Summer days on the Fox River where I grew up were filled with swimming, boating, and barbeques. Three of my Uncles also had homes in our small subdivision creating a steady flow of relatives and visitors.
The frantic activity of the day was eventually subdued by darkness, as boats and visitors disappeared and the river became quiet. Fishing poles lined the banks in makeshift holders and bobbers rolled softly over ripples of water that just hours before had been the large waves of the boat wakes. The low voices of the brothers playing poker on Uncle Paul’s screen porch drifted out into the night air. If it wasn’t too cold, the aunts’ voices could be heard from our own screen porch as they chatted or played pinochle. The kids were the watchers. We sat on the grass a safe distance from the bank and stared at the black water waiting for that little bit of movement that would bring the night to life.
Watching the bobbers we had learned to tell the difference between the tug of a choppy wave and the real thing. On first sight we raced to see who could get to the screen porch first to let the pole’s owner know they had a bite. The cards were left in mid hand as they ran down to the bank to watch the catch. Congratulations given, the poles were checked and re-baited and card games resumed as we all took our places again. In time the night would grow damp as a low hanging fog rolled out over the water, the fish would stop biting and we would be summoned for bed. Even now, on warm summer nights when I close my eyes, I can almost hear the soft lapping of the water and the drifting voices of the night watch.
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