I listened with amusement. I like a good story, no matter how far-fetched, or actually the further it fetched the better I liked it. This old man was fun to listen to, he was fetching it way out there. The fog had gotten thicker, coating every surface with a sheen of moisture.
“I farmed a bit and hunted a lot. Trapped some but the furs weren’t much good, too warm around here. We sometimes got so hungry that we lived on wild pecans and acorns like the injuns. I fished for food in those days, later it was just just for pleasure. Back then a good fish was a good meal, and mighty welcomed. Catfish was best, the oily meat sticking to your ribs better.
"I was killed by infection. Cut myself chopping wood, sunk the blade into my foot between the big toe and the next one to it, deep cut. Got infected and the blood poisoning set in. Lasted about two weeks I reckon, hard to remember cause of the fever. Now don’t go looking at me all crazy like, I ain’t crazy and couldn’t hurt you if I wanted to. Just saw you fishing and thought I'd like some company, but the light is coming on now so I gotta go. Maybe I’ll see you around.”
As I stared at him with amusement at his wild story he faded away into the fog. He didn't get up and walk off, he just became harder and harder to see until I couldn’t see him at all. I sat there for a few minutes stunned. Then shook it off as a dream. Apparently I had fallen asleep sitting there and dreamed the whole thing. That’s what I figured, until I happen to look down where he had sat and saw the dry spot. I stood and looked and saw where I had left a dry spot just like it. The place where I had kept the fog from settling on the wood. I went back to the house, shaken up.
I return to the dock on the rare mornings when it’s dark and foggy. Someday he’ll be back, of that I’m sure. It’s about the only thing I am sure of anymore.
