The Heron

When I was about seven years old, my family moved from Indiana to Florida to be closer to my grandfather. The area offered better job opportunities for my parents, and we had relatives nearby. My grandfather owned a lakeside home with a small loading and fishing dock behind the house. His back porch was about 20 feet away, offering a perfect view of the water.

My grandfather tried to get my brothers and me into fishing, but I was the only one who truly took to it. I loved animals, and being able to see fish up close before releasing them was a thrill. Before long, I was spending nearly every weekend at his house, fishing and chatting with him. I’d catch shiners and what I thought were small bluegills off his dock, happily spending hours there under his watchful gaze from the porch. Those mornings had a feeling to them that’s hard to describe. The sunlight filled me with a sense of joy and longing, a reminder of peace and innocence.

I had been warned about the potential dangers lurking in the water, the occasional alligator and the surprisingly large birds. My grandfather’s teachings instilled in me a respect for the wildlife, and I was always cautious. But none of it prepared me for the day I caught the attention of a heron who had been quietly observing my fishing efforts with great interest.

I’m sure now that he’d been watching me for a while, but one day, he decided to come in for a closer look. The first time he landed on the grass between the dock and my grandfather's house I was shocked. I had never seen a bird that large up close, and he was standing directly between me and any escape. For a moment, I stood frozen, assessing his intentions. But then, my young mind decided that he was simply curious about what I was doing. After releasing three more fish, I noticed him flutter with anticipation each time. Perhaps he even took a step closer, waiting for an easy meal.

I soon realized that he was indeed interested in the fish. The next time I caught a shiner, I tossed it to him, and he eagerly snapped it up. He stepped closer after that. I respected his space, never trying to approach him, but I now understood why he was there.

It quickly became a ritual: every time I went fishing, the heron would appear shortly after. I’d share half of my catch with him, reasoning that it was only fair that every other fish was spared their life. The extra-big ones, sadly for them, were reserved for my new friend.

I don’t know how long this routine went on; my childhood memories blur together. But it became a common occurrence: whenever I fished at Grandpa’s, the heron would be there. Over time, he came to stand very close to me. Though he never took fish directly from my hand, we developed a mutual understanding. I’d toss the fish gently, and he would catch them mid-air. We’d simply stand there together in the bright morning light, enjoying each other's company.

Sadly, one day, my mother and grandfather had a falling out. It wasn’t anything nefarious, but my mother had a way of letting her bitterness affect us all. I was no longer allowed at his house, and I often thought about my bird. Did he miss me? I missed him deeply, and thoughts of him stayed with me for decades.

In my 30s I revisited the town we used to live in. My dad took me on a ride through all the old familiar places. When we returned, I told him about my memories of the heron, thinking it was a secret bond known only to me. To my surprise, his face lit up, and I discovered the other side of the story.

What I thought was my private connection with the heron had, in fact, been known to the whole family. It was just as special to them, though not always in the same way. My brothers remembered how they didn’t get to visit Grandpa as often as I did because they weren’t as interested in fishing. They were jealous that I got to go on boat rides while they stayed behind.

One of my brothers recounted a day when he saw me fishing while we were all at Grandpa’s. He eagerly grabbed a fishing pole and put on his shoes, but Grandpa stopped him at the door: “If her bird is out there, you should not be. He doesn’t like anyone but her, and if you scare him off, your sister will be very sad.” Sure enough, my brother looked out and saw the bird. He felt dejected that he couldn’t join me—it simply wasn’t allowed. Apparently, there had been a time when someone accidentally scared the bird away, leaving me in tears, though I don’t recall it. Grandpa must have vowed to never let that happen again.

My father told me that if my parents were running late to drop me off on weekends, Grandpa would sometimes call and say, “The bird is out here waiting for her. You need to get her over here.”

The adults would watch me, seeing the bond I had with this great bird. They observed how I kept my distance, spoke calmly to him, and never tried to touch him. The heron, in turn, seemed to respond to that. He would stand beside me on the dock like a loyal companion, waiting patiently for his share of the catch.

Even now, more than 30 years later, I miss him. I remember the soft, round feathers, the way the sunlight would catch his white form and give it an almost angelic glow. I can still hear the gentle sound of his wings flapping and remember his cautious yet kind demeanor. His curiosity about me, the trust we built. It stays with me.

Did the heron remember me after I was gone? I like to think he did. I hope I gave him a few full bellies, maybe helped him feed a hidden nest of chicks, and eased his worries. I hope he knew that I was his friend.

Years later, after my father had his stroke, I discovered something that deepened this memory. Even in his old age, my father continued to feed the birds outside my aunt's restaurant. He had a long history of caring for wildlife, quietly providing for the creatures around him. When I was young I remember he had remade nests for chicks that had fallen from their tree and placed them back. He had cared for chicks in our home and had cut up worms and hand fed them to the babes until they were strong enough to be released. It made me wonder if, perhaps, that love for animals and the peace they brought was something we both shared in our own ways, even if I hadn't realized it back then.

As a parent, I now understand how precious these small, simple moments in our children’s lives can be. I commissioned a painting of that time after my father’s stroke, hoping it would bring back fond memories. It may seem self-indulgent, but seeing the joy on my father’s face when he looked at the picture was as priceless as the friendship I had with the heron.

Hold on to the small, simple pleasures and the cherished memories that aren’t captured on film. Sometimes, it’s those quiet connections, whether with people or the natural world, that stay with us the longest.

Art commissioned by me and used with permission from