Some of the days sparkle, some do sparkle

On Saturday morning, I picked up my nephew from his school and we headed towards my friend Phil's place in a part of Texas broadly known as the Brazos River area, a lazy sort of dreamy place where the hills roll, the grasses wave, and Live Oaks spread their branches low and wide. A handful of Texas Longhorns were there, which made it feel surreally like last weekend, except for my nephew was there and Paso Fino horses, two llamas, and goats. Lots of goats.

Your father came out here one time, he called me and said he needed to practice shooting before he went to Argentina for a dove hunt. I set up the clay pigeon course and he nailed every single one. I don't know why he thought he needed to practice.

Phil shakes his head and laughs at the memory. I laugh too. Hearing stories about my father, stories I did not know, is a sweet thing. I close my eyes and picture him.

As soon as we arrived, Phil took my nephew under his arm and within five minutes, a serious fly-fishing lesson was taking place. And darned if the boy didn't land a Striped Bass during his first attempt at fly fishing. I was all hooting and hollering with excitement, knowing how good he felt at that moment of connection with the fish. Watching them, for a moment the emotions went roller coaster on me and I was catapulted back in time thinking of my father, who taught Phil how to fish when Phil was just a boy. For that moment, I watched my father and a young Phil remove the fish from the hook and return it to its watery home.

Later, I rode a Paso Fino named Primero, bare foot and bareback through a field of thick green grass, through the woods, and down along the banks of the lake. It felt as comfortable and easy as it always has, my body formed around the horse's, gripping my legs when we cantered, my hair waving behind me. Beside me on a Paso Fino named Mondo, my friend Phil. The first time we rode horses together, I was no more than nine and he eleven. The horses have changed and we have grown, but there we were again, two friends riding together. It was as natural as breathing.

At one point in the late afternoon, the three of us were trekking across a pasture to feed the goats when I felt the breeze pick up and whisper through the trees. My father was there and I said as much. I have a feeling that Dad is right now looking upon us and is very pleased with our day. Phil on my left, and my nephew on my right, they both agreed. Then we walked on in silence, all three of us smiling. And those smiles were oh so good.