It may have been in the early 1960s when my father lost much of his left leg. No doubt, his age had much to do with his inability to bond with his prosthetic limb. Because his left foot often stepped somewhere other than where he sent it. He was often embarrassed and sort of dropped out of life. However, granddaughters have more power than they realize. After weeks of nagging he consented to a family fishing trip.
The destination was actually a large pond, of sorts, teeming with bluegills and crappie. The girls were soon rigged with jigs, and everyone was having grand time. That is, until Grandpa decided he needed something from the car.
Laying his fishing pole aside, he took three or four steps. The next step was into my tackle box that lay open. Like a bear trap, it slammed shut over his shoe. Standing on one leg, he tried shaking it off, sending fishing plugs, jigs, and sinkers in every direction. Then he lost his balance, ending up at the water’s edge on the back of his neck. For certain, he was going in, but instead he stopped there and after pausing there a long second his cap dropped off and floated away. Without a word, he struggled to his feet and continued to the car.
The little girls magic was no match his embarrassment, and he spent the remainder of the day sitting in the car.