Loading done, the man of the house surveyed the gear in his trusty old SUV, slamming the door shut with a satisfied nod.

“Now, all we need is some worms,” he said.

The small boy’s blue eyes widened and glowed at the prospect of red wigglers. He settled into his booster seat, slamming the seat-belt buckles together with a satisfied nod.

They were off, man and boy, in search of a fishing hole.

And I was with them, my own eyes glowing at the prospect of being a fly on the wall - except there would be no walls at the scenic shoals where they planned to fish.

“You can be a lizard on a rock,” the head fisherman suggested to me with what I hoped was a teasing grin.

How we came to have just one of our grandtwins, who turn 7 today, is a story in itself. A day earlier, the blond twin had left for his first solo visit with his wonderful paternal grandparents in north Georgia. We decided to make it a round robin, with the brunette twin visiting us while his sister, the princess, stayed “home alone” with their parents. Every few days the kids will rotate, giving them and us something rarely experienced: one-on-one time together.

It was a perfect plan, now all we needed for a perfect morning was for the fish to cooperate.

I waded out to a lovely flat rock and settled in a folding chair some 30 feet from the bank where the fishermen set up shop. I was not close enough to hear their conversation, but near enough to decipher their eloquent body language and plenty close to hear the yelps and shouts I was sure would erupt if a fish were to be actually, well, caught.

The setting was quietly picturesque - no raging rapids, just a wide, flowing creek babbling melodiously as muddy water tumbled over and around an array of gray-brown rocks set against a leafy backdrop of dense woods.

If a canoe full of Indians had rounded the bend, it would not have surprised me. Save for some distressing litter along the banks, the place looks pretty much the way it must have looked two centuries ago.

I saw the man of the house duck as the boy reared back to cast. So much for the previous night’s heart-to-heart talk about hooks and the dangers thereof.

Soon, however, the boy got better and, serious-faced, the two settled into the timeless, rhythmic dance of fishermen, tossing out and reeling in, tossing out and reeling in, the young man’s posture and demeanor mimicking that of the elder.

There were charming moments - a casual hand on a shoulder, an exchange of glances, a swift nod of approval, shared smiles.

There was high humor - the man of the house danced crazily when some ants crawled up his leg.

I had brought a newspaper, but found myself oddly reluctant to open it. This quiet place - and the fishermen’s sweet drama - was more than sufficient entertainment.

After nearly an hour of luckless casting, the boy walked away from the bank, heading toward me, I suspected, to whine about bad luck and “not fair.”

My heart swelled as I saw he was carrying a small bottle of water, bravely wading across slippery rocks, through eddies deep enough to wet the hem of his shorts, teetering, catching his balance, then jumping confidently onto my dry boulder, gallantly delivering the cold drink.

I resisted a powerful urge to sweep him up in my arms, covering him with slobbery kisses. This was a fishing trip. I was supposed to be a lizard, not a gushing grandmama.

He returned to the fishing and I beamed as he made a perfect cast. A fish jumped just feet from his cork, and I found myself pleading silently, “Come on, take the bait! Come on, give the boy his moment.”

It was not to be. The fishermen stuck it out a while longer, but with nary a nibble.

Somehow, none of us was overly disappointed, certainly not the boy. His step was as jaunty as we climbed the hill to the car as it had been when we arrived.

I had a feeling he had begun to “get” what fishing is all about.

“You know it’s not about the fish,” I said, as we loaded the gear.

“Yep,” he said, flashing a snaggle-toothed smile. “It’s about trying hard and having a good time.”

That slobbery kiss urge resurfaced, big time, but I held back.

Through glistening eyes I beheld a boy with worm dirt on his fingers and pure joy in his heart.

Through glistening eyes, I beheld a boy on his way to becoming a man.