The story I have to tell about my Dad, Rip Smock, I think tells it all about how much he liked his children.
We were at Camp Flatrock, our yearly respite from the heat and busy ness of living in Houston, Texas.
As usual Dad took anyone who was interested, and some who were not, fishing.
We were fishing from the bank, somewhere halfway between the camp and the pecan bottom, which was about a mile down river.
I don’t remember doing anything special. We all had cane poles.
I stuck mine, baited, with the help of Dad, in the soft silt along the bank.
The next thing I knew, everyone was yelling: You have a big one.
Well, my pole took off, along with the fish. Someone ( I think it was Dad) managed to retrieve it. There was a nine pound catfish on the end of the line.
Dad proceeded to do whatever you do with a nine pound catfish you have caught. He then bragged and bragged about how his wonderful daughter had caught this nine pound catfish. We took pictures and all for posterity.
I still feel a little guilty, because I didn’t really catch that fish. But, I feel special, because my Dad wanted me to feel special. He loved us that much.
We all miss you Dad.