Father and son fishing trips were the start of delicious dinners and warm family memories

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 shaking me awake. I would rub sleep out my eyes, grab my pre-packed tackle box, and follow dad 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.

"Patience," dad would say, his voice barely above a whisper, "is what separates a fisherman from someone who just holds a pole."

Our expeditions often took us to Lake Pontchartrain, where the brackish waters yielded speckled trout and croaker. I learned to bait hooks with live shrimp. When w