Fishing

My Dad was really big into fishing. When he was a boy, as soon as school was out for the summer my Dad and his parents set up tents and an outdoor kitchen along the banks of a river near their house, and lived there all summer. My grandfather would go to work in lead and zinc mines during the day but would fish all night with my Dad. I didn't hear that story until about six months before my Dad died. When he told me the story I heard the love he had for his dad in his voice. I wish I had heard more stories like that from him.

My Dad used to take me fishing and I was, most or the time, bored out of my mind. I can only think of two times, out of the hundreds of times he took me fishing that I really enjoyed it. I think it always hurt his feelings that I didn't enjoy his favorite pastime. But he took my two oldest sons fishing and camping quite often in the mid and late 1990s. I have pictures of my two oldest sons cathing fish with my Dad, but for various reasons, mainly not knowing what was important, I wasn't on those fishing trips. Oh. Regret is an evil thing. Sorrow for what can not be undone is futile.

When Anselm was born my Dad bought him a fishing pole and some tackle and gave it to him on his first Christmas. And every time my Dad saw Anselm, up until the last couple of visits, he would say, "When I'm feeling better you and me are going fishing." They never went fishing.

Today I took Anselm on his first fishing trip. He fished off the pier at Seacliff Beach. I taught him how to tie on a hook, and how to put the shrimp on the hook. I also taught him how to fish with a jig. He caught some beautiful kelp and two pilings. The second piling ended the day since it took so much line that he didn't have enough left to fish with. He had more fun than I thought he would have, and asked me to take him fishing after church on Sunday.

The pole and tackle my Dad bought Basil is still in the closet. When he is old enough I will take him fishing, too, and tell him about my Dad.