My father could fish all night. He would pour Jack Daniels into strong campfire coffee, and sing along with old country songs on the radio, usually WBAP out of Fort Worth. He could talk for hours, long stories of his life and failures, women he’d loved, or at least liked a little, odd bits of fisherman lore, politics. He thought marijuana should be legal and all farming should be organic. It just seemed more 'country' to him. He believed that a man needed both a wife and a girlfriend, and it was OK if the girlfriend was someone else’s wife. Dad was certain that Western Wear was the only way to dress. He knew how to read the stars and he only fished at night when the moon was full or new. I was quiet, and sipped beer all night listening to him go on. My father, the other James Jobe. The war veteran. Marriage wrecker. Poker player. I fried the fish he caught and we ate until we were stuffed. If Hank Williams or Merle Travis or Bob Wills came on the radio, we would both stop to sing, arms around each other’s shoulder, drunk and happy under the East Texas stars. Long ago.