Evendays

The first time I went to camp, I was about 8 years old. I was in Uncle Wes’ cabin. He’d been a camp counselor for years and was a big guy with a big heart, a central valley farmer who’d been through the ups and downs that only farmers experience.

He would wake up all the fishermen wanna-bes at 5 am. At the beginning of the week, we’d be 12 or so, and he’d spend all of his time untangling line and pulling hooks out of various body parts. We rarely caught any fish. Wes NEVER caught any, although he carried his pole with him to the creek.

By the end of the week we would be only 3 or 4 little ones with dreams of hooking a big one. Wes would talk us through fishing technics and even believe us when we told him about the ones that had got away, consoling us when we came back from a short slide into the icy waters.

He’d let me lay on his bed during the afternoon rest times, sometimes using his stomach as a pillow. He made the week enjoyable, and I was a sad camper when I learned the following year I had graduated into an older cabin, away from Uncle Wes.

But he’d still take me fishing.

Remember Wes in your prayers. He’s in the Hospital now, his body worn down, a little uncertain of what the near future holds for him. But certain of eternity.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, July 18th, 2006 at 11:39 pm and is filed under Wes, Fishing, Camp. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.