“She should have stayed away from friends
She should have had more time to spend
She should have died when she was born
She should have worn the crown of thorns”

Been a Son- Nirvana

1982 was the year that marked, among other things, my Dad approaching me to ask if I would like to attend this series of classes he had heard about. It was called GI Joe’s Fishing Camp, and it was for parents and their children to learn how to fish together.

At this point in time I was still very much a daddy’s girl and what I wanted more than anything was to make him happy, having deduced that if he was happy, everyone would be happy and we could all continue to live together. When I gave an enthusiastic, “YES!” he pulled me to him and held me. My heart was racing with joy and I felt just the sting of tears at the corners of my eyes. His face was beaming and I had done that; I had put that smile there.

He showed me the information that he had collected regarding these classes and wrote the times and dates down in his tiny little cursive. When the evening of the first class arrived I was all excited, imaging us flinging line into water and pulling out fish. When we got in the car he had no poles, just his wallet that he always studied carefully before he left the house. We arrived at a building and walked into a room full of fold out chairs. We were early as always and Dad seized that opportunity to grab good seats. He had difficulty hearing and even in the best situations he had to cup his hand around his earlobe and listen with a pained look on his face. We sat silently holding hands as we waited. Soon the room began filling up with fathers and sons and when a man approached the microphone stand dad gave my hand one last squeeze before he pulled it away to cup his ear.

I soon discovered that listening to a man talking about fishing was even more boring than church, where at least we were threatened with eternal damnation and called sinners and told to beg for forgiveness least we be sent to the fiery pits of hell. I pretended to be incredibly interested in the man with the microphone and when he set up a screen for a slide show I hoped it was getting better but a slideshow about fishing while a man talks is only marginally more interesting than him talking without the slides.

When we left my Dad pulled me along by the hand and praised me for being the best behaved child in attendance. This was an early lesson; I knew full well that the consequence for misbehaving was being taken home and beaten until I could only hope I’d pass out or even die, but I never did. We were beaten until he either grabbed someone else and started in on them or he tired. The only salvation I had was the fact that he often beat us in chronological order, so by the time he had finished with my Mom, my brother and both of my sisters and reached for me he was sometimes out of steam.

All the way home in the car my Dad talked about the new things he had learned and I sat nervously, hoping there wasn’t going to be a quiz. When he exclaimed about learning to fly fish, something he had apparently always wanted to do, I felt this nausea within me. When the weather was nice and my Mom opened the windows the flies would come in. My Mom would smack at them and with each successful hit she would exclaim, “I got Louie!” or Fred, or Stan, or Joe… I asked her once how she knew their names and she said she just knew. The flies were always male and sometimes, before she would wipe the remains away, I would look down at the smashed insect and wonder if he’d had a family, a wife and kids. Now I envisioned catching them and having to place them on hooks.

Dad and I attended a few more seminars before the big event, the Saturday we got to try out all that we had learned at a trout fishing pond especially stocked for the occasion. Before that Saturday Dad surprised me by taking me shopping for supplies. We stood in the fishing aisle and I pretended to understand why we needed this and that but not the other. When my Dad said that he felt it was time to get me a pole of my own I nearly fell over with excitement. It wasn’t Christmas or my Birthday; I couldn’t believe I was getting a present. My Dad selected the pole for me, carefully pointing out the fact that it was very expensive at $14.99. I couldn’t wait to get it home and open it. I imagined standing on the couch casting off into the shag carpet and reeling my stuffed animals in one at a time.

At home the pole was tucked away for safety with my Dad’s things. I waited for the day I would be allowed to hold it. When the Saturday arrived I eagerly helped him pack up the car. Upon our arrival at the pond I saw dozens and dozens of sons with their poles and their fathers. There were tables set up with free hotdogs and soda pop and I was excited because I had never had a hotdog before and now the day had arrived when I would bite into the mystery of the bun and the dog all covered in mustard.

We went directly to the water’s edge and my Dad finally let me hold my pole. He showed me how to slip the salmon eggs he had bought onto my hook. I was relieved that I didn’t have to touch any flies or worms. The salmon eggs were pink and pretty and I just pretended they were mushy beads. My Dad showed me how to cast out and then we waited. I asked him if he was going to fish too, but he said that this was my day. All around me the excited screams, hollers and chatter erupted from excited boys reeling in fish to the delight of their back slapping proud fathers. My Dad grimaced in disapproval over the noise. Patiently he stood beside me, guiding me in a whisper, watching my face closely as I waited for a nibble. Hours seemed to pass as I tried again and again, unsuccessfully.

When most of the participants were now wandering around eating hotdogs and chatting with the other fathers as their sons ran and played, the fish they had caught either strung up or in buckets, forgotten already, my Dad packed us up without a word. Grasping my hand again and pulling me along he finally spoke, “You didn’t want a hotdog, did you?”

It wasn’t a question. I tried not to cry as we hurried to the car. After we had packed up he placed his hand on my shoulder and looked directly into my eyes. “It’s okay that you didn’t catch a fish. I am proud of you for trying so hard. The fish were probably scared away by all of the people making so much noise.” He shot a dirty look in the direction of the pond as I tried to believe him. I wanted so badly to see the look of pride on his face that I saw on the faces of the other dads. I wondered if it was due to the fact that I was a girl. I thought that all of those hours I had spent in those seminars just pretending to listen while daydreaming had caught up with me. I vowed right then that I would become a fisher girl extraordinaire. I would do him proud, one day.

To Be Continued, as always. For those readers who requested more about Terri and Sophie, I haven’t forgotten. For reasons that will become obvious later, it was necessary to write this entry first.