With the approach of the 2022 version of Father’s Day this weekend, there has been a lot on my mind in recent weeks.
To start with, a month ago was the five-year anniversary of my late dad, Bill Burkhead, passing on into eternity, losing his battle against time and the ravages of a dreadful condition known as vascular dementia. Time may heal a lot of wounds, but not this one, and I sure miss you dad. And ditto for my father-in-law Pat Lovera, who passed away last December, leaving another large hole in our hearts and lives.
On the smile-filled side of life’s ongoing ledger, there’s another milestone moment approaching this weekend as the lovely Mrs. B and I celebrate our 30th wedding anniversary, looking back to a sizzling evening in mid-June so many years ago. As we stood before a few hundred family members and friends, we nervously, but enthusiastically, said “I do!” as we promised to love each other in good times and bad, ‘til death do us part.
If you will forgive the personal indulgence here, allow me to wish a happy anniversary to my beautiful bride Charissa, the hunting and fishing widow who still takes my breath away. The years have brought us a few challenges and many great joys, the latter including the family that the Good Lord has allowed us to raise together. Put simply, marrying CB is the best decision I’ve ever made in life and I’d sign up in a heartbeat to turn the clock back, start over, and do it all again.
By the way, honey, if you’re reading this and thinking of what to get me for our anniversary this year, may I suggest another collection of tardy slips and late night dinner passes because I’m sure I’m going to be overdue again someday soon in getting back from another work trip and/or “can’t miss” hunting or fishing adventure. You’re simply the best and every man should be as fortunate and blessed as I am.
I’m also waxing a little melancholy right now because of my own roles as a father shifting so dramatically in recent years. That comes as I have watched my children graduate from college, start their own individual adult journeys, and move out into the world, officially turning Mrs. B and I into empty nesters.
In this trip down memory lane as of late, there has been a steady stream of remembrances that have involved fathers, sons, and yes, fishing.
Moments like the first bass that I caught while fishing with my dad at False River in Baton Rouge. Or the box of bluegill tempting crickets that dad always had handy if the bass weren’t cooperating on Horseshoe Lake. Or a visit to a rushing Smoky Mountain stream as my dad, my sister Amy, and yours truly tried to catch a few trout. Or the father-and-son outings to Lake Fork that my dad and I went on to enjoy after I grew into adulthood.
As I look back, I think I now know a little bit about how my dad must have felt on his own journey through middle age and the sweet joys of watching time pass by with those that you love.
As I’ve reflected a little bit, some familiar themes have resurfaced in recent days and it occurs to me that my dad’s time on earth was centered around three key elements: his strong Christian faith, his love and commitment to our family (my mom and dad would have celebrated their 58th wedding anniversary this weekend), and, as time allowed, some fishing.
Hopefully, as my wife and I celebrate our own three decades of marriage on Father’s Day, those are the same traits that others are able to readily observe in my life. Even if I still have much work to do in all three categories.
But, I hope I’m making a little progress, because being successful in such matters is what motivates me most in my 50s as the sand slips through the hour glass of life and I try to soak it all up.
Like a few days ago, when all three of my children were together and I got to experience a wonderful few days where my wife, my kids, their spouses, and yours truly experienced a lot of good food, some grand old memories, and the making of a few new ones before work schedules demanded a return to the 9-to-5 grind.
The next week, there was another rich moment when one of my sons gave me a call, and in a big reversal of roles, asked if I wanted to hit Lake Texoma to do a little fly fishing for some early morning stripers who couldn’t resist the chug of a big topwater popper. Thinking back on a lifetime of getting my kids out of bed to go on a deer hunting adventure, a trip to the duck blind, or a day out on the water, I quickly said yes.
I’d like to tell you that we caught a boatload of big linesiders who hammered our topwater flies just off Texoma’s rocky points and shoreline, but that’s not what happened. A wind shift from storms passing by to the north made for a choppy morning on the water, and we limited out on a great time together, but little else.
There was a moment, though, when I looked up, saw my son Zach set the hook, and watched a huge grin settle across his face as his fly rod bent at a precipitous angle. For a moment, we both thought he had a large double digit striped bass at the end of his fly line. But after a few moments, we realized that it was a good smallmouth buffalo that had gobbled up his Clouser minnow fly.
Even so, my family has never been fish-catching elitists, only enjoying the big fight from a certain type of gamefish while ignoring the strong fights of lesser known piscatorial critters that have something to offer in their own right. While the slimy specimen that Zach landed after a good fight on his 7-weight fly rod wasn’t a largemouth bass, a striper, or a rainbow trout, the smile that I witnessed told me that my middle kiddo didn’t seem to mind too much.
When he finally hoisted the fish up for a quick grip-and-grin photo, it wasn’t a scene straight out of the timeliness movie A River Runs Through It. But for this dear old dad, it was still a moment that was etched in time as I smiled and watched my son laugh like he was a giddy little boy again, not a grown man traveling down the road towards an aviation career.
Aside from the tossing early morning reservoir surface northwest of Denison, it was still a moment similar to the one played out in the 1992 Robert Redford directed film when the characters Norman Maclean (portrayed by actor Craig Sheffer), his brother Paul (portrayed by Brad Pitt), and their father, Presbyterian Minister Rev. John Maclean (portrayed by Tom Skerritt), all enjoyed an afternoon of fly fishing on the Blackfoot River in southwestern Montana.
After some of the movie’s exquisite casting and fish catching scenes involving Pitt’s character, the father and two sons gathered in the evening twilight to compare catches.
Norman smiled and quietly pulled out a fine rainbow specimen from his creel and laid it on the stream bank.
That was followed by a beaming Paul, who repeated the process with an even larger rainbow.
And then came the scene stealing moment when Rev. Maclean reached into his creel and pulled out a massive rainbow that dwarfed the other streamside specimens and caused his two sons to gasp in angling envy.
“I’d say that the Lord has blessed us all today,” said the Rev. Maclean with a twinkle in his eyes. “It’s just that he’s been particularly good to me.”
And then he walked away with a hearty chuckle, the kind that a dad gives when he knows that once more, his sons are scratching their heads and pondering how the old bull did it to them yet again.
Many years later, as the then elderly Norman Maclean spun his timeless tale of love and loss for the big screen, such memorable moments drew him back in time as he once again cast a fly onto the tumbling Blackfoot River.
“Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it,” said Maclean. “The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time.
“On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops,” he continued. “Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.
“I am haunted by waters.”
Even with no big striper in my hand last week, I knew full well what Maclean meant when he penned that iconic line into his 1976 novella that was eventually turned into the hit movie.
And after the last few weeks, I’m left with a stream of my own memories that are merging into one.
As those scenes replay themselves in my mind, I too can hear the music as the words and laughter of those dear to me tumbles out and over the rocks of time.
And as I hear and see those moments again, I’m left with a full understanding of why Maclean wrote that he was haunted by waters.
I am too, even if the Father’s Day smile on my face this year is framed with a few tears of remembrance welling up in the corners of my eyes.
The Lord has indeed been good to us all.
But in this case, as a river of memories continues to roll on by, I’m reminded with sparkling clarity that He has been particularly good to me.
Even if I don’t catch a single fish.
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