Cooler Grunge

I was scrubbing out the really handy cooler with a handle and wheels we uncovered in Dad’s shed last week.  It was coated in dust, had that dried watery dirt all over inside it that grinds into the interior of all coolers.  I wanted to touch it closely, smell it, maybe even taste it. Where had he used this last? Which lake was he fishing? What was in the cooler? Pops and waters or Styrofoam cups of nightcrawlers and covered dixie cups of leeches? Better not lick it, Anney.  I wanted to touch it, take it in because it represented a connection to the life Dad led before he got really sick.  It was representative of his living self that I had 55 years of experience with. The last year didn’t/doesn’t count. We never know how much we will miss the normalcy of the relationship until it is gone.

When he bought nightcrawlers for us to fish with, he stored them in the brown bag in the refrigerator and then took them out on the boat in his cooler.  He always used his ubiquitous needle-nose pliers to cut the worms in pieces; usually into thirds for us novices who didn’t know how to maintain the extravagantly juicy 5-inch sprawling worm on our hooks.  When we lost our bait, he was bound to say nothing, but did half-smile in disappointment, reach his arm up from his end of the boat (the back, because he was in charge of the motor), for our line so that he could bait it, again. And again. And again as we brought up weeds, a stick, caught on a log, or worst of all, brought that sad empty little hook.

I don’t know if there is any other gentlemanly behavior that I so keenly cherish. Baiting my hook has been 100x more valuable to me than opening the door, carrying my suitcase, and perhaps even purchasing flowers for me. I have baited thousands of hooks with nightcrawlers, minnows (right in their backs), and leeches (much easier if you just stick your finger in the water and let them suck onto the tip while you pierce their back with the hopefully sharp hook), and frogs (these hurt my heart, but the bass they caught were so big, and so much fun). Anyway- nothing compares to having your Dad motor you around the lake, bait your hook, and tell you where to land your bait. “Right there, Anney.  Just 3 inches off of that floating log is a 12” large mouth bass, just waiting for your worm!” he would say, breathlessly, for 55 years. I always smiled, chucked my bait out and held my breath hoping I could hit the spot and not disappoint my fishing coach.

After I went to college, changed my politics around, became a vegetarian, gave up on church, pierced my ears extra, and became pushy and outspoken, he didn’t know much what to do with me.  I was pushing back on their ideals pretty hard.  But I would always be pleased when I sat in the boat with a cold beer, a bag of Doritos, and let my Dad take me fishing. I would giggle at him and his 2 pairs of bifocals and 5 fishing rods hanging out the back of the boat.  We would talk about a lot of things, (NOT money, sex, God, or politics of course) and we would be late to dinner for sure.  It was precious time, talking about the trees, the water, the birds, the beaver that scared us half to death slapping their tails next to the boat.

I can’t get any more of those days back, not even a minute. And I didn’t always go with him. Sometimes the boys at the bar were more attractive, unfortunately.  And I am so full of regret for that. What would I do for one more evening in Dad’s boat? Yes, I would lick the cooler if it brought back a new memory to me. 

It was sad visiting his old fishing grounds last week.  The snarled fishing lines, dusty musty life preservers, the broken lawn mower weighed heavily on me, the dixie cup of leeches from the bait shop were not as much fun as anticipated.  And when my husband asked me to bait his hook… I couldn’t help giving him a look of pitiful disdain.

I missed my Dad and wrote a note to him the last morning in all caps “Where the Hell are you!? I miss you!!!” over and over in blue ink in my journal.  Tears slid down my cheeks as I looked out at his lake view, wondering what Heaven is like, and why did I have to lose my soul supporter in my family? He was the smoother, the glue, the one who insisted no hats at the table; no elbows on the table; yes, of course we would all have Sunday dinner together; and no you may not talk about your sibling that way.  He insisted on time together, and good behavior. I haven’t cried a lot about his passing, but that morning I was feeling bereft. It was hitting me hard.

I wrote and wrote and wrote. Got it all out and then decided to start moving, and pack up a little more to distract myself from obsessing about inevitable life’s endings.  Then I “just happened to look” in his old corner cupboard up above where his desk sat for years. There, not 3 feet from his potentially outstretched arm was an an old spiral and loose leaf notebook pages in a neat little stack.  I couldn’t believe it.  They were journals of Dad’s.  He had written up his version of a log of time spent up north: choosing the property, driving 500 miles each way monthly to check on the construction, try the new restaurants, and of course fish for muskie.  It was 34 pages of a fishing boat conversation- rating the restaurants (“A+ for Carlin Club”, “B- for Bell Chalet pizza night”, etc.), short comment about his kids “(Tom quit his job)” was dropped in after “Drove 8 hours in driving rain, called kids to let them know we got home”.  I have a whole new connection with him, a 1-sided conversation of course, but I could hear him and that was such a gift.

He reached up to put them there, and ended up reaching down to me to provide me comfort and conversation.