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.