A long time ago, when I was eight, dad took me fishing. It was in April, the first day of fishing season in northern Quebec. And I didn’t care if it was cold, or if there was still snow on the ground.
“Help me find my warm boots?” I asked. And he did. Then I helped dad make peanut butter sandwiches, my favorite. “Where’s my packsack?” I asked. Smiling patiently, he found it for me.
“This is how I’m going to get a fish,” I said. Holding my new fishing rod birthday gift full stretch, I saw its neat lines, tightly wound threads and shiny eyelets. Then swinging it around, smacked the water glass from the kitchen table. Good thing he helped me clean up all the bits and pieces.
Mom just stood and shook her head. I don’t think she was upset. Just glad her boys were going fishing together, anywhere out of the house.
We loaded up our pickup truck. First my fishing rod was too long in the front. So I placed it in the back. Then I put our packsacks with sandwiches and water right beside it. Almost forgot our fishing box with some neat lures, but dad didn’t. He handed the green tin box to me.
The gravel road was full of loose stones. And they flew behind us as if fired from slingshots. But I couldn’t see much because of the dust. Then we hit a huge bump. “My fishing rod!” I yelled, as I watched it bounce from the truck. Dad put the brakes on so hard I flew across the seat and almost choked on the road dust that soon covered us.
“I saw it fly across that ditch,” I said. Dad climbed down the side of the road. And stepped on some ice. “Don’t get wet!” I yelled. But, he did.
Soon dad came back with my neat gift, scratched and covered in mud. The broken cork handle made it shorter than before. After starting on our way, I could now keep my fishing rod in my lap. And my tears had stopped.
It’s hard to try and be a man when your birthday present tries to take off like a crow then gets broken. At least it fit inside the front of the truck. “Does that mean I can’t go fishing? I ask.
“No,” dad answered. “I’m going to show you another way to fish,” he said. “Just like my own dad showed me.”
“At least we’re still going fishing!” I shouted. After a while, my hat blew off. Dad stopped the truck and this time I went along to help him find it. I tried not to notice him talking to himself.