Photo by Brad DyeThe colors of the evening skies and their reflection in the lake this week brought back memories of childhood summers fishing a topwater lure across smooth waters and awaiting the explosive strike of a largemouth bass. 

The Old Farmer’s Almanac says summer begins in 18 days, but I didn’t need to read that to know. I could already sense it coming. I feel it in the last hint of coolness in the early morning, see it in the evening sky, and I can smell it in a freshly cut hayfield. Summer is upon us.

I stepped into that cool air early one morning this week and I was transported back to the house I grew up in. Asleep with the windows open and the ceiling fan whirling, I was awakened by my friend Trey’s voice calling my name to wake me for an early morning fishing trip.

The memory is still as fresh as the day it happened. It’s amazing to me that the more senses that are involved, the stronger the memory seems to be. Most summer nights growing up, I slept with the windows open. I can’t imagine doing that now in the Mississippi summer. In fact, when our air conditioning was out for a week last summer, we were doubtful that we could survive those few days. We are conditioned to comfort.

Back in the little brick house I grew up in, air conditioning was a luxury not a necessity. I’m not sure, but I think my dad’s temperature requirement for turning the one window unit on must have been around 120 degrees. The day we that we installed ceiling fans in that house was, for me, life changing. Again, it is amazing what we become accustomed to in our lives. The thought of trying to sleep without air conditioning is, to say the least, less than appealing.

Most of the summer mornings and late evenings of my youth were spent fishing. Those cool mornings spent twitching a topwater lure across the smooth waters while eagerly anticipating the explosion of a largemouth bass still remain crystal clear as does the memory of camping on the creek and running trotlines throughout the night (or at least into the night — I’ve never been one to miss too much sleep).

I remember riding along in the boat as my dad and his friend Mr. Bud pulled up the lines to haul in the giant blue and channel catfish. We would run the lines and then come back to sit by the campfire while the men swapped tales of coon hunts and fishing trips and I marveled at the size of the fish on ice in the cooler.

On one of those trips, Mr. Bud brought along his “secret” catfish attractant. He had filled a 5-gallon bucket with cheese and left it in the sun several days to “season.” After we set up camp, he punctured several holes in the bucket and tied it to a limb that allowed it to hang in the water. We left to run the lines and when we returned, I sat on the bank listening as the big catfish bumped the bucket under the water to try to get the stinky cheese that was leaking out. It must have smelled a lot better to them than it did to me as we sat there for hours catching fish.

That smell still lingers in the recesses of my mind as does the smell of a freshly cut hayfield. Growing up with horses, hay was always a part of my summer. We used the square bales of hay and not the large round bales that seem more common these days. Hauling that hay was some of the hardest work I ever did growing up, however, it still lives with me as a fond memory.

The process usually involved a good friend or two. I recall that one Saturday we hauled hay for a farmer that had either baled it green or oversized and picking it up was like picking up concrete blocks. This particular farmer took great pride in telling us that even though he was in his 60s, he could still outwork young boys when it came to hard labor. He was right!

If memory serves me correctly, my friend Steve Coker helped me haul that day and, in turn, I treated him to a steak at the Western Sizzlin’ afterward. It was money well spent as I couldn’t have survived the day without his help.

As I watched the sunset one evening this week, I was reminded of another favorite summer memory. I’m sure many of you were given the same parental instruction: “Be home by dark.” I remember countless summer evenings racing home as fast as I could peddle while watching that same sun sink over the horizon behind the last pink and orange hues of the day.

I treasure each of these outdoor memories of summer. Make plans this week to get out and involve multiple senses making a few memories of your own and, until next time, I look forward to seeing you out there in our great outdoors!

Email outdoors columnist Brad Dye at braddye@comcast.net.