Photo by Gena Dye
Friday night was a night that we will never forget. Jake Lindow proposed to our daughter Tate, and as you can see from her English Setter Poppy’s bandana — “She said Yes!”
He was a natural. After a quick demonstration with me behind the shotgun and my daughter Tate on the skeet thrower, I handed Tate’s boyfriend Jake the shotgun and gave him a few quick tips.
It was his first trip to the farm and his first time to shoot skeet and, within no time, he was busting single clays and, soon thereafter, doubles. It took me back to dove hunts with my father-in-law, Billy “Pop” Hull, and the sense of pride that came with leaving the field with a limit of birds under his watchful eye.
It didn’t take me long during those first hunts to realize that Billy Hull was an excellent wingshot. As a result, I always placed added pressure on myself not to let him down and always felt an extra burst of pride when I walked out of the field to receive a “Good shooting” when we met at the tailgate of his truck.
He was also one hell of a rifle shot, and that fact made me extremely nervous when we sat together in a hunting blind. I well remember missing a deer followed by such commentary as “How is that possible?” or “You didn’t even touch him!” Those remarks were always followed with laughter, laughter that was contagious even in my embarrassed state.
Fortunately, my rifle shooting improved over the years, no doubt a result of the shame of walking out of the woods with Billy empty-handed. However, in all of the ways that he made me better, and there are many, marksmanship is the least important.
I thought of those nervous times in the blind with Pop earlier this month when Tate and Jake came back to the farm for his first deer hunt. That afternoon, as we sat in the blind watching the field for deer, I noticed that Jake seemed to be a bit nervous himself.
Later that night as we sat underneath a beautiful moon, enjoying a bourbon beside the tenderloins and backstraps sizzling on the grill, I came to understand the reason for his anxiety. He had come to ask us for Tate’s hand in marriage.
It was a perfect evening and Jake was (and is) a perfect gentleman. As I told him then and again this past Friday night after he proposed to Tate, he is the answer to a prayer. One of the first things, aside from her health, that I prayed for Tate when she was born was that God would prepare her person for her and, in turn, prepare her for him.
God often graciously gives us abundantly more than what we ask and this is one of those times. We love Jake and we love watching the two of them together. It was a perfect weekend and now we have a wedding to plan (Actually, I’m not naïve enough to think I’ll be really involved in the planning, therefore I plan to just show up at the appropriate time).
And so it was that Monday morning I found myself driving down Highway 19 with tear-filled eyes listening to every song that came to mind with the theme of “dads and daughters.” A list that included, among others, George Strait’s “I Saw God Today,” Tim McGraw’s “My Little Girl,” Heartland’s “I Loved Her First,” and Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit’s “Letting You Go.”
Photo by Brad Dye
Since Tate and Jake’s engagement last weekend, I’ve spent a great deal of time on “Memory Lane” visiting moments in time like this one from 1997 at our family camp on the river at Cook’s Bend in Alabama. Tate was just a camo-clad toddler in this picture and I remember it like it was yesterday.
In the middle of this “greatest hits of fatherhood” playlist, the projector of memories began to roll in my mind—her hand wrapped around my pinkie in the hospital room, a camo-clad toddler running around at the camp on the river, her first soccer game, her first fishing trip, first hunt, first deer, her being crowned Lamar’s homecoming queen, college move in, a study-abroad summer in England, first job after college.
The images rolled by so fast, just as her life has to this point. Suddenly, another song came to mind. The first song that I ever sang to her in that same hospital room with her hand wrapped around my pinkie on the day she was born.
It was nighttime and all our family had left leaving only the three of us—mom, dad and baby. G was resting and I walked around the room with Tate in my arms. As I marveled at the way she looked, swaddled tightly in the hospital blanket, I gently began to sing to words to Jerry Garcia’s “I’ve Been All Around This World.”
“Up on the Blue Ridge Mountain, there I’ll take my stand, Up on the Blue Ridge Mountain, there I’ll take my stand … Lord, Lord, I’ve been all around this world.” It seemed appropriate that night in the hospital, almost a soothing lullaby.
As I thought about those lyrics Monday morning they seemed even more appropriate for a young woman that has seen a bit of the world and who now, along with a young man named Jake, is looking at a future that will include seeing much more of it.
I’m currently reading “The River You Touch: Making a Life on Moving Water” by Chris Dombrowski, a wonderful book about fly fishing and fatherhood. One of his lines has really resonated with me: “A tight grip can’t hold much.” Perhaps the hardest part is letting go.
Until next time, here’s to answered prayers and here’s to seeing you out there in our great outdoors.
Email outdoors columnist Brad Dye at braddye@comcast.net.
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