

I hit the only stinking boulder in the middle of the creek. The rock never even hit the water.

My grandpa looked at me and chuckled.

(It is imperative you add a thick Southern accent in your mind to the next part.)

"Did I ever tell you 'bout the time we were down here fishin'? It was after a big rainstorm, banks were half washed away. Fishin' was no good, just silt and mud, but it was nice to be out. Cotton was just aways down there, and did he let out a hollar. He found an arm or leg or something stickin' outta the bank. Found a whole guy down there, skeleton ya know, just in the creek bank. We figured it was an Indian buried there. We've got mounds all over here, and the rain just washed him out. "

I was thrilled. "Did you call the police? Or the archeology people? Or the newspaper? Did they take pictures. Where is he now? Were there more? Maybe he was murdered. Was he murdered? Were there artifacts?"

My grandpa looked me over consideringly, and said, "Well now, didn't see a need. I reckon he washed down the river. You best get back to fishin'. It's gettin' on dark soon."

That is a key difference between the two of us. He found a skeleton and left it. It had been there before him and would be when he was gone. If I found a skeleton, and I would call everyone I knew, make sure someone took a picture of me next to it giving a thumbs up, and then try to get it put in a museum.

His way might be better.