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As for most little girls,
Dad was my first hero. To
me, he exemplified commitment,
responsibility, and stability.
He was the straight and narrow
arrow that accepted nothing
less than the center of the
bull's eye.
Growing up with Dad was a
wonderful experience; he taught
by example and he lived life,
not on the edge, but fully.
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Summer weekends were
meant for Lake Superior.
Mom was always ready
when the boat launched
at 3:35 p.m. on Friday
- on the dot - regardless
of what her list of
to-do's held. Together
with Uncle Carl, Aunt
Lois, and cousin Lisa
we played. Our adventures
took us across every
inch of Grand Island
from its southern harbored
shore to its northern
cliffs rising from the
water's edge like the
walls of a fortress,
into every open and
under water cove of
Superior's shoreline,
to the Devil's slide
down dunes of Grand
Marais and the rusted
iron docks of Marquette,
onto rock strewn beaches
and old sunken ships,
and through all weather,
even Superior's temper
tantrums.
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Today, Dad is 88 years
old. His boats are docked
or long ago adopted
by other water lovers.
Well-spent fishing poles
await his summons for
another adventure on
the great lake. Their
lines, like Dad's hair,
grayed with age and
their lures kept in
tackle boxes that now
serve only as treasure
boxes of memories.
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For as long as I can remember,
Dad has always called me "Sunshyn",
a name he and my brother,
Butchie, bestowed upon me,
but lately, he has begun to
call me the "the chosen
one". I'll never pretend
to understand why, and chosen
for what, I'm not sure, but
the title I'll proudly serve
whenever called upon to do
so.
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Such a call came recently.
A few weeks ago when I was
visiting him at his new and
my sister's old home, kneeling
aside his chair as I always
do, we listened to oldie songs
that I had given him the Christmas
past.
Out of the blue, Dad asked
"Where do you catch fish?"
Caught somewhat off-guard,
but with all the confidence
of a trophy fisherman from
one of those Sunday afternoon
catch and release shows, I
responded confidently.
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"At about 150 feet of
Lake Superior water, Dad,
where else would one catch
Lake Trout?"
I saw his deep smile rise
his cheeks up to fold the
laugh lines around his eyes
that glistened with the twinkling
that I recall having always
desired to see when a child
- the twinkling of pride -
and his face begged the next
question.
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"Dad, would you like
to go fishing with me on Superior?"
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Nearly overwrought with emotion,
choking the words to his lips,
his voice barely audible,
he said first, with eyes wide
open, "Yes", then
with eyes closed in thought,
"Yes."
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The following week, Dad asked
my brother-in-law to take
him to buy his fishing license.
The next time I called, he
told me he was ready. We waited
upon Mother Nature to provide
the opportune time of warm
weather, sunshine, and calm
seas, but she had other plans.
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At 4:00 AM, I left home for
a 5 hour journey to my Dad.
Along the way, I worked with
eased direction, timely focus,
and a witnessed excitement
for the day that lay ahead.
At noon, Dad and my husband
joined me at my doctor's office
where I would receive confirmation
that my surgery was inevitable.
My husband held my hand in
what I'm quite sure was an
expectant manner for my reaction,
but there was none. The news
couldn't shatter the vision
before me... at least not
until Dad placed his hand
on my shoulder and whispered,
"Priorities in order.
Priorities in order."
I knew what he meant.
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An assessment of Superior's
waterfront readily revealed
a distant fog bank heading
in from Canada. I took in
a deep breath of UP air and
looked at Dad, watching him
do likewise. He titled his
head, his look asking me "whatchya
gonna do kid?" When my
glance responded with a "you
tell me" look, he raised
his eyebrows so as to ask
the question once more, only
with more importance. I looked
to my husband and our eyes
met. Surely the thought of
a forlorn puppy left out in
the rain awaiting rescue must
have come to his mind. He
smiled, winked, and simply
said,
"I've got your back,
babe. Your Dad will have a
good day. Take the first drive
after old M-28." And
with that, my white knight
was gone.
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The 30 minute jog on down
to old M-28 was filled with
talk of the days that Dad
spent building the credit
union, selling K-C employees
on the concept of saving for
a rainy day, loading trains,
and all that other logistics
stuff he did day in and day
out with a loyalty that put
him in place on the docks
every day. We talked of Edgu
and Elsie, the days they snowmobiled
and that he missed them now
that they were gone.
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He spoke of Bobbie, Bertie,
and Donnie, each with pride
that swelled from his very
soul. Then he simply added,
"Butchie would be here
with us."
I replied, "I think
he is."
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Dad went silent for moments
in his own thoughts - a silence
I had learned to respect,
a silence whose thoughts I
can sometimes hear.
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My
brother, Lee, more commonly
known as "Butch",
was killed in a tornado in 1973
at twenty-six years of age,
but his spirit lives on for
me in every paddle of my kayak,
in every wave I overcome, in
every target I hit at a distance
not accomplished before, and
in every fishing adventure,
this one being no exception.
He lived "in the moment",
fearless, and always on the
edge. Things I never dreamed
I would do in my more pristine
"chic" teenage years,
I do in his honor and to me
these things bring many of my
most treasured memories. Dad
has mentioned on a few occassions
that he notices 'the edge' in
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We crested the hill over
Shelter Bay, the still inland
lake to our right lay as smooth
as glass, the greatest lake
to our left peaked through
trees, but showed no white
caps. Our excitement grew.
"About 100 feet, Dad,
and we'll be there."
"It'll be a good day."
he responded.
True to form and perhaps
expectedly, the boat for our
adventure was named the "Jodi
Lee". Its decks were
clean and swabbed, its railing
shining from the layers of
poly, just like Lee's. Downriggers
manned the sides like soldiers
ready for battle and tackle
lined the cab's wall readied
as ammunition.
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Our path was there before
us, the fog folded back, the
water bluer than I ever remembered
it, the huge ropes that bound
us to a dock now lay scattered
there as though discarded
in the excitement to be out
there on the wave. And we
were launched. While Dad stood
atop the well cover to gain
the height that years had
taken from him, his legs weak,
I stood behind him, my arms
wrapping his left side, my
body ready to catch his fall,
and I remembered the times
he had held me in protection
while we braved an angry Superior,
while we walked the rocks
of ever rising cliffs on the
north side of the island,
while we huddled down to let
a bear pass our path and was
thankful that I was able to
return a sense of security.
I watched him peer out at
the land to the east of us,
pointing to the home he had
built atop the hill, where
all his children had grown.
He focused on the west, naming
the point "Laughing Whitefish
Point", named after an
Indian maiden, Princess Whitefish.
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The heavy fog wrapped and
unwrapped us as though a thick
black velvet cloak, but we
held our path electronically
- up the bank's edge, around
its flat end, down the rescinding
edge, and along the drop-off
at its top. Pass for pass,
we marked no fish. But it
mattered not; the camaraderie
was grand and filled us all
and the stories were endless
of times and people who had
left, but were unforgotten,
the great fishing trips of
times long ago, and of course,
of Superior.
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Just a few months ago, Dad
underwent his fourth surgery
for cancer. The day after
Dad returned home from the
hospital, he lost his only
brother to cancer. Weak and
frail, but with the ever present
chilvary and honor Dad has
always held, he sat aside
Aunt Lois, greeting people,
thanking them with her for
their prayers and for sharing
this last farewell.
Uncle Carl was a man whom
touched everyone's life in
some of the most remarkable
ways possible - it was as
though he knew a person's
deepest more tresured needs
and he sought to meet them
through love and sharing.
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The Orthodox Priest spoke
highly of Uncle Carl and grandchildren
shared stories resembling
the ones that Dad was telling
now.
The one sentence in the eulogy
that gave meaning for Dad
conveyed the very life that
Uncle Carl and Dad have lived,
"We fished all day, but
caught nothing, neither here
nor there, the splashing midst
upon Uncle Carl's face put
a smile there that we knew
meant he was thankful just
to have shared the day with
us." In Dad's silence,
I heard these thoughts.
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Our Captain, Native
by blood and a man of
few words, and my husband
had long ago formed
a bond from their journeys;
their footprints had
shared the same paths.
Their silences, glances
and conversation confirmed
to me that they were
in brotherhood.
Captain Mitch's strong
jaw line and smart cocky
grin reminded me of
Butchie, but it was
that still calm within
him that I found deep
admiration for that
day - he knew - he knew
why this day and who
this day was for and
his pride to honor an
elder consumed him.
Captain Mitch worked
feverously putting down
and pulling up the outriggers,
tightening and loosening
the lines, checking
the depth finder, scouring
the depths, looking
for a mark. He was obviously
unsatisfied with a 'no
catch' day, despite
our repeated proclamations
of enjoyment and thanks,
to which he only responded
with,
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"Prepare to stay until
we've met our limit."
Dad nodded as though that
was an obvious conclusion.
I sat erect, looking at each
of them thinking that dinner
would be a novel idea come
sunset, then quickly glanced
towards the head and bow.
Dad rested back into his deck
chair and continued watching
the lines. Seeing my concern
of missing dinner or darkness
on Superior was unshared,
I smiled and returned the
nod. Dad just kept watching
the lines.
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Then it hit. The pole
bent. Vibrated. Straightened
a tad. And bent again.
It was a live line!
I squealed at Dad that
he had one - which some,
and surely my brother
Bob would have seen
as an overstatement
of the obvious - nonetheless
a joyful clatter that
brought that twinkle
to Dad's eyes and that
shitty ass grin to his
face.
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Captain Mitch quickly
hit the line control
and the boom bounced
- the line was released
- he grabbed the rod
from the holder and
handed it off to my
Dad whose hands grasped
it as though he had
never missed a day on
the lake.
The line counter put
it out at 212 feet,
dragging behind us at
an angle, its projection
just under the high
line and over the backside
down riggers The path
was clear. Captain Mitch
moved quickly to the
wheel and cut the engines
down to their slowest
troll.
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Round and round, over
and under, round again,
Dad reeled the fish
to the boat and I cheered
him on,
"Keep it coming,
Dad, don't stop, don't
loose it, you got it,
keep him coming."
He laughed, he smiled,
he laughed again and
again.
And there it was -
surfing across the top
of the water in a furry
to catch up with our
boat and be landed!
Well, maybe not by the
fish's choice, but it
sure could appear so.
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Captain Mitch scooped it
up and swung the net around,
slowing just in front my Dad,
"That's a nice one."
And with that, Dad pierced
his gills and held him up
for his photo.
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Then number two hit.
Again, the pole bent,
its tip quivering under
the tension. Dad moved
to the edge of his deck
chair - readying himself
for the big landing
once more and I scurried
to his side, proclaiming
another arrival.
As smooth as the time
before, without missing
a beat, Captain Mitch
swooped the rod from
its holder and delivered
it into my Dad's hands.
He gripped and wound,
over and under, round
and round.
A sharp winding shrill
echoed as the line cleared
the tip.
"This is a big
one!"
Dad's voice louder
than it had been for
years.
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He reeled and reeled.
This one was out 298
feet behind us. As I
watched his hands move
slower, I knew the invitation
was coming.
"Here kid, you
reel it in."
With the end of the
pole facing me, his
face holding a tad bit
of tiredness, I placed
my hand on the reel
and Dad placed his hand
over mine. Just as he
had done when I was
a child fishing with
him, so now I was helping
him land the catch.
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Knowing whose glory
this was, I wound for
a bit, then turned the
control back to its
rightful owner. Indeed
it was bigger than the
last.
His grin fills my memory
and heart, full faced,
eyes twinkling once
more.
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Tears clouded my viewfinder
as I took aim at the
two he showcased forwarded.
"Nice fish, Dad,
dang nice fish."
Then the third hit!
In all the excitement,
the posed prizes were
quickly thrown back
into the cooler and
water splashed everywhere.
It covered Frank, Dad's
coat... and Dad's face.
He grinned ear-to-ear
as he wiped his face
and we laughed. The
water on his face...
oh the meaning within...
life... living.
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As he wiped away the
last of the splash,
he turned to Frank,
grinning still, and
jokingly stated,
"You won't miss
me when I'm gone."
Frank made direct eye
contact, "Oh yes,
Dad, we will all miss
you when you are gone."
Nodding in acknowledgement,
Dad's smile was precious
with a 'figure so' look.
I leaned close to Dad,
winked, and added, "But
we will keep your spirit
alive every day, every
way, just like today."
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As the third fish came
aboard, Dad began to
laugh. With two fingers
pointing at the starboard
riggers, his half laugh,
full smile continued,
his head shaking back
and forth,
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"What I wouldn't give
to see you if we were hitting
on two down riggers on each
side one after another. You
would surely be excited. What
I wouldn't give to see you
then."
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"Another day, Daddy,
another day."
Captain Mitch began the ritual
of the hunt's end. Lines released
from their booms, the retreivers
brought them home and each
was wound tightly and bedded
in its reserved spot on the
top of the cabin ceiling.
Dad asked me, "Remember?"
On occassion, Dad travels
through time, picking up a
favorite memory in this year,
adding it to a favorite from
another year. But it matters
not. His remeniscing way means
only that these memories are
the heart of his soul, regardless
of their time and place. Even
so, I wasn't quite sure what
he referring to. My inquisitive
face told him I needed more
of hint.
He pointed to the setting
sun that had tried so hard
to burn off the fog and shine
upon us all day. "Remember?"
Oh, and I did. When I was
about seven and half (which
for any girl of that age is
'going on 10'), Dad and I
were fishing at the mouth
of the Anna River. We sat
in silence - probably the
only time I did at that age
- when I couldn't hold back
my question any longer. "Dad,
what is the meaning of life?"
When Dad looked at me somewhat
amiss at such a question,
I explained, "Well, as
I see it, you can't win this
game. You are born, but no
matter what, you die. Just
like the fish, we get taken
out of here and we're dead."
Expecting that parents had
all the answers and responded
immediately, I was sure they
were clueless when the answers
didn't come quickly. The silence
continued for what seemed
like hours, which was probably
only 15 minutes or so, but
I was sure he didn't know.
As the sun filled the horizon
with a fiery red, Dad pointed
to it and said, "That's
the meaning."
I looked at Dad and smiled,
tears filled my eyes. "Yes,
Daddy, I remember."
Then Dad patted my hand and
proclaimed it to have been
a good day.
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was a good day... what meaning!
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