La Verne, California
Congratulations Judy!
Judy’s Bio:
Judy Fancher’s love of writing springs from years of reading in a small Northwestern town. Judy is an educator of 21 years and has an Ed.D. Having studied literature with a both a B.A. and an M.A. in English, she is now following the life-long calling of the written word. Her studies in England cultivated a love of poetry, plays, and prose that reflect the human condition. The Romantics, The Lost Generation, Milan Kundera, and a mixture of writers found in Ontario, Oregon’s public library are her companions of composition. With the support of her husband and two children, Judy is opening a new chapter in her life.
Summer Sons
"It ain't what it used to be around here is it?" Dad said apologetically as they cleared the brush away from the front door.
"No, thank goodness. Now we have running water and flushing toilets instead of outhouses," Jude replied with a laugh.
Dad's eyes danced with joy to see that their California transplant was not too blind to see the beauty in undergrowth. Together they cleared the path so Mom could get in the cabin door and attach herself to the broom.
"We had a lot of great times here over the years, but my favorite was the summer of the big catch. Do you remember that one Dad?" He handed him a strawberry Shasta fresh out of the cooler and they sat on some nearby logs.
"Oh sure . . .we caught a lot of hell from Mom for not bringing home any fish to cook for dinner. I think we had potatoes and, uh, potatoes that night."
The father and son shared a smile and a memory recalling the single-item meal.
"It was a great vacation. All of us brothers fishing in the stream, side-by-side. No worries, no talking, just fishin'."
"Yep," Dad replied in his usual way.
Mom swished past us with her broom and said something about crazy kids running around like they'd never seen a pine cone before. Dad and Jude laughed as they looked out at the grandkids screaming in delight and galloping through the overgrown meadow where baseball games of long-ago were played.
"You know Dad, it's the small stuff I remember."
"Yeah, well, we were poor, Son. Small stuff was all we had."
"Sometimes even buyin' the gas to get up here was a challenge," Mom chipped in. Jude had never thought about that and how cash didn't matter with a gas card in his wallet.
"They were simpler times, weren't they, Dad? No computers, no super highways, no Californians buyin' up all the land around here."
"They may have been simpler, but I don't know that they were easier. That summer was our last together as a family. You went off to college, Bob ran off to be a rock star, and John was wrapped up in his sports. We just seemed to split apart at the seams."
Just then a dust trail could be seen from the cabin porch. Mom stopped her sweeping and peered into the twilight. "Well, I'll be . . ." she whispered.
"What ya lookin' at there, Ma."
"It's the boys . . . ever-last one of them is here. Well, I better put some potatoes on 'cause Lord knows you ain't got no fish to fry." She rushed into the cabin to disguise her delight and her tears.
Dad drank his last drop of Shasta and stood up. He looked Jude straight in the eye.
"Thank ya, Son."
"Hey, Dad, it's nothin' . . .no worries, no talkin', just fishin'"
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