A FISHING STORY
by Sidney Du Broff
FLY FISHERMAN OF THE ERA
| Tim stood before his father, a single section of the split bamboo fly rod | |
| outstretched in each of his hands as if in supplication. | |
| "When are we going fishing, Dad?" he asked. | |
| Ron could not meet his son's eyes, but instead looked down at the floor. | |
| "I don't know," he replied with obvious effort. "Soon. I hope soon. I don't know." | |
| "That's what you said before, Dad. You said it all last season. And | |
| now we're half-way into this one, and we still haven't gone." | |
| "I know," Ron said, pain in his voice. | |
| Tim held up the two sections of fly rod. "Grandpa made this for me. It's | |
| got my name on it - in gold lettering. He gave it to me for my ninth birthday. Now | |
| I'm almost ten and a half - and I've never used it." | |
| "I've got to think, Tim." He wanted to say more. But nothing else came | |
| out. There was no explanation. No reasonable explanation that he could give, no | |
| arguments to the contrary. "Let me think about it, Tim," he pleaded with his son. | |
| Tim nodded slowly, sadly, and allowed the two sections of fly rod to | |
| come to rest by his side. "I'll go and tie some flies, Dad. I'll have 'em for when we | |
| do go fishing." Ron heard the resignation in his son's voice, the obvious | |
| disbelief. He knew he was failing his son, failing as a father. | |
| Tim went off. Ron sat down tiredly on the sofa. His father, Bill Miller, | |
| had taught Tim to tie flies. He had taught him well. He had taken such delight in | |
| Tim's flies. Now he was gone. It was almost a year and a half. He had made that | |
| rod, and given it to him for his birthday, and almost immediately afterwards, died. | |
| When his father had given Tim that rod, Ron had the vision of three | |
| generations of Millers standing in the water, casting their lines. Now it was never | |
| going to happen. | |
| Ron's eyes fell on the wooden trophy that adorned the mantle. He hadn't meant to look at it, but his eyes had gone to it,as if independent of him.It was a re-creation of his father, carved in an amazing likeness,standing in waders, his fly rod in one hand, a good-size rainbow trout in the other.Carved on the bottom were the words: FOR BILL MILLER, FLY FISHERMAN OF THE ERA. |
| Ron remembered when it had been presented - at the annual dinner of their fly-fishing association. His father had no idea he was going to be honoured,and listened with rapt attention as the Chairman said "...a man who has inspired us all, who has made us betteras human beings, and as fly fisherpersons, a man who does not who regard fly fishing as merely a diversion, but as a way of life, a man has fought and worked to protect our waters. It is our pleasure and privilege to say Thank You, Bill Miller." |
| His father had sat in disbelief. "What's that for?" he wanted to know."I didn't do anything - not anything different than anybody else does. Every one of you deserves it just as much, if not more." |
| The Chairman said, "We went to a lot of expense to have this trophy made up, just to be sure it looks like you. We can't give it to anybody else, Bill,and I don't think anybody would want to." |
| Everybody in the audience applauded spontaneously. The Chairman presented | |
| the trophy, and hugged Bill. | |
| His father had deserved it. His father was a remarkable man. He had loved lifeand lived every minute of it, taking joy from everything that surrounded him. He was a friend, companion and helper to all whom he encountered along the bankside. He always had time to stop and offer help, advice, and a couple of his flies to whomever had the need. He had taught Ron to fly cast, just as - it seemed like yesterday - he had taught Tim. His father had taught him to tie flies, too, ever patient, always pleased with the results. |
| Ron remembered how the whole family used to go out - his mother and sister, and how he and his father, if they caught fish, would barbecue them , and serve the ladies. If some fishermen came by his father would ask them to join the family and share the barbecue. For Bill Miller, there were no strangers - only friends. |
| He remembered an opening day - he wasn't much older than Tim. They were going up to Eagle Lake. About half way there it started to snow, and by the time they reached the lake, it was a full-blown snowstorm. It was just the two of them, and they were supposed to be camping. As the snow came down, they struggled to put up the tent. His father had gone fishing, seemingly oblivious to the snow. Ron had stayed in the tent, but after a while ventured out. He watched his father cast, a figure largely obscured by the snow. Suddenly his father's rod bent, and there was a tremendous fight. His father won it, and held up a ten pound rainbow. |
| Ron remembered the fly wallet - the one he had given his father for his birthday. It was made of leather, with a fleece lining. He'd had it engraved with his father's name. It was expensive - the very best he could find. It had taken him six months to save the money for it. The man at the fishing shop had said, "I'll keep it for you, Ron. Don't worry." |
| When he gave it to his father, his father had tears in his eyes. "I'll use it justfor my special flies," his father said. "You're a very special son." |
| His whole fishing life had been centered around and shared with his father. And now, with his father gone, he could not bring himself to fish. There was no logic to it. It did not make sense, even to himself, but the heart seemed to go out of it. He knew that his father had been a better father to him than he was to his own son. He owed it to Tim, and hard though he tried, he could not bring himself to take him. Countless times over the last year and a half he resolved to do it, to make a date with his son, but when he went to do it - he couldn't. |
| His wife Susan came in then and sat down next to him on the sofa. She ran her hand through his hair. "He's made some beautiful nymphs," she said simply. |
| "Susan, I'm trying." "I know you are, Ron. Bill wouldn't be very pleased with you." In response, Ron nodded. "You owe it to Tim. You owe it to yourself, Ron. I want him to love you the way you love your father." "So do I. But I can't do it, Susan. I've tried," Ron spoke in anguish. "We've got a son - a precious gift. Are you going to give him less than your father gave you?" Ron stared off into space. For what seemed like a long time, no words came from him. Then he said softly, "All right, Susan." "When?" "I don't know when." "You do, Ron. Say when." "Next weekend." "That's great, Ron. Next weekend. Tell Tim." The reality of having to say it to Tim now seemed to immobilize him. "Next weekend, Ron. You said it." Susan kissed Ron gently on the forehead. Ron stood up, and walked slowly to tell Tim A couple of times during the week he almost put it off. But he knew if he did, he’d lose all respect for himself; he’d lose his wife’s respect and Tim’s, as well. How would he ever be able to live with himself? The answer was easy. |
| The night before they were to go, he and Tim got their tackle ready. Ron went to his father's fishing bag, which had remained untouched since his father's death. Now he reached into it and got out the old leather fly wallet he had given his father so many years before. He held it in his hand, and remembered what his father had said, and he wondered if he had it in him to be a special father to Tim. He touched the embossed lettering with his finger. It was still legible: "Bill Miller". He'd take it with him, and use his father's "special flies." |
| They drove to Eagle Lake. Ron kept having the feeling he wanted to call the whole thing off, forget the whole trip, turn the car around and go back home. It had been a mistake to come. Maybe going to Eagle Lake had been the mistake; it was too much the water that he and his father had shared. Maybe it would have been better to go someplace none of them had ever heard of - a place where none of them had had any involvement. |
| It was also a mistake to come without Susan. He really needed her support now. He had asked her to come. But she said that this was something father and son had to share together. There would be other times - when they would all go,like they used to. But not all, he thought. Somebody was missing, and he wouldn't be there - ever. |
| They reached the lake. Ron parked the car in the shade of the trees. They got out their tackle. Ron could feel himself trembling. He knew that Tim understood how difficult this trip had been for him. Usually Tim was filled with talk, never stopped asking questions, or making observations. But on the drive up, Tim had been unusually quiet, and so had Ron. At the beginning, Ron, shortly after his father had died, had said for Susan to take Tim fishing. Susan had shaken her head and said, "A boy needs a father." |
| And that was that. And she was right. | |
| And now, with their tackle in their hands, they walked toward the lake, | |
| Tim in eagerness, more quickly; Ron, anxious, falling behind, with ever-slower steps. | |
| They reached the lake. There was someone already in the water, fishing. | |
| The man stopped his retrieve, turned and waved a beckoning arm to Ron. | |
| Ron felt himself breaking into a cold sweat. It was his father. | |
| Ron blinked his eyes - several times. But the image would not go away. | |
| "Tim," he said to his son, "do you see anybody out there fishing?" | |
| Tim looked confused. "No," he replied simply. | |
| Ron's trembling became more acute. | |
| "Tim, tackle up and start fishing. I'll join you in a few minutes. I want | |
| to be alone for a bit." | |
| "Okay, Dad." | |
| Ron went back to the wooded area and found a place that provided some | |
| solitude. He sat down on the ground and shook his head, as if to clear it. If Tim | |
| was to go fishing, Susan would have to take him in the future. | |
| "Where have you been?" a voice asked. | |
| Ron looked up. It was his father, standing next to him, his waders still wet. | |
| "What's taken you so long, Ron? I've been waiting for you. " | |
| Ron stood up. "It was no good without you, Dad." | |
| "But I'm here, son. Didn't you know I'd always be here with you?" | |
| "When you went, it all seemed to end." | |
| "A lifetime of being together doesn't end." | |
| "Am I just dreaming this, Dad? I'll blink my eyes, and you'll be gone?" | |
| "Try it." | |
| Ron closed his eyes tightly for a few moments. Then he opened them. | |
| His father continued to stand before him. | |
| "You're still here, Dad." | |
| "Of course. Do you see what I mean? If you let me, I'll be real. Now | |
| what do you say we go fishing." | |
| "Sure, Dad." Ron smiled at his father. "Let's go fishing." | |
| Together, they walked down to the bankside. | |
| At that moment Tim's rod bent and some distance off, a trout broke the | |
| surface of the water and danced on its tail. | |
| The two men stood there and watched while Tim played the fish. In due | |
| course he landed it. | |
| "Well done," Ron said. | |
| Bill smiled broadly. His voice was filled with pride. "That's my | |
| grandson." | |
| Tim stood on the bank. He looked quizzically at his father. "I got a | |
| funny feeling, Dad" he said slowly, questioningly, "that Grandpa is here." | |
| Ron nodded. "He is, Tim. He'll always be here for us. " | |
© Sidney Du Broff 2009
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