Birthday 35
I turned 35 today at 2:44 pm. Holy cow! 35! I wanted to celebrate by being pampered and lazy and wallowing in my own self-pity as I hit that middle milestone of my 30s,that hump day of years that tells me I’m now sliding towards 40. No such luck I’m afraid. My sons who conned me into letting them join Boy Scouts this year had a troop family camping trip on this particular day, just another Saturday in their lives. So after much whining, wallowing and general pathetic, I loaded up the cooler and assorted camping gear along with my four children and out we headed for the wilds of East Texas.
Personally, I had not been camping since my oldest now 15 going on 16 was still in diapers and then it was the whole family, brother, sisters and parents. We arrive, the unloading begins. Girls squabbling, boys running amuck. Now to put up the tent. The tent that my father owned. The tent my father and mother took my sister and me camping in every chance they had. The tent of which I have so many childhood memories.
As I and some of the other Boy Scout parents put up the tent, I can smell the past. It comes rushing at me so fast I can’t take it all in. The sound the zipper makes at night when the world is quiet in the dark with only the stars for light. It’s so loud it hurts your ears, the feel of the tarp, cool and crinkly beneath your feet. There it stood my home away from home. The tent that is as old as me smiling at me with its zipper teeth and so I sit and smile back and let the tears fall as I watch the ghost of my father grabbing a fishing pole or a beer or heading off for a game of horseshoes. He laughs as he shows me how to cast my first line. The smell of the seven’s dust mom has sprinkled over my shoes and ankles to prevent chiggers and ticks. The way the sun sets over the lake at Brown Ranch, the crackle of wood as I walk to see my first beaver’s dam. Oh the smell of that campfire where wondrous delights magically appeared out of a cast iron Dutch oven. Wave after wave of sensation hit me as the tent never faltered in its smile. I was so young, so free. There was nothing I’d rather do than wake up on a cool summer morning and hear that gunshot zipper just to watch the sun rise. Then off we go, Troup 412, nature hike commences and the smell of sulfur follows.
Then it’s time for fishing. The patient man’s game. I stand apart as the troop leader lets my son bait a hook and the whispers begin. The smells begin. Oh they come so fast so deep. The bait shop on the corner of Washington St and Hwy 175 where we would bag our own minnows, scoop our own night crawlers, the bright flash of a lewer, the bend and sway of a good cane pole, the click of a Zepco reel. And then whoosh, he’s done it. My Ryan has cast his first line. I feel the shove, slight but steady and hear the whisper, “He’s got too much slack in that line. Show him how it must be, Rachel, show him.” I reach out and gently reel as I say, “See your line, all those curls, it should be almost straight.” “That’s a girl.”
As my arms wrapped around my son, my father’s wrapped around me. He smiled and winked. I saw him there casting and reeling and casting. “He was never still.” I say. “My dad, I would sit and watch my bobber and he’d be halfway around the lake.” Those around me just smile. They can’t see him, just there, casting. They can’t hear him. They can’t feel him, but I know he’s right here, casting and walking.
Over the years, his memory fades his face less distinct, his voice unclear. I attest it to time. I’ve had more years without him than I did with him. It troubled me but time marches and we but follow along. Today, I did not follow. I found a new time where past and present blended, old with new. His face was so clear, the old spice cologne strong. My son smiles and I see him right there. He was giving me a gift and all I had to do was open it. I did. I fished for pooches with my son and I watched the sun set on the lake as the bobber bounced on the waves. I reveled in the sound of water lapping and the subtle click of the reel, the feel of the pole, the thrill of that first pull, the dip of the bobber, the race to reel and tug, and the sadness when they get away. I was just free. Peace at last.
I struggle with finding balance with the ways of the past and my fast approaching future. My gift today, my birthday gift today was from my father. “Just breathe, slow down and watch that line. Don’t let it get too slack, reel in, slow, slow. Patience. You’ll get ‘em next time.” Thank you Bill “Country” Wilshire for reminding me that although I lost you physically long ago, you gave me the gift of life, the gift of joy in the simple things and fishing lessons that I can now pass to my sons. I know that you wish to bring me joy and peace and fishing. Our journey around the lake will never end and our sunset will forever stay just beyond the dam on Brown Lake. I love you, Dad!
I turned 35 today at 2:44 pm. Holy cow! 35! I wanted to celebrate by being pampered and lazy and wallowing in my own self-pity as I hit that middle milestone of my 30s,that hump day of years that tells me I’m now sliding towards 40. No such luck I’m afraid. My sons who conned me into letting them join Boy Scouts this year had a troop family camping trip on this particular day, just another Saturday in their lives. So after much whining, wallowing and general pathetic, I loaded up the cooler and assorted camping gear along with my four children and out we headed for the wilds of East Texas.
Personally, I had not been camping since my oldest now 15 going on 16 was still in diapers and then it was the whole family, brother, sisters and parents. We arrive, the unloading begins. Girls squabbling, boys running amuck. Now to put up the tent. The tent that my father owned. The tent my father and mother took my sister and me camping in every chance they had. The tent of which I have so many childhood memories.
As I and some of the other Boy Scout parents put up the tent, I can smell the past. It comes rushing at me so fast I can’t take it all in. The sound the zipper makes at night when the world is quiet in the dark with only the stars for light. It’s so loud it hurts your ears, the feel of the tarp, cool and crinkly beneath your feet. There it stood my home away from home. The tent that is as old as me smiling at me with its zipper teeth and so I sit and smile back and let the tears fall as I watch the ghost of my father grabbing a fishing pole or a beer or heading off for a game of horseshoes. He laughs as he shows me how to cast my first line. The smell of the seven’s dust mom has sprinkled over my shoes and ankles to prevent chiggers and ticks. The way the sun sets over the lake at Brown Ranch, the crackle of wood as I walk to see my first beaver’s dam. Oh the smell of that campfire where wondrous delights magically appeared out of a cast iron Dutch oven. Wave after wave of sensation hit me as the tent never faltered in its smile. I was so young, so free. There was nothing I’d rather do than wake up on a cool summer morning and hear that gunshot zipper just to watch the sun rise. Then off we go, Troup 412, nature hike commences and the smell of sulfur follows.
Then it’s time for fishing. The patient man’s game. I stand apart as the troop leader lets my son bait a hook and the whispers begin. The smells begin. Oh they come so fast so deep. The bait shop on the corner of Washington St and Hwy 175 where we would bag our own minnows, scoop our own night crawlers, the bright flash of a lewer, the bend and sway of a good cane pole, the click of a Zepco reel. And then whoosh, he’s done it. My Ryan has cast his first line. I feel the shove, slight but steady and hear the whisper, “He’s got too much slack in that line. Show him how it must be, Rachel, show him.” I reach out and gently reel as I say, “See your line, all those curls, it should be almost straight.” “That’s a girl.”
As my arms wrapped around my son, my father’s wrapped around me. He smiled and winked. I saw him there casting and reeling and casting. “He was never still.” I say. “My dad, I would sit and watch my bobber and he’d be halfway around the lake.” Those around me just smile. They can’t see him, just there, casting. They can’t hear him. They can’t feel him, but I know he’s right here, casting and walking.
Over the years, his memory fades his face less distinct, his voice unclear. I attest it to time. I’ve had more years without him than I did with him. It troubled me but time marches and we but follow along. Today, I did not follow. I found a new time where past and present blended, old with new. His face was so clear, the old spice cologne strong. My son smiles and I see him right there. He was giving me a gift and all I had to do was open it. I did. I fished for pooches with my son and I watched the sun set on the lake as the bobber bounced on the waves. I reveled in the sound of water lapping and the subtle click of the reel, the feel of the pole, the thrill of that first pull, the dip of the bobber, the race to reel and tug, and the sadness when they get away. I was just free. Peace at last.
I struggle with finding balance with the ways of the past and my fast approaching future. My gift today, my birthday gift today was from my father. “Just breathe, slow down and watch that line. Don’t let it get too slack, reel in, slow, slow. Patience. You’ll get ‘em next time.” Thank you Bill “Country” Wilshire for reminding me that although I lost you physically long ago, you gave me the gift of life, the gift of joy in the simple things and fishing lessons that I can now pass to my sons. I know that you wish to bring me joy and peace and fishing. Our journey around the lake will never end and our sunset will forever stay just beyond the dam on Brown Lake. I love you, Dad!
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