A poem addressed to the poet’s
father, who of course ended his own life when B. was just a boy. It is an
expression of grief, with other complex emotional flavors, but not hot, not
angry.
This has me thinking about my
father. I guess that’s not surprising. In response, here is something I wrote
on the occasion of what would have been my father’s 80th birthday,
August 10, 2011. He had died just over 2 months earlier. I first posted it on
the Ohio Game Fisherman’s Forum, for some reason, and got a nice response from
the online sport fishermen of southern Ohio, who value a humid summer evening
spent waist deep in a river with the fishes in the same way I do and like to tell stories about it. It’s an
acquired taste I suppose. A decent group of people. I think I also put this up
on Facebook back when. I’ve resurrected it and I’ll post it here this evening,
because it arose out of a similar tone of grief—a grief that doesn’t paralyze
like grief so often can, but that rather asks to be given a form.
The
Monster Catfish I Saw Last Night
After dinner and fine wine with
Mom last night, and some tearful reminiscences, instead of going straight home
I spontaneously stopped and bought a bag of Doritos, a six-pack of Miller High
Life, and a tub of chicken livers and went to the spot where Dad and I always
used to meet. The moon was shining bright and clear, and it felt kind of
lonely, but I baited up. Lots of bumps and bites right away, but I just ended
up feeding chunks of liver to the catfish (like normal). Finally felt a good
tug, set the hook, and realized I was caught on a big rock—no give at all. Then
that “rock” started swimming straight toward me. And kept coming. I reeled in
line as fast as I could, all slack, and right at the bank I caught up with it.
Got one more strong tug, then this big black moony-mouthed noggin stuck up out
of the water, tail splashing what looked in the moonlight like about four feet
away from the head, and spit the chicken liver right back in my eye. Then it
turned around for good measure and splashed me three times with its tail and
was gone. It left me shaking and scared—I wade in that river all the time!!!
Not anymore, not with monsters like that thing lurking down there. Not so much
as a nibble for the next hour. After a beer (just one—I was alone and driving),
and half the bag of Doritos, I decided it was time for bed, and I still had a
40-minute drive to get home. I put my gear away, folded up my chair, and the
last thing I did was empty the tub of livers into the water as a parting gift
to whatever other loathsome giant might be skulking down there. Another splash
and commotion (I’m telling you—a lot of water moved) and that same big head
stuck up out the water in the moonlight, chicken livers spilling out of the
corner of its wide ugly mouth, and it belched something sounded like a cross
between a blue heron and a bullfrog. A most unmusical croak. I said, “You’re
welcome,” and I headed into the woods in the dark, owls hooting on both sides
of the valley.
Last night would have been Dad’s
80th birthday. He passed away May 31st of this year. I loved my dad and I miss
him. He loved good wine and good food, traveling, making things with wood, and
hunting and fishing with his sons more than anything.
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