Gone Fishing
I used to love to go fishing. Of course, I haven't been fishing in years because when I took the boys, Sam casted and hooked the back of his head and we all ended up in the emergency room.
(For the record, Kathy was in charge during the fateful cast -I was getting a beer).
Anyway, now 'fishing' is a dirty word around our house.
But thinking back on it, I remember fishing with my brothers, four real dark boys throwing their lines into a pond, with bobbers on the line and worms on the hook. What I liked about it was the anticipation of seeing the bobber get sunk by a tug on the line. I was completely out of control of the situation. I could only see what was happening on the surface and had no clue as to what was going on underneath.
Now I hate fishing. I hate the bobber being torn asunder.
What I'm getting at here is that for the last nearly two years, I have been the bobber on the water. I try hard to stay afloat, ride the crest of the waves, and not sink. I've tried all sorts of things too - self-help books, books on grief, gallons of goose, Yankee games, Bruce songs, church, writing, family, dogs, pasta by the truckload, friends, family, laughter, crying, anger and more grief.
And the fucking bobber got yanked under anyway.
In a span of about twelve minutes in the middle of the week my mother announced that her aunt had died - 88 years old - nice productive life...and my wife explained that my thirty-year old nephew thru marriage had suffered some sort of thyroid attack. Jake is currently in the ICU fighting to keep the bobber afloat in the worst of all scenarios. A father of two...a kid with his whole life to live...battling...pray for him.
And with the 'pray for him' thought in my mind, the bobber sunk again.
I've been running with the I-pod on in an effort to keep my mind healthy. I set the goose aside, started eating less, dropping pounds, writing more, reading more...
And the fucking bobber got yanked under anyway.
The water seems deep and who knows what's going on under their. When I was fishing as a young boy I used to hate bringing that line in and seeing that the worm was gone. I used to have to beg one of my more manly brothers to rebait my hook (worms are gross) and they used to do it while cursing me for being a wuss.
I visited the funeral home. I can't do the hospital visit, but I will jump back on the horse and pray along with our families for the full recovery. What else is there to do?
Now if you'll excuse me, I need to cast this line, try and get it to the water without hooking the back of my head, so I can keep an eye on the fucking bobber.
Here's hoping it stays afloat.
(For the record, Kathy was in charge during the fateful cast -I was getting a beer).
Anyway, now 'fishing' is a dirty word around our house.
But thinking back on it, I remember fishing with my brothers, four real dark boys throwing their lines into a pond, with bobbers on the line and worms on the hook. What I liked about it was the anticipation of seeing the bobber get sunk by a tug on the line. I was completely out of control of the situation. I could only see what was happening on the surface and had no clue as to what was going on underneath.
Now I hate fishing. I hate the bobber being torn asunder.
What I'm getting at here is that for the last nearly two years, I have been the bobber on the water. I try hard to stay afloat, ride the crest of the waves, and not sink. I've tried all sorts of things too - self-help books, books on grief, gallons of goose, Yankee games, Bruce songs, church, writing, family, dogs, pasta by the truckload, friends, family, laughter, crying, anger and more grief.
And the fucking bobber got yanked under anyway.
In a span of about twelve minutes in the middle of the week my mother announced that her aunt had died - 88 years old - nice productive life...and my wife explained that my thirty-year old nephew thru marriage had suffered some sort of thyroid attack. Jake is currently in the ICU fighting to keep the bobber afloat in the worst of all scenarios. A father of two...a kid with his whole life to live...battling...pray for him.
And with the 'pray for him' thought in my mind, the bobber sunk again.
I've been running with the I-pod on in an effort to keep my mind healthy. I set the goose aside, started eating less, dropping pounds, writing more, reading more...
And the fucking bobber got yanked under anyway.
The water seems deep and who knows what's going on under their. When I was fishing as a young boy I used to hate bringing that line in and seeing that the worm was gone. I used to have to beg one of my more manly brothers to rebait my hook (worms are gross) and they used to do it while cursing me for being a wuss.
I visited the funeral home. I can't do the hospital visit, but I will jump back on the horse and pray along with our families for the full recovery. What else is there to do?
Now if you'll excuse me, I need to cast this line, try and get it to the water without hooking the back of my head, so I can keep an eye on the fucking bobber.
Here's hoping it stays afloat.
Comments