by Hugh Wesley
Rain or shine, he held the line.
|It had been raining so long, Clarence couldn’t remember the last time his feet felt dry.
But he had stood right there on that river bank all through the storm, line in the water, fighting with Big Jake.
And Clarence had known right away when he felt the titanic tug on his line who was on the other end. No fish but Big Jake could nearly pull a grown man out of his boots.
But Clarence had held on tight and struggled, and after heaven only knew how long, the resistance on the other end of the line began to weaken. Little by little.
Now, as Clarence yanked the pole and began to reel in — finally! — the first rays of sun splashed against his rainsoaked forehead.
What a story he would have to tell!
Clarence planted his feet firm on the muddy bank and gave a mighty pull. Big Jake reared up out of the water and flew toward the old man’s grinning face.
Clarence whooped with joy as the fish twisted and flapped his tail, dousing young Thomas Peters with river water.
Thomas stopped there in the hallway and wiped his face, surprised his soda pop had sprayed him.
He took a drink and gazed at the painting that had been there in the house since before he was born.
An old man stood on a river bank, smiling and pulling for all he was worth on his fishing pole as a gigantic trout arced toward his face. Above it all, the sun shone brightly, reflecting off a puddle at the fisherman’s feet.
Thomas shook his head. He had always thought the picture showed a rainy day.
He took another drink of his coke. Crinkled his bag of chips. Shrugged.
He headed upstairs to play some video games.