My youngest son eased the SUV backward down the shallow mud slope, putting the wheels of the trailer a few feet into the water. The channel leading to the lake seemed not much wider than the row boat, and I stood a few feet to the side, out of the way and out of trouble. I was in thoroughly unfamiliar territory, both metaphorically and literally—I had absolutely no idea where we were. Not that it mattered, since for the next few hours, I was entirely in his hands. It had to happen some day.
We were there on the edge of his favorite lake, putting an aluminum rowboat into the water, at my suggestion. Begging, in fact. Fishing had taken hold of Robert with a vengeance this summer, coinciding with the triumph of getting his driver’s license and being able to haul a boat and a trailer behind his small SUV. I had soon turned a little envious of his water-borne adventures with his high school buddies. Okay, the part about getting up at five in the morning for a good start didn’t hold any charm for me. But in overhearing snatches of conversation here and there, I formed the wistful impression of hours spent soaking in the grandeur of nature, sunrises, sunsets, loons, ducks, occasional fish caught and released, moonlit excursions under star-studded skies that involved more relaxing and talking about life and politics than actually fishing but still sounded heavenly.
And so I bugged him to take me fishing on one of the last mornings before school started up again. We set a date and hoped for good weather. At the appointed Mom-friendly hour, I drove up to the house bearing bug spray, sunblock, and nice ’n’ greasy McDonald’s breakfasts for the both of us. Climbed into the front passenger seat, and settled in for the ride. He’d been busy already, industriously packing fishing rods, tackle boxes, a cooler full of drinks, nets, a carton of juicy nightcrawlers, and life jackets.
This was definitely his show. He competently pushed the boat off the trailer, parked the SUV, and held the boat steady for me to climb into. We poled our way off the mud bottom and down the channel until the boat started to float on its own, then paddled through an ocean of shiny green lily pads fringed by rushes and tall grass. The last of the lily pads finally behind us, we floated out into wide open spaces. Only a few feet deep, and tiny in comparison to other recreational lakes in our county, this pond nonetheless had rustic charm to spare. Only a few houses ringed its shoreline—nature reigned supreme. Too shallow for larger boats and “personal watercraft,” too difficult for access for more than the true die-hards who didn’t mind getting muddy to get there, this was a lake for those few who REALLY treasured peace and quiet and, dare I say it, utter serenity.
Great blue herons, standing four feet tall on long twig-like legs, spread their six-foot silver wings and floated along the perimeter of the lake, slow and measured wing-beats indicating no hurry, no worries. Their necks arched back in graceful S-curves, and narrow heads perched regally above their chests, their long legs trailing behind like a ballerina’s arabesque. Unseen but still present, sandhill cranes clacked musically from the sidelines, and Canada geese passed, honking, overhead. A pair of ducks shot airborne across the lake, all speed and business, like turbo-charged Mini Coopers compared to the herons’ languid touring cars.
Wind riffled the crystilline water’s surface, and we passed over forests of strange vegetation below, some plants with leaves curled upwards like submarine calla lilies, others with riots of long, furry arms reaching upwards and crossways, chenille yarn for fish and mermaids to fantastically knit. A damselfly perched casually on my knee, and I let him sit, undisturbed. The weather was perfect. Sunny, no clouds above but a small handful scattered at the horizons. Light wind, enough to both keep us cool and move the boat, but not enough to rock it.
He set me up with a casting rod, starting with the basics: an earthworm on a hook, with a plastic bobber attached to let me know if a fish started to nibble. Later in the morning I graduated to an artificial lure and left the bobber behind in favor of the thrill of the chase. He upgraded to a “buzz” lure, hoping to land a northern. I surprised my son—nice to still be able to do that every so often—by casting respectably from the get-go. All those hours spent horse-training decades ago, lightly cracking a long-handled whip to snap the air just behind my gelding’s haunches as he dutifully trotted in circles on the lunge line, were good for something.
We sat, and drifted, and casted, and occasionally motored to new spots, and detangled our lines from the weeds they snagged in. We landed four feisty bass, two apiece. I marveled at how beautiful of a day we’d lucked out with. And I marveled, too, at how lovely it is when the roles get reversed, and I could sit back and enjoy the ride.
There’s inevitably a tipping point—or there should be—when you look at the kid you have raised from day one, through diapers and ear infections and teething and bruises and homework and late-night trips to the E.R., piano recitals and back-to-school shopping and driver’s ed, and realize that they can do some stuff on their own.
For my older son, that moment came when he was eighteen and I flew to Germany to visit him for a weekend. He was spending several months there as a foreign exchange student. I not only spoke no German, I barely knew which end of the country he was living in. I’d started listening to a “German for Dummies” CD in the airport lounge before takeoff from Chicago, then gave up twenty minutes later. Too late to pick up the language then. So for four days a few thousand miles from home, I took all my cues from my son. He navigated the trains, gave me a walking tour around the neighborhood and the town center, picked a café where we had coffee and ice cream, warned me to keep my purse closer to me when we sat so it would be out of pickpocket range, navigated all the signs and directions and bathrooms and menus, and translated more than adequately at an impromptu gathering of my German cousins before we left.
For my oldest daughter—the “training baby” we mother’s have the hardest time cutting the apron strings on—the moment came watching her as she addressed a crowd of about twenty five hundred students from an auditorium stage at a convention she’d helped to plan. For the younger one, it came at the end of a long day at the office, a hundred fifty miles of highway under my belt, and an awards banquet we’d attended that evening where she’d received a scholarship. As I sat on living room sofa of her new student apartment, the “guest room” where I would sleep the night in comfort just ten feet away and her cat watching warily from the sidelines, she kicked into maternal comfort mode. Let me get you a cup of tea, she suggested. Would I like to watch “Sex and the City?” I put my feet up on the coffee table and accepted my new place in the world. It felt good. And now it was time for my “caboose baby.”
Three hours after Robert and I first poled and paddled our way out to the middle of the lake, it was time to make our way home. He expertly located the tiny break in the identical stands of tall grass rimming the lake, and navigated us back up the channel to the spot where we’d left the car. Grunting and struggling mightily, he wrestled the boat—usually a two man job—by inches on to the back end of the trailer. I stayed out of the way as he balanced on the trailer and manhandled the full load, then tentatively worked the winch at his direction when the time came. Gear unloaded and boat buckled down, we slowly made our way home and back to reality and routine. “Thanks honey,” I said, “this was just…beautiful!”
The school year has started, the house is again quiet, and autumn is settling in. A few sugar maples have started to brilliantly catch fire and drop their leaves already, signaling an encroaching end to long days spent outdoors in shorts and sandals. There’s no more talk about the need to get up at five in the morning to get that boat in the water. I can already anticipate breaking out my snowshoes after a good blizzard this winter, and we haven’t had the first frost yet.
The march toward the dead of winter is inexorable, with fixtures of hot chocolate, snowdrifts, crackling fires and frosty windshields on the horizon. But no matter how cold it gets, and no matter how few hours of daylight we have for months on end, it won’t take much to get my mind back in that boat. If you see me with a far-off stare and a smile on my face this winter as the winds howl outside and the snowflakes fall like cotton, chances are…I’ve “gone fishin’.”
We were there on the edge of his favorite lake, putting an aluminum rowboat into the water, at my suggestion. Begging, in fact. Fishing had taken hold of Robert with a vengeance this summer, coinciding with the triumph of getting his driver’s license and being able to haul a boat and a trailer behind his small SUV. I had soon turned a little envious of his water-borne adventures with his high school buddies. Okay, the part about getting up at five in the morning for a good start didn’t hold any charm for me. But in overhearing snatches of conversation here and there, I formed the wistful impression of hours spent soaking in the grandeur of nature, sunrises, sunsets, loons, ducks, occasional fish caught and released, moonlit excursions under star-studded skies that involved more relaxing and talking about life and politics than actually fishing but still sounded heavenly.
And so I bugged him to take me fishing on one of the last mornings before school started up again. We set a date and hoped for good weather. At the appointed Mom-friendly hour, I drove up to the house bearing bug spray, sunblock, and nice ’n’ greasy McDonald’s breakfasts for the both of us. Climbed into the front passenger seat, and settled in for the ride. He’d been busy already, industriously packing fishing rods, tackle boxes, a cooler full of drinks, nets, a carton of juicy nightcrawlers, and life jackets.
This was definitely his show. He competently pushed the boat off the trailer, parked the SUV, and held the boat steady for me to climb into. We poled our way off the mud bottom and down the channel until the boat started to float on its own, then paddled through an ocean of shiny green lily pads fringed by rushes and tall grass. The last of the lily pads finally behind us, we floated out into wide open spaces. Only a few feet deep, and tiny in comparison to other recreational lakes in our county, this pond nonetheless had rustic charm to spare. Only a few houses ringed its shoreline—nature reigned supreme. Too shallow for larger boats and “personal watercraft,” too difficult for access for more than the true die-hards who didn’t mind getting muddy to get there, this was a lake for those few who REALLY treasured peace and quiet and, dare I say it, utter serenity.
Great blue herons, standing four feet tall on long twig-like legs, spread their six-foot silver wings and floated along the perimeter of the lake, slow and measured wing-beats indicating no hurry, no worries. Their necks arched back in graceful S-curves, and narrow heads perched regally above their chests, their long legs trailing behind like a ballerina’s arabesque. Unseen but still present, sandhill cranes clacked musically from the sidelines, and Canada geese passed, honking, overhead. A pair of ducks shot airborne across the lake, all speed and business, like turbo-charged Mini Coopers compared to the herons’ languid touring cars.
Wind riffled the crystilline water’s surface, and we passed over forests of strange vegetation below, some plants with leaves curled upwards like submarine calla lilies, others with riots of long, furry arms reaching upwards and crossways, chenille yarn for fish and mermaids to fantastically knit. A damselfly perched casually on my knee, and I let him sit, undisturbed. The weather was perfect. Sunny, no clouds above but a small handful scattered at the horizons. Light wind, enough to both keep us cool and move the boat, but not enough to rock it.
He set me up with a casting rod, starting with the basics: an earthworm on a hook, with a plastic bobber attached to let me know if a fish started to nibble. Later in the morning I graduated to an artificial lure and left the bobber behind in favor of the thrill of the chase. He upgraded to a “buzz” lure, hoping to land a northern. I surprised my son—nice to still be able to do that every so often—by casting respectably from the get-go. All those hours spent horse-training decades ago, lightly cracking a long-handled whip to snap the air just behind my gelding’s haunches as he dutifully trotted in circles on the lunge line, were good for something.
We sat, and drifted, and casted, and occasionally motored to new spots, and detangled our lines from the weeds they snagged in. We landed four feisty bass, two apiece. I marveled at how beautiful of a day we’d lucked out with. And I marveled, too, at how lovely it is when the roles get reversed, and I could sit back and enjoy the ride.
There’s inevitably a tipping point—or there should be—when you look at the kid you have raised from day one, through diapers and ear infections and teething and bruises and homework and late-night trips to the E.R., piano recitals and back-to-school shopping and driver’s ed, and realize that they can do some stuff on their own.
For my older son, that moment came when he was eighteen and I flew to Germany to visit him for a weekend. He was spending several months there as a foreign exchange student. I not only spoke no German, I barely knew which end of the country he was living in. I’d started listening to a “German for Dummies” CD in the airport lounge before takeoff from Chicago, then gave up twenty minutes later. Too late to pick up the language then. So for four days a few thousand miles from home, I took all my cues from my son. He navigated the trains, gave me a walking tour around the neighborhood and the town center, picked a café where we had coffee and ice cream, warned me to keep my purse closer to me when we sat so it would be out of pickpocket range, navigated all the signs and directions and bathrooms and menus, and translated more than adequately at an impromptu gathering of my German cousins before we left.
For my oldest daughter—the “training baby” we mother’s have the hardest time cutting the apron strings on—the moment came watching her as she addressed a crowd of about twenty five hundred students from an auditorium stage at a convention she’d helped to plan. For the younger one, it came at the end of a long day at the office, a hundred fifty miles of highway under my belt, and an awards banquet we’d attended that evening where she’d received a scholarship. As I sat on living room sofa of her new student apartment, the “guest room” where I would sleep the night in comfort just ten feet away and her cat watching warily from the sidelines, she kicked into maternal comfort mode. Let me get you a cup of tea, she suggested. Would I like to watch “Sex and the City?” I put my feet up on the coffee table and accepted my new place in the world. It felt good. And now it was time for my “caboose baby.”
Three hours after Robert and I first poled and paddled our way out to the middle of the lake, it was time to make our way home. He expertly located the tiny break in the identical stands of tall grass rimming the lake, and navigated us back up the channel to the spot where we’d left the car. Grunting and struggling mightily, he wrestled the boat—usually a two man job—by inches on to the back end of the trailer. I stayed out of the way as he balanced on the trailer and manhandled the full load, then tentatively worked the winch at his direction when the time came. Gear unloaded and boat buckled down, we slowly made our way home and back to reality and routine. “Thanks honey,” I said, “this was just…beautiful!”
The school year has started, the house is again quiet, and autumn is settling in. A few sugar maples have started to brilliantly catch fire and drop their leaves already, signaling an encroaching end to long days spent outdoors in shorts and sandals. There’s no more talk about the need to get up at five in the morning to get that boat in the water. I can already anticipate breaking out my snowshoes after a good blizzard this winter, and we haven’t had the first frost yet.
The march toward the dead of winter is inexorable, with fixtures of hot chocolate, snowdrifts, crackling fires and frosty windshields on the horizon. But no matter how cold it gets, and no matter how few hours of daylight we have for months on end, it won’t take much to get my mind back in that boat. If you see me with a far-off stare and a smile on my face this winter as the winds howl outside and the snowflakes fall like cotton, chances are…I’ve “gone fishin’.”
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