Sunday, October 26, 2014


My old man, Brayshaw the Elder, had been doing well at a large well-groomed pond in a subdivision near home.  He asked us to drop by one morning a few weeks ago and fish it with him.  Brayshaw the Youngest was at a slumber party, but I brought along Brayshaw the Younger.

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He fished an old jitterbug that was in an old metal tackle box in the garage.  That old metal tackle box belonged to Brayshaw the Original, my grandfather, who caught more big fish than anybody I know.  I don't know that The Younger understood what it meant to me to see him fish his great grandpa's old bass lure, but he made it work nonetheless…

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Fishy genes don't come from nowheres.  Brayshaw the Elder, my old man, with the best fish of the morning…

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He managed a handful of smaller ones too…

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Brayshaw, T.J. didn't catch shit.

Four generations, three on the water and one in spirit.

The following day, at 6:00am, my dad went under the knife for some exploratory surgery to determine whether the tumor on his left kidney had fucked over his other kidney and/or bladder.  As it turned out, it had not and the prognosis is good.

Next time, T.J. catches fish.


1 comment:

  1. Mama Brayshaw posted a nice, long message, then accidentally hit some wrong freakin' key and lost the whole daggone thing. Will have to try that new-fangled email thing instead.