In the golden haze of the 1960s and ’70s, my dad Oscar and I crafted memories along the waterways of New Orleans that would last a lifetime.
Our ritual began before dawn. Dad would gently shake me awake. I would rub sleep out of my eyes, grab my pre-packed tackle box and follow him to the car.
We frequented the marshy bayous where cypress knees poked through still waters. Dad taught me to read the water — how ripples might betray a lurking bass, or how to spot the telltale bubbles of feeding catfish…