Gone fishing

I can't stop looking at this photo of my Dad's tombstone.  It's very strange to think that the man who was my father lies beneath that freshly turned grey and rocky soil, dead, and soon to rot.  It's funny how I don't think of him in heaven or in hell, even though I like to believe there  is something more after we die.

Maybe his soul has already passed on to another, and he's already beginning a new life as someone else's child, later to be someone else's spouse, and someone elses parent... Regardless of where his soul has gone, I feel certain that the man that was my father doesn't exist anymore, and I feel a strange sense of peace with that thought, for both he and I.

All that yelling and fighting, the anger and the drinking, the hate...  it must have been just as awful for him as it was for the rest of us. I can't imagine it not being so.  He was a mean bastard, there's no doubt about that, and yet now that he's dead, now that he and I have shed all the hurt that came between us in our lives together, I can now see the good things that I got from him. Nothing is as black and white as we make it out to be.

Looking at this tombstone I remember - from my Dad I got my love of nature. He'd take me fishing, and blueberry picking; every Christmas we'd all go out into the woods to choose and cut down our tree,  and every spring, after a cold hard winter we go off in the car, and walk for hours along old hauling roads so that we could find and bring back bunches of May Flowers for my Mom. 

In the summer, whenever the mood struck, we'd  take the punt out to the mouth of the harbour where we lived.  We'd sit there for hours with our fishing lines cast over the side of the boat, letting the weight of the baited hook sink to the bottom where the big fish were, giving it a jig now and then to get their attention.  We'd share the joy of each others catch, - cod or pollock, the occasional flounder or haddock, and once a year we'd fill the boat up with mackerel, and in turn fill up the freezer with our catch. 

Whenever we had fish for supper I felt proud that I had played a part in providing it, and I dont know if it's just wishful thinking or not, but I swear my Dad and I shared a look and a secret smile when the fish was layed out on our plates.  I don't know if my father meant for me to learn these simple lessons or not, but it was something very good that we shared, and to this day I love being in the natural world. I find peace and connection there, when I'm sitting beside a bonfire, or  when I'm out on the lake in my kayak. I'll spend hours fishing,  even if there's nothing for me to catch. But when I do catch something and I bring it back to the campsite to share with my Wife, there's nothing finer then knowing I  provided that simple meal.

Even when my Dad was dieing in the hospital, he  talked about how he hoped he could get out and go fishing soon. There's no doubt in my mind, that like I do, he got something more from the activity than just a pleasant pastime.  He never left the hospital; he died only two months after being admitted to the cancer ward. My brother Paul cried because he couldn't give him his wish, couldn't take him fishing before he died. 

So when I look at my Dad's tombstone and read 'Gone Fishing' it's nice to think that if there is such thing as heaven, that where my Dad has gone there's this big lake with lots of fish in it for him to catch.  And I've no doubt, that if that place exists  I'll be joining him there when I die. And maybe someone will write 'Gone Fishing on my tombstone as well.