Let me take you back, a good little ways back, back to 1994. Ten year old towheaded me, and my two younger towheaded brothers, stand in the thick summer morning air on a dock in small town east Tennessee. Earlier enough in the morn that there might even have been mist on the water still. The cool night air hitting that warm Tennessee lake. There is the sound of loons here and there. I can see a bacon, egg, cheese biscuit and a pint of milk on the dock beside me. I have a spinner reel in my left hand and a pole in my right, and I’m getting ready to get a lesson in patience.
From ‘84 to circa ‘02 my family and I had unlimited access to a private dock on Fort Loudoun Lake (Tennessee River). My great Uncle Robert owned a house and property with a decent amount of lakefront property. He loved us dearly and we loved him. He allowed my dad and mom (and then when I could drive, me on my own or with my brothers) 24/7 access to the backyard and the dock. It was a core location in my childhood, and holds a lot of core memories. Uncle Robert was a tiny man. But feisty as fuck. Quick witted. Always had his pants pulled up to his titties. Walked with a cain, and often pointed out turtles with it. He was a gunner in the Army Air Forces during WWII and was damn proud of it. Drove an old ass Mercedes that was as clean as it was classy. On this lake is where I learned how to fish and how to have patience.
Fishing is a skill. And you’ve got to start somewhere. Where my dad started with us was when we were fairly young. Though in this memory I have mastered the skill of knowing how to cast the rod to miss the trees - therefore I’m about ten years old. That makes my younger brothers around eight and six. My eight year old younger brother has gotten to the point where he had learned when to let go of the line, but determining the amount of force to put behind that rod was another ball game. And he ended up in the trees more than his fair share. And this is where my dad’s patience comes in.
In a fair and just world my dad would have had patience taught to him by possibly his father fishing on the same dock. But this isn’t a fair and just world. My dad was taught violence by his father. Violence in forms abound. Physical violence to the point that ‘Craftsman’ was branded into his backside. Emotional violence that forms a mean sinister voice for one’s consciousness. My dad was abused by his father. Then somehow (I’ve never asked how) my dad broke that cycle almost completely. He never laid a hand on us. On those mornings on the dock it tested his patience that he was never taught. And he would become angry, and he would use some hateful words, but he never balled a fist or spit a curse word at us.
Early mornings on red stained wooden docks covered in goose poop we fished. Mornings with nightcrawlers wriggling on hooks. Mornings muggy and mild. My eight year old brother casts into the tree for the third time. He’s already been stuck on the bottom twice. My dad grabs the rod from his hands aggressively, moves my brother where he’s standing behind him, says some inaudible mumbling, and yanks the line from the tree with great force. That morning I learned that shit is going to happen. It’s okay to get angry. It’s not okay to take your anger out on others. It’s not okay to be violent. Physical or emotional. Even passive aggressively with the mumbling (that took longer to learn since my dad did it). Fishing can be a game of patience and consistency. My old man taught me so much out there on that dock about patience. He showed me as he taught my brothers the delicacy of casting amongst the trees. He showed me what not to do, and what to do. He taught me you can break cycles. You can heal, and not continue to hurt others. And this morning as I was commuting to work this memory on patience hit me like a sucker punch. And I wanted to capture it somehow. So it’s here in this blog.
Thanks dad.
comrade h
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