table-flat, monotonous landscape surrounding Houston gave way to gentle rolls of land heavily covered with oak and pine trees. Don’s visual nostalgia finally kicked in. The only need to ease off the gas pedal was at a meat market–poolroom combination occupying the only turn in the road. A few homes, hidden in the trees and most needing upkeep, were just enough to give the setting an actual name: Dacus, Texas. Bluebonnets and Indian blankets were more than two months from full bloom, yet harbingers of an early spring permeated the air. They continued another couple of miles.
“Here we go. That’s it up ahead, with the stone columns.” Don pointed to the entrance to Tom and Susie’s home, a small ranch hidden in the trees.
Delana slowed the van, turning right on a gravel and sand road. Two black dogs, both mongrels, ran up the road toward the van. Their ferocious barks were betrayed by wagging tails. The van passed between the stone columns supporting a wrought iron arch with Broken Wing Ranch written in black metal letters. The road wound two hundred yards, through oaks and tall pines, in a lazy S-curve to the main house. As they broke into open space, an alabaster home emerged to their front; an open field and a long stand of trees loomed in the distance.
It was Delana’s first trip to the ranch. “Oh my, it’s beautiful. Beautiful.”
“Yeah, it’s a great place. Tom flew me out here when they moved in. Big difference from their place in Clear Lake, isn’t it?”
“It sure is.”
Don pointed to a garage that was connected to the main house by a covered walkway. “Let’s stop over there. We can scout the place out. Tom and Susie won’t be here for a while.”
Delana parked in front of the garage door, lifted Don’s thirty-pound bag with incredible ease, and opened his door before he could reach his cane and hat. Delana was small of stature, but strong as a bull.
Don took Delana on a brief tour of the outside of the house. The two dogs, Bear and Catfish, joined them. Tom’s office consumed the back half of the garage building. A small sign was affixed next to the door—Thomas M. Seiler, Accident Analysis, Inc. The main house was impressive without being overbearing. The sandstone exterior reached up to a metal roof. Two huge picture windows faced south to the open field, into which Tom had carved a small airstrip. The Broken Wing Ranch only covered forty acres, but the thin east-west rectangular shape provided the needed length for the Piper J-3 Cub to take off and land. Tom’s second plane, a Grumman Tiger, needed more runway length and was kept at the airport in Conroe. The Tiger was for business and the Cub was for play.
“It is so nice out here,” Delana sighed. She pointed to trees just off the north side of the house. “Wish I could just sit under that pine over there and let the world roll by.” Unfortunately for Delana, reality quickly set in. She sighed again and remarked, “But I’m the one who needs to roll on down the road. Will you be all right here?” She flicked her neck-length hair behind her ear.
“No problem. I think I’ll take your suggestion and sit under the pine. Tom and Susie will be here pretty soon. If I need anything, I’ll give you a call.”
“Make sure you do.”
Don reached into his wallet, took out four twenties, and handed them to Delana. She counted them and gave one back to Don. “Fifty bucks with a ten-dollar tip is more than enough. It’s important to me.”
Don felt a tinge of guilt. “Understood.”
Delana smiled. “But the hug is free.”
They hugged and Delana left. He heard the horn beep as she accelerated south on FM 1486. For a minute he stood in the roadway, bathed in gentle solitude of his adopted home state. He loved Texas. Catfish licked at his hand, waking him from his revelry. Don turned and looked across the airstrip to a spot where another little piece of heaven waited: the catfish pond. He walked to his travel bag, reached in, and grabbed a small paper sack. With his fishing rod–cane, his hat, and one hell of a limp, Don made his way two hundred yards to a bench on a wooden deck at the pond’s edge. Nailed to a deck plank at the end of the bench was a small wooden box containing several fishhooks. Each hook had the barb snipped off. He took one and, with limited eyesight and coordination, tied it to the end of the line on his combined fishing rod–walking cane. A large plastic jar filled with fish pellets sat beneath the bench. Don grabbed a handful of the pellets and tossed them in the pond. The crappie hit them en masse, the catfish hugging the bottom of the pond. They would be there soon enough.
“OK kiddos, come to Poppa.” While the pellets excited the fish, Don prepared his cane for action. He reached in the paper sack and pulled out the remains of an airport meal—two halves of a roll. He tore off a small piece of bread, added a touch of saliva, and rolled it into a small ball of dough. It held onto the hook just right. His first cast, attacked by the small, aggressive crappie, ended with an empty hook. So did the second. On his third cast, a twenty-inch catfish swallowed everything. Don snagged into him hard, the catfish answering with a surge of twisting power and a dive toward the bottom of the pond. After five seconds the line went limp; the barbless hooks gave the fish an advantage. Still, Don won his share of the battles. It wasn’t fishing for tarpon at Port Aransas, but the struggle between man and beast was food for Don’s soul. He loved fishing anywhere, anytime. Don, engrossed with landing his third catfish—the crappie didn’t count—failed to notice two figures crossing the airstrip.
“Hey, leave my damn fish alone,” Tom yelled from the far side of the pond.
Don looked up and smiled. “First time these guys ran up against an expert. How you doing? And who’s that good-looking woman with you?” He reeled in the line and stood up to greet his brother and sister-in-law.
Don shook Tom’s hand, kissed Susie on the cheek, and reached back into the sack. Tom reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a Miller Lite for his younger brother.
Susie grabbed a fishing rod from one of two deck-mounted rod holders. While kneading a small bit of Don’s bread, she asked him, “Why didn’t you take the golf cart? It’s yours anytime you want it.”
Don glanced off into the distance as if he could see that far. Then he shrugged his shoulders high in the air and answered, “To be honest, I didn’t even notice. Needed the exercise anyway.”
“So how do you like the fishing cane?” Tom said, referring to his birthday gift to Don.
Don pointed to the far side of the small pond. “Finish your beer and toss the can over there.”
Tom did as ordered. Don slowly pulled back his forearm, flexed his wrist, and quickly cast the hook and sinker toward the can. Ping. The sinker hit the can at the waterline. Don smiled and thought, I am one lucky shit.
“Well I’ll be damned,” said Tom. He shook his head. “I won’t even ask for a repeat performance.”
Don laughed. “I’ve done it ten thousand times, and I’m as good as they come. My legs suck and the can looks like a blur in the water, but my wrist action is the best in the world. I should be on the Ed Sullivan show.”
They fished for another hour, until the sun slipped behind the pine trees to the west and allowed the chill to take over.
Don’s temperature-sensitive body ached in the waning sunlight. “Well, gang, that’s it for me.” An uncontrollable shiver shook his body.
“Me too. Getting a little nippy,” said Susie, who was already shivering. “Tomorrow should be warmer. Be a better day for fishing.”
Tom stood and added, “Almost time for the steaks anyway.” He grabbed Don’s empty beer can from the deck and returned it to his pocket. Don reached down to the ground and found a small twig. He stuck it in a small crevice between two lower teeth and rotated it a couple of times. He pushed off the bench and stood up. The threesome, Don wedged between the other two, walked back to the house.
Tom and Don were as close as any two brothers on the face of the planet. Their facial features were different enough to make sibling identification