Previous Challenge Entry (Level 3 - Advanced)
Topic: Gone Fishing (02/01/07)
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TITLE: Daddy's "Boy" | Previous Challenge Entry
By Judy Burford
02/07/07 -
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“Hi, honey. Are we going fishing this morning?’
“No, Daddy. It’s too cold this morning. We’ll have to wait until another day.”
“That’s good. I don’t think I have enough energy to go today anyway.”
The oldest of four children, I had been Daddy’s “boy” for most of my growing up years. My only brother was the youngest, coming into our lives almost eleven years after me, so he didn’t really interfere with mine and Dad’s relationship. Daddy had taught me how to hunt and fish, how to recognize and name many plants and trees, and he imparted his love for the land to me as I stretched my legs and learned to step with him from one cotton row to the next.
I remember our fishing outings from early in my childhood. First, I learned to fish with a cane pole, even learning to dig for worms or search for crickets and bait my own hook. I learned patience as we sat and watched our red and white corks bob gently in the water, and I sharpened my reflexes as I learned to give a quick jerk to the pole at just the right time to set the hook.
When Dad thought I was old enough, he began to teach me about fly fishing. He rigged a fly rod, showed me the techniques needed to send the line and fly sailing through the air, and then had me practice time and time again until I could almost always send the fly into the center of an old tire resting in the yard. Only then did he take me out in the boat to try my hand at the art of fly fishing.
How I loved that time. I loved the quiet sounds of the water lapping at the sides of the boat. I loved the sounds of birds and insects in the trees along the bank. I loved being able to sail my fly under a tree limb and into a spot that had “bass” written all over it. But most of all, I loved being with my dad.
After I grew up, married, and moved away, Dad still took me on fishing trips whenever I went to visit. My sweet husband knew how I treasured those times with Dad, and often declined an invitation to go with us just so Dad and I could have those times together.
One year Mom and Dad invited me to fly up to Alaska and join them as they traveled in their motor home. I jumped at the chance. While there, Daddy introduced me to salmon fishing. When I caught my first one I screamed so loudly he jokingly said, “I’m sure they heard that all the way home!” What a wonderful experience that was.
I leaned over and kissed my dad on his shiny, bald forehead, and rubbed his shoulder through the hospital gown. The sitter had looked at me strangely as Dad and I had that exchange about fishing, but it really didn’t seem that odd to me. Sure, Daddy was eighty-nine, blind, had pneumonia, was attached to an IV machine, had a form of dementia and was too weak to get out of bed. But somehow he knew that it was the time of year to go White Perch fishing, and since I had come to see him, I must have come to fish. I wished with all my heart that we could go fishing, but from now on, memories of those treasured times would have to suffice. “Thanks, Dad. I love you.”
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