Lunker (original publication 2008)

           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 Maryland, then to Indiana. I met a young woman, married, and eventually we had children.

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.