Fishing

I remember the feeling of the blue leather seats, the push button radio and the air vents pushing the faint smell of aftershave. The radio played a cassette of Mel Tillis. My grandfather pulled up to a pond at the front of a development.

His tacklebox was in the tailgate of the small pickup truck. He’d hand me a finishing rod and set up his own. The summer mornings were on the crux of haze, the insects just starting to make their way into the air and circling us.

We’d start directly down from the truck. There was a small island in the pond and I remember throwing towards it thousands of times. I remember the sound of the lures hitting water, an amplified drip, the tension of the line and the fight of the small fish we’d find every now and then.

I remember watching him work his way around the pond.

Like any kid, I’d get bored. My mind would wander about the surrounding houses. What were people doing? How were they living? I’d imagine crazy movie scenarios.

And I’d watch him fish.

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And I realized today, it wasn’t about the results.

For a man who had seen the Depression, fought in WW2, experienced multiple eras and generations, the point was the quiet. The point was the few hours he’d had with his grandson.

The point was to stand in it. The rhythm of the casts, the sounds of the morning, the birds flying overhead and cars passing in the distance. Patsy Cline in the car on the way home singing about being Crazy For Loving You.

That kid, that me twenty-five years ago, didn’t get it.

I’d kill for a walk around that pond right now. To drive by early one Saturday morning and see his truck parked there, tailgate open, and see him standing by the water, the rod moving in a smooth motion and the sunlight reflecting off the line as it settled in the water.

We’d had no noise, no barrage of news, no cell phone on our hip.

We’d had time. And peace.

And a moment that would only live on in memory, as the best do.

Inheritance

Both of my parents turn 70 years old this week. They were born, and spent their formative years, not far from each other in small towns here in Pennsylvania.

Landmarks, as they often do, take you back into memories.

I am an only child. People would often ask if it was lonely. It wasn’t, the space taking form and shape into an identity you learned to hold. It certainly informed the man I am now as did both my mother and father.

Mom grew up Catholic, an issue in the 60’s much like our cultural unrest today. She taught me the power of a laugh and the appeal of a story. I remember the first time I heard her playing B.B King blues rifts on a record player and identifying with the music. She spent her career in a hospital as a nuclear medicine technician.

She still tries to teach me to throw away the recipes and improvise, remembering the early years when my grandparents and great grandparents were alive, Italian, French, Ukrainian. The oldest house in town. I remember the smells, tomatoes, onions, peppers, garlic. I remember handmade meatballs. I remember the last remnants of conversation with hints of old languages.

Dad grew up Methodist, and the combination of the two in marriage caused quite the stir. He was the youngest of three, a post WW2 baby, athletic and serious, though not always. He’d spent his career as an operator at a nuclear power plant.

Dad taught me the importance of words, of expectation, the idea that quiet is powerful. I remember the dark green ’67 Mustang and the smell of the exhaust that I can still catch a hint of on summer breezes. I remember fishing, hours on the lake, the feel of the sun reflecting off the water.

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I remember dinners, family, stories, the intersection of past and present, aunts, uncles and cousins. Watching children grow into adults.

When his parents, my grandparents, passed away I learned that holding your father in an embrace and feeling his tears is the closest thing to an inversion you’ll ever experience as a child, the point in time that you understand pain is universal, that no matter how long they tried to protect you from it, it will come around in the end.

Both laid the foundations of faith, the appreciation of making it through, the value of simplicity. Both could cook, both showed their love and affection in different ways.

Now, as a father, I say things and hear them speak through me.

As a child, you never picture your parents growing older. As a parent, you mark the passage of time through your own children. Suddenly you look into the future and the past seems to shift into the lingering fog of a cool September evening.

Both taught me, no matter what their faults, they would be there.

When Val and I suffered a miscarriage, I called my father on the way home from the hospital, just after five in the morning, and he answered the phone. And really he didn’t have to say anything, and I’m not sure if I’ll ever convey how much that meant.

My mother maintains, takes care, makes the drive from her house to ours more than once a week.

Both taught me the meaning of being a parent, being a man, and being present. They showed me that, no matter how often I screw up, the sun still rises and I’ll get another chance tomorrow.

So thank you, both of you, for the years. For the time, the purpose, the ups and downs and everything in between. You are both still an important part of our family, no matter the distance. I couldn’t do this without you.

Happy Birthday.

Psalm

Oh Father hear me.

When the fear takes over. When my boys ask if their masks are on the table for school tomorrow. When they ask, what’s next? And tomorrow is a mystery.

Oh Father hear me.

When the miracles are sparse. When the prayers are not answered. When hope drifts away on the wind and it seems the darkness prevails.

Oh Father hear me.

When getting out of bed is an act of faith. When we’ve had our last argument. When everything is tight and, no, you can’t have a snack at night because that food has to last.

When we are one moment away from a lock down. One moment from violence, anger, sickness, rage.

Oh Father hear me.

When worship is illegal, faith is under attack, community is discouraged, help is dangerous. When the loudest voice has become the media, the politicians.

And our hearts are quiet.

Oh Father hear me.

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When we lose our heroes. When we lose the strength to go on. When we close up, close down, sit in the darkness and wonder how we got here.

Oh Father hear me.

Hear my prayer.

For revolution. For fresh faith. For new purpose. For the Big Yes, the move that no one could have predicted. The miracle that could only come from you.

For closer families. For better friendships. For distance learning that works. For students that feel safe. for communities to rise up and help each other.

For the new.

For release from fear, anger, frustration, and resentment. No more worry.

For the strength to look in the eyes of children and tell them it will all work out.

For the strength to believe it.

Oh Lord hear me.

Let your work be done.

Because we’ve reached the end. And it will be a long year. And we can’t do it alone.

And with you all things are possible.

All things.