Gramps

I grew up on a pristine little lake. My Dad's favorite pastime, when he was home and not away on business, was to paddle a canoe around the lake with my Mom firmly planted in the bow. He just paddled, never fished, and my Mom would usually knit something that never seemed to fit the person who would receive it at Christmas.

My grandfather, on the other hand, was passionate about fishing. If it swam in the lake and had fins, he would pursue it with the vigor and intensity of a tournament fisherman. He owned just one rod and reel, one fly rod, and a small wooden box full of his "secret weapons."

 We would go fishing together every afternoon after school, rain or shine. Every weekend, we would go fishing. Every day during the summer, we would go fishing. It never mattered if we caught anything.

On hot summer afternoons, we would sit in "Putt-Putt," our much-weathered wooden rowboat, and let time slowly pass. I would be riveted to my seat while I listened to his stories of wildcatting for oil in Texas, running from bears while building the Alaskan Highway, digging artesian wells in Michigan, or of his hunting trips up to Hudson Bay in Canada.

 He was my "bud" and my mentor. We did everything together. He taught me lake fishing. He taught me to make a reaching cast with a fly rod under a tree branch. He taught me how to hunt deer and mallards. We took trips all over the Northeast.  My strongest memory of him was sitting by campfires at night while he sipped whiskey out of an old beat-up tin cup. My love for the outdoors came from him, who taught me to respect our environment; doing so would always provide enjoyment. He was my best friend.

 

When I was probably five, Gramps taught me how to cast with a crankbait and a rusty Zebco reel that I always had trouble getting the hang of. Towards the end of the day, I was getting pretty good…and pretty cocky. There was this cove, covered with lily pads, that was our favorite spot, and we had anchored fifty or sixty feet from it.  I decided my newly learned skills would enable me to reach it with a cast. I swung that rod back and cast it forward with all my might. There was some resistance, but my zeal and the rod's momentum overcame it, and that lure shot through the air into the top of a tree on the banks of the lake- with my grandfather's earlobe dangling from the treble hooks. He never said a word. He never changed the stoic expression on his face. He just picked up the oars and rowed back home, got into his 49' Ford, and drove himself to the hospital, leaving me to clean all of the blood out of the boat.

 I remember my grandfather walked around with a wad of tape and cotton wrapped around his head for two weeks or better. Whenever I tried to apologize or say something, he would hold his index finger up to his lips. I learned never to violate that jester, so I soon stopped my attempt to comfort my best friend.

 Many years later, my grandfather was lying in a hospital bed, dying from lung cancer. He was in great pain, and I was sitting by his bedside, holding his hand. We were alone, as we had been for the past few days. We didn't need to speak, and as the hours passed, I knew he was reminiscing about our times together. Occasionally, he would look directly at me, and a smile would cross his lips.

 Suddenly, he raised his hand and gestured with his finger to lean closer. I did, and he whispered, "I forgive you". I didn't understand what he meant until he reached up and touched his ear, without a lobe, smiled at me, and winked. ..and then he passed away.

 I lost that old tin cup of his a few years ago, and I cried for a whole day. I have the old rod of his. The cork is gone, the ferrules are bent and missing, and the reel is rusted. It is my favorite possession.

 I miss him more than anyone could ever realize.