Dad

Picture if you will, in the winter’s chill.

A bouncing mountain stream.

Sheltered by the trees, where the northern breeze

Blows icy cold, and mean.

Where the trees stand stark, in their frozen bark,

And the ferns are bent with snow.

Where the trailing moss, like Christmas floss,

Floats gracefully to and fro.

And the steel head jumps the rapids white,

On his lonely trek from the sea,

Ever darting, onward, upward,

To mate, as it’s meant to be.

There’s many a scene, that meets the eye,

On a blustery winter’s day.

If you stand real still by the water’s edge,

You many watch the otters play,

As they slip and slide down a wet clay bank,

And splash in the water with glee.

Though the air by cold, and the brush be dank,

There’s much beauty, for the eye to see.

The furtive doe with big, dark eyes,

Slips down to drink in the stream.

Then quickly fades in the underbrush,

‘twas as if it had been a dream.

It was here as a child, Dad brought me to this wild,

And lonely fishing hole.

‘twas here as a child, I felt the first thrill,

Of a tug on my little, wooden pole.

How he struggled and pulled, and tore at my gear,

Then dance in the air on his tail.

As I trembled and shook, with an inner fear.

I must catch him! I must not fail!

There’s many a time, in the after years,

When life has given me a thrill.

 And many a time, when the days were dark,

It has caused my blood to chill.

As I lean back, in my easy chair,

In the warmth of the fireside glow.

My thoughts drift back to that long ago day,

And the finest man I know.

How I’d love to go back, on a wintry day,

To sit by the wild fishing hole.

And feels once more, the thrill of a catch,

With my Dad, and my dog, and my little wooden pole.

*****

I remember Grandpa Mark only vaguely. I couldn't have been more than four when I saw him. To me he looked ancient; if he wasn't 100 he was close. An old blind man in a wheel chair in California, if I remember correctly. Grandpa Don remembered him differently; he wasn't always old. Even Grandpa Don was once just Don, a little boy fishing with the finest man he knew.

After only one poem I've already learned something Grandpa Don and I share in common: great respect for our fathers. I can't enumerate all of the qualities that make my dad the finest man I know, but as far as my Grandpa Don was concerned, he never had to worry about how his youngest daughter (my mom) was treated. My dad taught me respect for women, and Grandpa Don could rest easy knowing that he taught me that lesson through his own example.

My dad wanted so much to give me memories like the one in this poem. We didn't do much fishing, but that's OK, I never really cared for it anyway. If I were to write my own poem entitled Dad it wouldn't be about fishing or camping. It would look back at my dad singing me to sleep at night and what I feel now as I sing lullabies to my own child.