One of my greatest accomplishments in life is being the father of two wonderful daughters. Monkey turned nine in October and Peanut will be seven tomorrow. My experience is vast and very narrow all at once. My wife has commented several times that it takes a special man to be the father of daughters. Something I have always prided myself on. I am a good father. I love my girls very much. I look at my counterparts without girls and laugh inside knowing that they are missing out on something special.
As of late there has been a change in the air. Monkey, a usually loving and happy girl, has been very emotional. She cries at the slightest criticism and seems to toy with a sort of depression from time to time.
My fatherly response of “Come on, suck it up and let’s go” doesn’t have the typical reaction of a “I know you’re right” smile and us moving on. Now it seems to be lost in translation or makes the matter worse.
There are whispers of hormones developing and it being age appropriate. That is fine, that is the way life is. But then there is talk that this is just the beginning.
The beginning of the end.
That is of me being the awesome dad. My little girl still loves me and gives a mighty mean bear hug. But to be perfectly honest I’m scared.
Not scared of the changes that my girls will go through. Scared that I will not be able to adjust to them.
Last night she lost it over nothing and I found myself scratching my head. This is not me. I am easily adaptable and quick on my feet. But not last night.
It got my mind wandering as to what the future will hold and how the father who was always there wanting to help, may now be hiding in the corner. I don’t want to be that guy, but I’m scared. And it hurts.
It kills me inside to think that I might fail at something so important.
Showing posts with label father. Show all posts
Showing posts with label father. Show all posts
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Monday, August 10, 2009
Tides of Time (A Short Story)
Isn’t it something when you grow older and develop that life of your own? The job, the wife, the kids; makes me think of the song Cats in the Cradle. It had been too long since I went fishing with my dad. How the time had flown and something that meant so much to me as a kid became nothing more than distant memories.
The inability to sleep was pure torture. Not from a tired sense, but more so because of being awake and waiting. What would we catch? What would we see? Every trip into the Florida Keys gave my growing mind something to feed upon.
“Well, we’ll see how the weather holds out,” he would say as we turned in for the night.
The weather. I found it odd that all I wanted to do was marvel at Mother Nature and yet it was she which created the greatest obstacle. Worrying about the green blobs drifting across the radar screen would get me out of bed every time. I sat for an hour, or so, studying the storm reports before he would get up.
“Clear skies, slight breeze coming out of the east,” I would be at him as he turned the coffee pot on.
“How long have you been up?”
My eyes would find a spot in the linoleum. “Just a little before you.” I didn’t tell him I watched the American flag while they played the national anthem before the screen went to snow.
“Uh-huh,” he would reply with a smirk.
“So are we going?”
“I don’t see why not,” he said as he laughed and rubbed my crew cut.
And that would be it. I’d dash out the door to get our gear together and load the little refurbished johnboat. It wasn’t much to look at, but it was just right for tooling about the mangroves surrounding Key Largo. This particular day he was going to take me to a new spot.
Not much was spoken, not much needed to be said. He had taught me well and we were focused on the task at hand. Fishing was not our hobby, it was our obsession. He didn’t ask corny questions about my youth and I didn’t give him answers that would appease him. I knew he loved me, and I hoped he knew I loved him too.
We turned onto U.S. 1 and headed south past Bojangles’. A little further down to Jack’s Bait and Tackle for eight dozen shrimp for eight bucks. Past The Last Chance bar and into Key Largo.
Dad liked to take Card Sound Road around and south instead of staying on the highway for reasons I couldn’t tell you. It was for the most part a desolate ride. I would just stare off into the darkened mangroves catching glimpses of the moon on the water.
I would think to tell my dad how much I loved him and how much I admired him, but still we would ride listening to the tinny sound of Buffet on the AM radio. We shared this bond, this love for the water. Nothing needed to be said. Or maybe it was because I was getting older and it wasn’t cool to say I love you. Maybe it was because I was getting older and I could see that my hero was not made of steel.
His hand on my shoulder, “Wake up, we’re here.”
I snapped up and looked around; didn’t even remember going over the Card Sound Bridge. He had already backed the boat into the makeshift ramp. I jumped out, causing hundreds of fiddler crabs to scurry back into their holes, and grabbed the bowline while he lowered the boat in. Standing there as he parked, I inhaled deeply taking in the smell of the saltwater. A slight breeze came off the little bay and my shoulders shook from the chill in the air.
Dad climbed over the bow and to the transom lowering the motor. Primed the bulb, pulled the choke, and tugged on the cord. The little fifteen Evinrude started up with a whine and a two-stroke cloud drifted off the water.
The short ride across the flats left me shivering up front, but soon he idled down and was hunting for his spot.
“There, see the beer can in the mangroves?”
I could barely make it out, but sure enough right at the mouth of a cut in the mangrove forest was a sun-bleached can stuck on a branch. It looked nothing more than a piece of jetsam that got snagged in the stilted tree, but in fact it was the marker he used for his honey hole.
He motored up and told me to tie off to one of the branches. “We’re a little early; the tide hasn’t started moving yet.”
“Well, we could try!”
“Sure, why not,” he said as he opened the cooler converted to bait-well. He pulled out a good four inch shrimp and handed it to me which I quickly skewered and tossed overboard.
In a matter of seconds I felt the tugging at my line and reeled it up to reveal the fierce shaking of a channel cat. I cringed and the grimace on Dad’s face said it all as I dangled the slimy critter in front of him.
He grabbed it with a rag and popped the hook out. “Watch out,” he said and tossed the fish up in the bow.
“What did you do that for?”
“Just watch.”
“Can I have another shrimp?”
“Let’s wait for the tide; I don’t want to be wasting shrimp on catfish.”
I looked down and watched the catfish wriggle its body side to side when I heard something in the mangroves. It got closer and closer until I saw its eyes aglow from the white light on the transom.
The raccoon stood on a rocking branch watching me for a moment then climbed down on the boat, snatched the catfish up and climbed back into the mangroves.
I smiled at my dad and he gave me a nod.
A few minutes went by and the back of the boat began to swing out of the cut. Dad grabbed a couple of shrimp, handing one to me and hooking the other to his rod. We dropped them over and within seconds we had snappers on. Over the next few hours it was hook, toss, catch, repeat.
The cooler was teeming with fish, the tide was done, and so were we. I’ll never forget that day.
Today I was up early checking the weather; cloudy with a slight chance of rain. The house was quiet as my wife and kids lay in their slumber. I finished my cup of coffee and put the mug in the sink then hit the road.
As I pulled my boat into the driveway my dad’s house was still. I picked him up and not a word was spoken. The ride down Card Sound Road was quiet, not even the radio. I whipped around and backed the boat in the ramp; no help, no problem, he taught me well.
I stood there breathing the salt air, watching the rippling bay. We loaded into the boat and took off. My windbreaker flapped in the wind as I spied the cut in the mangroves.
The boat tied off, we waited in silence for the tide to move. Once the transom shifted around I went and sat by him.
“We made this trip many times when I was younger; it was always one of my favorites,” I said. “I’m sorry I didn’t take the time to do this sooner, but, you know, life gets in the way. I hope you know that I love you and always have. Thank you for making me who I am today.”
I couldn’t fight back the pain in my throat any longer as I spread his ashes. Tears rolled down my face as I watched his remains become absorbed by the brine.
He lives through me in my love for what he loved.
The inability to sleep was pure torture. Not from a tired sense, but more so because of being awake and waiting. What would we catch? What would we see? Every trip into the Florida Keys gave my growing mind something to feed upon.
“Well, we’ll see how the weather holds out,” he would say as we turned in for the night.
The weather. I found it odd that all I wanted to do was marvel at Mother Nature and yet it was she which created the greatest obstacle. Worrying about the green blobs drifting across the radar screen would get me out of bed every time. I sat for an hour, or so, studying the storm reports before he would get up.
“Clear skies, slight breeze coming out of the east,” I would be at him as he turned the coffee pot on.
“How long have you been up?”
My eyes would find a spot in the linoleum. “Just a little before you.” I didn’t tell him I watched the American flag while they played the national anthem before the screen went to snow.
“Uh-huh,” he would reply with a smirk.
“So are we going?”
“I don’t see why not,” he said as he laughed and rubbed my crew cut.
And that would be it. I’d dash out the door to get our gear together and load the little refurbished johnboat. It wasn’t much to look at, but it was just right for tooling about the mangroves surrounding Key Largo. This particular day he was going to take me to a new spot.
Not much was spoken, not much needed to be said. He had taught me well and we were focused on the task at hand. Fishing was not our hobby, it was our obsession. He didn’t ask corny questions about my youth and I didn’t give him answers that would appease him. I knew he loved me, and I hoped he knew I loved him too.
We turned onto U.S. 1 and headed south past Bojangles’. A little further down to Jack’s Bait and Tackle for eight dozen shrimp for eight bucks. Past The Last Chance bar and into Key Largo.
Dad liked to take Card Sound Road around and south instead of staying on the highway for reasons I couldn’t tell you. It was for the most part a desolate ride. I would just stare off into the darkened mangroves catching glimpses of the moon on the water.
I would think to tell my dad how much I loved him and how much I admired him, but still we would ride listening to the tinny sound of Buffet on the AM radio. We shared this bond, this love for the water. Nothing needed to be said. Or maybe it was because I was getting older and it wasn’t cool to say I love you. Maybe it was because I was getting older and I could see that my hero was not made of steel.
His hand on my shoulder, “Wake up, we’re here.”
I snapped up and looked around; didn’t even remember going over the Card Sound Bridge. He had already backed the boat into the makeshift ramp. I jumped out, causing hundreds of fiddler crabs to scurry back into their holes, and grabbed the bowline while he lowered the boat in. Standing there as he parked, I inhaled deeply taking in the smell of the saltwater. A slight breeze came off the little bay and my shoulders shook from the chill in the air.
Dad climbed over the bow and to the transom lowering the motor. Primed the bulb, pulled the choke, and tugged on the cord. The little fifteen Evinrude started up with a whine and a two-stroke cloud drifted off the water.
The short ride across the flats left me shivering up front, but soon he idled down and was hunting for his spot.
“There, see the beer can in the mangroves?”
I could barely make it out, but sure enough right at the mouth of a cut in the mangrove forest was a sun-bleached can stuck on a branch. It looked nothing more than a piece of jetsam that got snagged in the stilted tree, but in fact it was the marker he used for his honey hole.
He motored up and told me to tie off to one of the branches. “We’re a little early; the tide hasn’t started moving yet.”
“Well, we could try!”
“Sure, why not,” he said as he opened the cooler converted to bait-well. He pulled out a good four inch shrimp and handed it to me which I quickly skewered and tossed overboard.
In a matter of seconds I felt the tugging at my line and reeled it up to reveal the fierce shaking of a channel cat. I cringed and the grimace on Dad’s face said it all as I dangled the slimy critter in front of him.
He grabbed it with a rag and popped the hook out. “Watch out,” he said and tossed the fish up in the bow.
“What did you do that for?”
“Just watch.”
“Can I have another shrimp?”
“Let’s wait for the tide; I don’t want to be wasting shrimp on catfish.”
I looked down and watched the catfish wriggle its body side to side when I heard something in the mangroves. It got closer and closer until I saw its eyes aglow from the white light on the transom.
The raccoon stood on a rocking branch watching me for a moment then climbed down on the boat, snatched the catfish up and climbed back into the mangroves.
I smiled at my dad and he gave me a nod.
A few minutes went by and the back of the boat began to swing out of the cut. Dad grabbed a couple of shrimp, handing one to me and hooking the other to his rod. We dropped them over and within seconds we had snappers on. Over the next few hours it was hook, toss, catch, repeat.
The cooler was teeming with fish, the tide was done, and so were we. I’ll never forget that day.
Today I was up early checking the weather; cloudy with a slight chance of rain. The house was quiet as my wife and kids lay in their slumber. I finished my cup of coffee and put the mug in the sink then hit the road.
As I pulled my boat into the driveway my dad’s house was still. I picked him up and not a word was spoken. The ride down Card Sound Road was quiet, not even the radio. I whipped around and backed the boat in the ramp; no help, no problem, he taught me well.
I stood there breathing the salt air, watching the rippling bay. We loaded into the boat and took off. My windbreaker flapped in the wind as I spied the cut in the mangroves.
The boat tied off, we waited in silence for the tide to move. Once the transom shifted around I went and sat by him.
“We made this trip many times when I was younger; it was always one of my favorites,” I said. “I’m sorry I didn’t take the time to do this sooner, but, you know, life gets in the way. I hope you know that I love you and always have. Thank you for making me who I am today.”
I couldn’t fight back the pain in my throat any longer as I spread his ashes. Tears rolled down my face as I watched his remains become absorbed by the brine.
He lives through me in my love for what he loved.
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