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M. Scott Rogers
A little less than two years ago, Samuel Josiah entered my world. My
wife and I, married only two years, considered children as a future
possibility. Possibility transformed into reality. In late July, we brought
home our son. Remarkable in so many ways, that day is forever a connection
between generations.
Samuel shares his grandfather's birthday.
As my son grows, I find myself recalling my own childhood, the years
spent running from chores, hiding from helping my father out of the sheer
curiosity to explore the wilderness surrounding our home. My father, it
seemed, preferred the tasks of fixing broken appliances, replacing worn
parts on yard implements, or fabricating some new table, chair or jewelry
box for a family member in his wood shop.
Thirty some years under my belt and I regret the times I whisked away
into the country side hunting for May-apples, wild black berries, and deer
sign. Despite the wealth of knowledge he held in open hand, proffering for
my enrichment, I chose solitude and ignorance. Of all the things to learn,
none struck a spark of passion in my soul. I knew even then, as young as I
was, artistry flowed through my veins. So different, he and I, with his keen
mind dissecting numbers and equations, always able to calculate the proper
length to make his cut as he progressed on each carpentry project while I
played with words and envision new and wonderful places in stories.
Regardless of the difference, we shared one common interest –
fishing. I recall countless times baiting hooks with worms, grubs, even
leeches for the bullheads. I regarded early mornings a plague to humanity
unless followed quickly by the cast of hook, bobber and bait into some still
water. I can still remember the burnt taste of McDonald's coffee following a
salty hash brown biscuit or pancakes of perfect color and shape.
Those four or five A.M. meals prophesied a long drive to a quiet,
secluded lake in my father's four wheel drive Dodge Ram and the gentle
drifting of our canoe under the steady warmth of the sun. We paddled just
off some shady shore where thick lake-weeds bordered the hole hiding an
assortment of bass, bluegills, or whatnot. So we hoped.
Inevitably I lost a hand full of lures, mostly my own, trying to cast
under the low hanging branches of the trees guarding what I believe to be
the secret hiding places of the lake's largest fish. I never caught anything
those days. My father caught little more. But the time, quiet and almost
wordless, connected something between us. Regardless of our different
passions, different dreams, our likes and dislikes, we agreed those days of
fishing are special.
Over time I chose to go here or there, trying to become the man I
thought or wanted to be. I moved to
Somewhere in my heart, I desperately hold onto the hope that time and
circumstances will allow me to eagerly grab hold of the advice, the wisdom,
the knowledge that my father desired to share. Six hundred miles away and we
still remain distant. Occasional visits sometimes quell the feelings of
homesickness, but I know those feelings are like the ripples of water around
a dipping bobber. Like something under the surface is nibbling away at the
bait and any moment a quick jerk will signal the catch, reeling the mystery
up into the open air and into the bottom of our little canoe for both of us
to marvel over.
Maybe a discussion to throw it back or keep it will develop. Either
way, the "lunker" teasing and tempting can no
longer hide in the shadows of low hanging willows, promising to snag one
more precious jig or spoon.
This July marks my father's fifty-eighth birthday and my son's
second. Over a year will have passed since I've returned to the home I grew
up in. In the lull between the present and the moment I pull our minivan
into his driveway, thoughts of burnt McDonald's coffee, wriggling worms, and
gentle paddling will flood my head. I will lift my son out his car seat,
stare into his eyes and know that though he still fights for my attention,
my hugs, my kisses, the day is fast approaching when he too will turn to the
horizon, pleading to discover himself.
My father, covered in grease or sawdust or some mingling of both, will trod
down the path from his sanctuary of wood and power tools, greeting us while
wiping sweat from his forehead and grime from his hands. Unloading the car
will release a trickle of banter and somewhere, in some closet of our souls,
a memory will flash.
I may not be able to remember all the words of wisdom he spoke to me during my childhood and adolescence. I may not recall what caused us to grow apart in the past. But looking back, I will see a man and his son, fishing poles in hand, making a day of empty hooks, a thermos of coffee and the reflection of our smiles off the glassy water. And in that moment, our grievances and our failures will sink like so many of my lost lures to the muddy bottom of the lake. In that moment, nothing will matter but the sound of the reel whizzing as we cast the line out and the heat of the sun burning away our differences.