Ed. Note: This story is the result of work with a writers’ group at KML under the auspices of the Trees for Suffield initiative.
Charlie Catterblast sighed as he leaned back against the old shady oak, fishing pole held loosely in his left hand, ham sandwich in his right. This was his spot. It had been his spot more than half his fifteen years. And this was his time. Two days left of school (which of course Charlie had skipped), and the fullness of summer ahead.
The sun was high and bright, yet the long, spreading branches of the oak kept a wide swath of the velvet stream in darkness a good six feet out from the bank. The tips of a few fallen branches from storms past poked out of the water directly in front of Charlie. The combination of shade and cover was sure to draw some bass in close. In fact, Charlie counted on it.
The weather was warm, but the air still held onto some of the coolness of spring. Sprints of wind that had earlier pushed out morning clouds from the sky ran through the twisting arms of the oak, turning its limp horizontal leaves into upright sails, which allowed slivers of sunlight to penetrate down to Charlie and the water below.
Charlie nibbled at the ham sandwich, never taking his eyes off his line. The tip of the rod dipped slowly in time with the pulse of currents moving downstream, a hypnotic rhythmic dance that Charlie knew all the steps to. This was summer, he thought. This…was life. Charlie relaxed his shoulders, easing further into the rough but welcoming bark of the tree.
Behind him, on the other side of the oak, a few yards back, a crack of twigs and a rustle of fallen leaves meant that Charlie had company. It better not be Suzy Mason, Charlie thought to himself, his shoulders quickly tightening back up with tension. This was his spot. His time. His summer.
Determined, Charlie laid his rod and sandwich down on the small green backpack he had recently bought with the last of his allowance, its bright emerald threads turned patchy glitter by the tiny bits of sunlight filtering down. Charlie got up and brushed himself off, ready to confront Suzy and settle the matter once and for all, ready to defend his territory. Chest puffed out, head held high, Charlie Catterblast wheeled around the oak and…
…found himself face to face, staring straight into the eyes, not of Suzy, but of a large (and quite hungry) adult black bear. As it turned out, this wasn’t Charlie’s spot after all. Nor his time. Nor his summer.
A few hours later, when school had finally let out for the day, Suzy Mason, following the path she sometimes took on the way home, came upon a lonely fishing pole lying on a recently bought emerald green backpack lying under the shade of a quiet old oak, the wind now only lightly batting its leaves. She looked around, picked up the rod, and, feeling a tug, reeled in the sizable bass hooked on its line. What luck, she thought. But this spot, next to the old oak, had always been lucky. Her spot. That smug Charlie Catterblast be damned. She tucked the still writhing fish into the green backpack and marched happily home with her catch, as her newly acquired fishing pole dancing rhythmically off her shoulder in step with her happy stride.