Back The Way It Was

It seems that the older I get, the more I enjoy revisiting the past...

This is a page from a scrapbook that my sister, Karen, made for our family in remembrance of our father. Pictures here were taken at Fife Lake in the 1940's. That's my Uncle Dick with Dad in the bottom photo.

My dad loved the water. This lifelong romance of his had its beginnings when he was a young boy, and his family would vacation in northern Michigan, renting a cabin every summer on Fife Lake. There, the city kid from Detroit learned to swim and fish – pleasures he would return to for the rest of his life. Those summer vacations on Fife Lake became a tradition that he eagerly shared with his own family.

Dad was a good, strong swimmer, and I can remember holding onto his neck as he cut through the water, always taking care not to let my face get wet -- a very real fear of mine. I thought that surely he must be the strongest, kindest, most wonderful father in the world. I still do.

Fife Lake was where my sisters and I learned to fish. I’ve no doubt that my dad loved spending time with his kids, but looking back on those evenings when he would load us into the rowboat that was included in the cottage rental, I suspect that he was really just trying to give my mom a little break. If I close my eyes, I can see us, three little girls strapped into puffy orange life vests, arranged on the seats of that old aluminum boat. I can smell the fuel from the outboard motor, but what I hear when my eyes are shut is the sound of the oars dipping in and out of the water as Dad rowed us out to a “good spot.” Oh, the patience of that man as he hooked worms onto long bamboo poles and showed us how to sit still, be quiet and keep our eyes on the bobbers. If memory serves, those were productive excursions, for I recall the three of us pulling in bluegill and sunfish, one after another, my dad working continuously to free them from the hooks and load them onto a stringer, which allowed them to dangle in the water as we rode home.

The heartbreak that stung me when he pulled that empty hook from the water, and I realized that those poor little fish -- whom I’m sure I had envisioned keeping as pets -- must have had their tiny faces ripped open as they were torn loose made it inevitable that I was not going to share my dad’s enthusiasm for fishing. Nor was I to become a strong, graceful swimmer like Dad, which I’m sure is somehow related to my aversion to getting my face wet. But I did inherit his love of being near the water, preferably in a boat, or on a blanket on the sand.

I cannot end this story without sharing one of my last memories of my wonderful, deeply whimsical father…We were riding in my brother’s boat, Dad and I sitting in the rear – or aft, as they say -- watching the water churn out from the motor as we hummed along. He took a sip of his beer -- another lifelong love of my dad’s which I do share -- and said, “You know the funny thing about water…you can cut it with a knife, but it always goes back the way it was.”

I wish we could do that, Dad. Cheers.

Note: I also have two brothers and a younger sister who were not mentioned in this story, because this is just one memory of mine. I'm sure they could write their own stories about fishing with my dad.

I Meant To Do That

Since I don’t plan to be one of those little old ladies who gets her picture in the local paper for celebrating her 104th birthday, I suppose that at 52, I was too old to be having a midlife crisis. I just don’t know what else to call it.

It started at my son’s high school graduation. I was proud and happy as I watched him walk across the stage with his friends – his young, beautiful friends – in their caps and gowns. I noticed one girl in particular. She had dyed the front of her hair a lovely grass green. I thought, how stunning. Oh, to be 18 again.

Naturally, there were photographs. How nice to see us all together, everyone smiling. Look at me, how much I look like my dad. What? Where did that come from, and why didn’t the thought please me? My dad was a handsome guy. But now, with my hair more salt than pepper, I was his spitting image, and I wanted to do something about it.

I’ll color my hair again! Suddenly, I was tempted by the image of that gorgeous young thing with the green bangs. I don’t even need to make it a real hair color – it can be any color I want!

The next day, scanning the shelves of do-it-yourself products, I was glad I’d brought along my three-year-old imaginary granddaughter, Jordyn, as a consultant. We both agreed – Clifford (the Big Red Dog from Norman Bridwell’s much-loved children’s books) red it was! After all, I spent my days with preschoolers. It wasn’t like I had to go to a real job or anything. This would be fun!

Never one to delay gratification, I dove right in, as Jordyn watched…

Regrets? Immediately! Even my little sidekick said, “Make it go back now.”

Jump ahead a few days…I sat in church, wondering why I hadn’t remembered that I actually do go out sometimes. What on earth had I been thinking? My hair was so red, I didn’t even have clothes to match. Father could have been performing amazing card tricks up there on the altar and I wouldn't have noticed. Everything in me was focused on restraining myself from standing up and announcing to the congregation that “I meant to do this!”

As time – and shampoos – went by, my hair gradually faded from red to pink. Not a pretty pink. An obnoxious, splotchy, orangeish pink. I knew that I would soon be returning to regular sessions with Loreal’s Medium Ash Brown. I will admit, though, that I actually considered touching up the red one more time, because, as I like to say, “Nothing says ‘I meant to do that’ like doing it again.”