He sat waiting for his computer to boot up. There was nothing worse than a slow start-up: the electric whir of its inner workings a mysterious, frustrating hum. Hour Glass appeared and slowly rotated widdershins, confirming it was going to be a slow start-up. Impatient he glanced quickly out of his windows. Early morning sun glinted off of the neighboring skyscrapers. Chrome and glass reflected its radiance in silver streams. Pigeons sported about in the air; a three dimensional ballet which he envied. Inside the air conditioning was already at work filling the room with artificial atmosphere; sterile, tasteless, odorless, unnatural. Quickly he looked at his monitor and still the tiny icon spiraled as the hard drive cycled through its necessary, incomprehensible, maddening routine. He leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head, cradling it. He didn’t have time for this! His eyes were pulled to the window again as they looked at the splendor that was reflected morning glory. The window panes on the opposite buildings iridesced in a patina of kaleidoscopic colors like light shining on wet fish scales. That thought lead to another. He glanced at the fishing lure and arrowhead on his shelf and a wave swept over him. Unbidden but welcomed the memories came flooding back from a lifetime ago.
“Are we gonna catch a big one today, grandpa?” he asked. They walked down the gravel road, rocks crunching beneath their booted feet. Both pair of boots were light tan, laced with frayed rawhide, muddy on the soles and scuffed in almost the same places; one pair a miniature replica of the other. The Michigan summer sun felt warm on their tanned necks. Both in starched and pressed bib-overalls and clean white t-shirts, the small one carried his pole over his left shoulder, the taller one, over his right. They walked hand in hand, the boy and the old man. At the boy’s belt was a bait can alive with worms, the bait; on the grandfather’s, a canteen. “Never go anywhere without your canteen,” he had always admonished.
“I expect we’ll give it a good try,” he replied to the lad’s question.
They were both sandy blond and the breeze ruffled the similar haircuts. Freckles on the cherub face would eventually become the tan of the grizzled veteran’s as his hair would mirror the white. Both bore clean features, firm chin, straight nose, honest blue-gray eyes. Each bore the serious concentration of their self appointed task. Fishing was serious business.
The man began to whistle a tuneless warbling that simply filled the pleasant quiet morning with pleasing sound. The boy sought to emulate the man but he did not have the knack so he hummed and smiled instead.
“We going to the clay slide today,” the little one asked, “or the bridge?”
“Well, the clay slide would be in the shade and a might cooler. Plus I think Ol’ Stinker is lurking about there this summer.”
Ol’ Stinker! This was a name to conjure images of bitter rivalry. Old Stinker was the rainbow trout that had defied all earlier attempts of the old man in landing the fish. The on-going duel had gone on for as long as the boy could remember. Grandpa was determined to land the cagy fish.
The day was quite young; the sun hadn’t climbed above the branches of the apple orchard yet. Grandpa’s car pulled to a stop in the driveway and tooted its three quick toots, his trademark, and then the older man was out the door and up the walk before the boy had fully climbed out of bed. By the time the boy made it to the kitchen table the old man had already plopped his lanky body into one of the chairs, a steaming cup of coffee in hand.
“Morning, sport,” he’d start the boy’s day with a smile of gleaming teeth.
“Morning, Grampa,” the boy’d mumble. “Morning mom,” he’d finish.
“Cereal again?” mom asked and with a nod he’d have a bowl of the brightly colored oat and wheat treats set in front of him, a rainbow of confection brimming in milk.
“Part of a well balanced breakfast,” the old man quoted as he snuck pieces of his own breakfast across the table to the lad, sneaking nutrition under the guise of shared forbidden fruits. A bit of bacon, toast slice with fried egg spread upon it, the boy ended up with more in him than Frosted Fruity Flakes and cow squeezings. Above the tousled head father and daughter winked conspiratorially.
“Chet, Pam says you dug up some worms yesterday,” Grampa said.
“Who’s Pam,” the boy asked innocently.
“Oops! Sorry,” the old man recovered, “your mom said you dug up some worms yesterday.”
“Yup. I was helping dad move logs so he can make the garden bigger.” Around a mouthful of fruity flakes he added, “There were worms under one so he let me use his army shovel.” His head barely looked up from his cereal, another spoonful halfway to his mouth; sleep crawling slowly away, retreating from his little brain, fighting as it gave up ground.
“Well, we shouldn’t let them go to waste.”
Chet’s head snapped up, wakefulness dawning brightly upon the boy. “Fishing!” he asked, unbridled excitement bubbling up from the cauldron of childhood distractions.
“Soon as you shower and get dressed, I was thinking,” Grandpa answered.
“Can I, mom?!” the eyes pleaded. How could she say no to such an entreated request? As a matter of fact it was her idea.
They were about half of the way there when the boy stopped and looked about the fields that surrounded them.
“Grampa,” he asked.
“Yes?”
Don’t the hills look like waves on the ocean?”
The old man knelt next to the boy. He knew the young legs needed rest and he was in no hurry to reach their destination.
“They sure do. Look there!” he pointed at a stand of trees just beneath a rise. “That there’s gotta be a pirate ship!”
“Bad guys?”
“Oh, the worst! They’ll make you walk the plank as soon as look at you.”
The boys eyes widened in wonder as he got caught up in the tale.
“These guys stole all the treasure of the Spanish Main. Why, if we could capture that ship we’d be rich beyond dreaming!”
“But there’s just the two of us,” the boy countered.
“Too true. We’d best hunker down here and wait ‘til they sail off.” He sat down on the short grass next to the road and patted a spot next to him. The boy moved over and sat next to his grandfather.
“Were pirates really that bad, Grampa?”
“They weren’t nice people, that’s for sure. They might kill everyone on a ship just to capture food and drink they should’ve worked to get. They were every bit as bad as any bank robber or train robber. They’d steal other people’s hard earned gold and leave them poor. The movies make them out to be fancy heroes but they were really common crooks.”
“That’s what I thought,” the boy replied. “Are they still there?” he asked, indicating that he had rested enough.
Grampa patted the little back and said, “I’ll take a look.” He rose and put his hand up to shade his eyes as he scanned the horizon in mock seriousness. “Nope, looks like they moved on. Nothing but trees over there now.” The boy rose and they continued on. A loose stone stood alone on the road and the boy kicked it along in front of them. It bounced two or three times raising little dust bursts before angling off the road and losing itself in the grass off to the side.
“Look it there!” Grampa exclaimed, his excitement sincere. Lying in the dust on the side of the road was a triangle of flint. The boy stooped and gently retrieved it from the dirt and handed it to the old man. He dusted it off against the side of his bibs and held it out for Chet to see. It was an arrowhead. How long it had taken to get from where ever to this patch of road was anyone’s guess. Flint was not common to this region so it must have had an amazing story to tell. “It’s an arrow tip. From some long dead Indian! Here,” he handed it to the boy.
The little one took it reverently and stared at the artifact. Even to one so young the weight of years behind the little triangle was evident and made it feel heavy in his little palm. He continued to study it, turning it slowly in his palm, examining the sharp edges and careful construction of it as they moved along. A sense of history beyond his grandfather’s tales had entered his soul and stirred his heart.
“You can keep it,” Grampa said as he reached for it and then dropped it into one of the boy’s chest pockets. “Don’t forget it’s there,” he added.
“I won’t” Chet replied and somehow grandfather knew he wouldn’t.
The wooded path that led to the fishing hole they called the clay slide was just ahead. The walk hadn’t been that far but they had taken their time all the same. Further side stops had been made to sample the wild strawberries to see if they were ripe yet and to look for blueberries. The blueberries had escaped them but the strawberries were everywhere. Their tart sweetness lingered in both mouths, bringing smiles to each. Chet mused over the profuse array of Brown Eyed Susan flowers that dotted the side of the road with little sun blossoms and promised to stop on the way back and pick a bouquet for mom. Grampa allowed that this was a good idea; his face mirrored the serious expression of the boy but inwardly smiled at the lad’s selflessness.
They walked hand in hand again slow and steady. The morning was theirs and neither was in any hurry to have it pass by. As they entered the wooded path the lad asked, “Grampa, what would happen if Indians attacked from that bush?” he indicated a thick stand of thorn bush ahead, thoughts still on the treasured find of the day.
“Well, I’d have to draw my trusty 44 and let ‘em have it. I’d have to use everything the cavalry taught me, though. Indians round these parts are crafty. They know all the dirty tricks to pull.”
“Oh,” Chet replied, confident that gramps would prevail. He was learning woodcraft from the very scout that rode with Custer and taught Dan’l Boon all he knew. Shucks, he even fought with Davy Crocket at the Alamo. “Suppose they got by you?”
“Well, you’d hafta get back to the fort and warn the settlers. Think you could run that far?”
“If I had to, I guess,” the boy mused over the prospect. It was quite a ways back home. “I might have to stop and rest,” he admitted.
“I’m sure you’d do fine,” the hand got a squeeze. Grampa always knew how to make him feel good, like he was growing up just fine. Mom and dad scolded now and then, tried to teach him best ways about things, might even have to administer a spanking at times but Grampa always made him feel like he was growing up just fine.
“Grampa,” the voice had sunk and there was no mistaking how serious the lad now felt. “What happened to Gramma?”
His heart lodged in his throat as he pondered the question. He had known this question was on the horizon for a long time but had put off dwelling upon it. Now there was no more time to prepare an answer.
“Gramma came down with a cold that wouldn’t go away,” he explained. He knew the little head wouldn’t know what cancer was and he had no desire to acquaint the little heart with its irrefutable horrors. “She fought it off as best as she could but sometimes these things just won’t go away.”
“That’s why she was at the doctor’s for so long?”
“The hospital, yes, that’s why she was in the hospital at the end. She had a long time to live and this cold made her tired. The fight made her tired and finally she needed to rest. I told her it was okay to go but she promised to wait for me.”
“I’m sure she’s waiting!” the confidence in the statement was adamant. There was no doubt in the boy. “She loved you a lot. She’ll wait.” This time the boy squeezed his grandfather’s hand in understanding. Tears had worked themselves to the surface of the old man’s eyes but the little boy was too busy watching the trail to notice.
Just ahead was the path to the clay slide. They had reached their destination and now was the time to fish. They entered the woods in a quiet hush. There was a certain reverence the old man felt for these environs. It was mirrored in the way he stealthily crept through the greenery; translated in the careful way he moved bush and brush aside as he passed. It was contagious and carried to the boy. The woods were an emerald mystery, enchanted and magical
“Chet!” it was a whispered call. The hushed finger pointed to the clay below. A deer had left its footprint in the soft earth. The boy recognized the two pronged mark. He glanced quickly at his grandfather. Finger to his lips he pointed with his other hand and the boy peered ahead, spellbound. From behind a tree a doe peeked at them, she as curious about them as they of her. As they watched she stepped out from her cover and moved onto a different trail, continuing on her meanderings leaving them behind.
Chet glanced at Grampa and the old man winked back. They smiled and nodded to one another, then turned back to their path and followed it down the steep embankment to the river that waited below.
The descent proved to be an easy task. Not much rain had fallen in the last month so the ground wasn’t the slippery slide of damp clay it could have been. They reached the river bank and Grampa set about getting their poles ready. The boy wandered far afield, as usual, exploring stump and log. Ferns stood tall in the emerald twilight. Beneath were beaconing pathways leading to wonder and enchantment. The boy’s keen eyes looked for evidence of fairies, elves, leprechauns. He secretly believed every tale told or read to him by his mom and dad and by the tapestries Grampa wove. The ferns moved up a rocky outcrop and overhung the bank above a small bluff.
“Look it there,” Grampa whispered as he nodded in the overhang’s direction. “We could be hobbits there!” he exclaimed. Chet’s grin was ear to ear. He moved about looking at the greenery and how it blanketed the land. Tall poplar and birch trees rose majestic above the river. Tag alders and thorn apples hugged the river in spots, thick and impassible. This was a land of magic. A spongy carpet covered the wood that had fallen in past years and everything smelled damp and fresh and green.
“Moss is good for keeping worms fresh,” Grampa said almost to himself and his partner began in earnest to scour the trunks and stumps for the spongy green treasure. He found handfuls of the stuff and looked up at the older man.
“That stuff would do great. Just two fistfuls,” he coached. Chet dug his fingers into the soft, cool carpet covering the fallen log and pulled gently. Two clumps of green came free in his hands easily and he beamed as he came back to the river.
“Let’s see that can,” Grandpa said, turning the boy gently so he could access their bait. A twist of the lid and the can was open. The boy handed the moss to his grandfather and the old man tucked it into the container. Then he moved aside a piece and retrieved a couple wrigglers.
“We’ll need these,” he told the boy.
“What’re we using today?” Chet asked.
“I’m done using my brain trying to catch Ol’ Stinker,” Grampa started, warming up to a practiced tirade. “I’ve used spawn, flies, bobbers, sinkers, leaders, twisters, loopers, mudders, twizzlers, gobbers, leapers, space-age ticklers, wham doozers and flang dunkers!” he added, warming to his dissertation. “Shucks, I even tried cheese curls and candy corn. Now I think it’s time to go with your gut!” he finished, tapping the boy lightly on the stomach for effect as he pulled a small tackle box from his pocket and opened it before the boy.
Grampa’s fishing tackle was always a source of amazement to the boy. Like a collection of jewels or the fine inner workings of a Swiss watch, their bright array always hypnotized the young eyes. The colors and gleaming hooks, the stripes, dots, flourishes painted with intricate detail always mesmerized the young mind.
“Which one you wanna try?” the old man asked.
“How about that one?” the boy asked, pointing to a new addition. It was a silver spoon with one red stripe and one gold stripe painted along its swooping surface.
“Figured you’d like that one when I saw it in the store. We’ll use that one, and this one,” the man replied, removing a similar spoon but with green and yellow stripes and a large black dot. “Put a worm on these suckers and we can’t help but catch something!”
The spoons were tied to the lines and the worms were attached to the hooks. Grampa took the lead as he fished along the bank, looking for a clear enough spot for the little one to safely fish from. They moved upstream away from the large bend that was the clay slide. Waters were too dirty and dark for them to do any good there. They found a space that was a bit shallow and the bank dropped down to the river in a gradual grade.
“Here we go, Chet!” Grampa said and the boy approached to stand on the muddy bank. He let his line go just as dad and Grampa had taught and watched as the smooth current closed over it. He let it out until an encouraging, “That’s perfect,” let him know he had enough line out. He slowly reeled in the line and tossing it toward the center of the stream repeating the exercise, letting the line drift from him till it reached the same spot.
“This is the life, huh, Grampa?” the boy asked, echoing something he had heard from someone at sometime, somewhere else.
Above him the old man grinned broadly and answered, “I’d allow it is, Chet, it certainly is.” He had to chuckle to himself. They stood thus, letting their lines out, retrieving them, letting them out again. The sound of the water was comforting, the breeze and the sun and the companionship all an integral part of the perfect morning.
Here the river widened and the trees and brush opened a bit. There wasn’t much chance of casting a line into a branch. Just above a ridge in the land created small rapids that cascaded in musical rivulets. The stream rushed over the rocks to slow into deep pools beneath the bank that stood opposite them. Beneath the waters a flash now and then showed that there was something lurking beneath, rainbow or brown trout lazily feeding in the eddies. Grandpa could see them from where he stood but the boy was probably unaware of them. He knew they would get some action today and kept the knowledge to himself. Chet would enjoy it more as a surprise.
Grandpa stepped into the water, scouting out a spot to land any fish they caught. The water was cool but not chilling or freezing and felt good on his feet. Chet glanced at him, a look of “me too?” on his face. The old man nodded and the boy carefully entered the water where it was shallow. His steps slow and cautious, careful not to cause even a ripple but ecstatic to get his feet wet.
“Don’t splash too much,” Grampa cautioned, aware that the boy had already thought of it. “Don’t want to scare anything away.” His little head nodded intent on watching the line as it arched away from his pole
Two, three, four, a good half dozen times they fed their lines out, watched them get swallowed by the river, and reeled them back. Another time and Grampa gave an excited start.
“I think I got one,” he whispered to the boy.
Chet moved to the bank and stepped out of the water. He didn’t want to get in the way. Grampa nursed the line, guiding his bite towards the quicker water where it might tire. As the boy watched in enrapt excitement the old man slowly led his pole along the river until the silver flicker of the catch teased the surface. Grampa held his pole over the bank and quickly spun his reel. The fish came to shore, floating on its side, spent.
“Watch my pole, please,” the old man asked the boy as he bent to grasp the fish. Chet kneeled next to the pole and placed a hand upon the reel to keep it from being pulled into the brook. “Oh, it’s a small one,” Grampa said as he held up the trophy. He deftly twisted his hand and the hook was free from its mouth. He held the fish back into the water until it rejuvenated and swam away.
“Well, that’s the first one,” he said, rising to his feet and retrieving his pole.
“Did it put up much fight?” the boy asked.
“A little. It was too small to give a good battle though.” The man reached into the bait can and selected another worm. “Next time’s gonna be your turn,” he told his partner.
Chet had stepped into the water and cast two more times when the ‘next time’ happened. Something big and powerful snapped the pole in his hand and he almost dropped it. It had hurt. He could feel the sting in his palms like a slap. Then the tip bent towards the river of its own accord and he knew something was happening.
“Grampa,” he called. Grandpa hadn’t even had a chance to get the worm on his hook and glanced up in nonchalance. His glance turned to animated excitement when he saw the boy fighting to keep from being pulled into the water. He was bent over the water and was precariously close to toppling in. The old man left his pole where it lay and jumped to place a steadying hand on the boy’s shoulder, restoring his balance.
Chet worked at the reel but his little muscles weren’t up to the task. “Grampa?” he asked and the old man nodded and took the pole.
“I’ll help,” he said and then added, “This is a big one!” Excitement made his motions more animated. The line darted forward. Toward the opposite bank a tangle of submerged branches rose above the water showing where a deadfall had slipped into the river’s embrace. This was where the fish headed. No doubt it sought sanctuary. The old man fought to keep the fish from reaching its destination, striving to keep it in the fast water towards the center of the stream. He had to dance about the bank as he sought to guide the fish. The boy had backed up onto the bank and dry ground, watching in enrapt attention as the ballet continued.
“This is…” Grampa started but a splash interrupted him as the fish leapt from the water and turned in the air. The iridescent sheen of its scales sparkled in the morning light, a kaleidoscopic rainbow. The salmon-pink stripe along its side and the dark speckles along its back and the size of the monster; this was Ol’ Stinker!
“Did you see that?!” Grampa shouted excited. “That’s Ol’ Stinker!”
“I saw, Grampa! I saw!” the boy echoed.
The old man began to shake as he fought to maintain control over his adversary. He entered the stream, ignoring when the water passed over his boots. First ankle deep he stood, then slipped, catching his knee upon a rock he righted himself. His pants were wet and torn but he kept control. Now he stood knee deep in the water as he masterfully guided the fish along the stream, keeping it swimming into the faster waters. The boy regained his feet and followed along as they worked the pole and line. The battle seemed to last hours, a weave, a duck, edge forward, inch backward, it was a ballet that wore the morning hours old. A bit of dark spotted his pants where they had ripped evidence of a small cut but Grampa remained focused. Finally the line gained some slack and the old man and the young boy knew it was over. Grampa reeled the line in as he headed for the shallows. The trophy could be seen as it neared and finally it was tugged near enough for Grampa to use the side of his foot to scoop it out of the water and up onto shore.
It flopped and wriggled but Chet rushed forward and grasped its wet, slimy form in his small hands to keep it from escaping. It was cold and vibrant and the strength of it surprised the little man.
The old man sat down hard upon the bank and glowed. His hands still shook and his face was pale, strained; sweat beaded his hairline. “We got him!” he told the boy breathlessly.
They looked at the catch. Ol’ Stinker! He was a brute. Forty inches at least. Probably went about twenty pounds. Grampa leaned over the leviathan and studied it. Scars and marks lined its side and there were cuts and gashes long healed in its mouth and on its fins. This warrior survived countless battles. Looking at him they could feel the passage of his years and struggles. The boy blinked and looked at the old man, a question on his face.
Gramps was still fighting to catch his breath and his hands still shook. This was beginning to concern him but he nodded to his grandson and said, “Let’s let him go, Chet. He’s earned that at least.”
Chet grinned sadly and nodded. He knew it was what was right. Grampa reached for the spoon that had by the merest chance caught a single barb of its treble hook in the fish’s mouth. He tried to twist it to pluck it free but his hands didn’t want to cooperate as their tremors continued.
“Chet,” he said, “you’ll have to do the honors.”
“What do I do!” the boy asked as he reached out and grabbed the spoon.
“Twist it toward the fish and it should work itself out.”
The boy did as bid and after two attempts it popped free with an audible click.
“Now, hold the old brute in the water until he revives,” Grampa added.
Chet had to cradle the fish as if it were a chunk of fire wood. His little arms could barely embrace its dead weight. He strode carefully into the current until he could drop the fish into its flow. He was well out in the water, it rose to mid thigh. The fish backed up against his legs, limp. The boy’s stomach sunk. Was it dead? He glanced quickly at Grampa.
“It’s okay. Turn his head so that it’s facing the stream. The water will refresh him,” the old man advised. The little hands took the head and forced it into the river, holding it steady. The tail twitched, the gills flourished once, twice, and then the tail flicked again, stronger this time. Then in a burst the beast was gone, vanishing into the deeper water with a flash. Amazed at the speed Chet stood shock still, then he turned and waded out of the river to go stand next to Grampa.
He was still sitting on the ground, leaning back on one elbow. His hands still trembled and his breath came in short wheezes.
“You okay?” the boy asked.
“Chet,” Grampa responded, “I think those Indians are coming to scalp me. Think you can make it back to the fort?” The old man knew he was in a serious state. He play acted to try and keep it from the boy but this time the lad saw through the gossamer.
His face paled and he took the old man’s head in both of his little hands. He stared deeply into the old man’s eyes. “You gonna be okay?”
“Not if you don’t hurry,” Grampa replied.
“Don’t you go anywhere!” the boy entreated, it was a whisper, the small hands pressing urgently, foreheads touching gently. “Promise you won’t go anywhere!” the emotion near tears.
“I promise,” the man softly whispered back weakly patting him on the shoulder with his free hand.
Chet left the poles where they lay and scampered back along the trail, ascending the clay slide as fast as his little legs would allow. He stopped once at the top of the hill just as he broke from the cover of the woods. He looked back, a lump in his throat, but took a deep breath and began to jog towards home. He fought the urge to sprint, knowing with an instinct beyond his years that he’d never make it far running full tilt.
He knew this was much more serious than any play acting that he and Grampa had ever done. All the tales and stories, all the pretend: that was for play. This was for real and his little mind focused on one thing: reach home and get help. “Get mom, get mom, get mom.” It became a mantra as his little legs pumped, carrying him along. Home never seemed so far away as it did now. His lungs hurt and his feet burned and tears stung his eyes and dried on his cheeks as he ran, his young mind repeating, “Get mom, get mom, get mom.” He was unaware of the clinging wet bib overalls or the damp socks that settled into his soaked boots. His every fiber was focused on running, getting mom, getting help.
She met him half of the way, running full out in a sprint that ate the distance to reach him.
“Chet?” she asked as she stopped. “I saw you out the window. Where’s Grandpa?”
The boy could only point back the way he had come, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
“Wait here!” mom command, pointing to the side of the road and she turned and flew back towards home. Chet had never seen anyone move so fast. Artemis or Dianna of the Hunt never flew so quickly. Her feet were a blur until she was lost in the distance. Soon the family car sped down the driveway and raced to reach him. It skidded to a stop and the door flew open.
“Quick!” she shouted and he darted within, and the car sped to the fishing hole.
The doors were left open and the motor still running as mom raced into the woods. The boy was still catching his breath and as much as he wanted to help he could only sit in the car and try to breathe. His lungs were trying to strangle him and he was fighting to gain control of them. His vision swam and his head felt fit to burst. He was barely aware of mom returning with Grampa.
She laid him down in the back seat of the car, “Breath slowly,” she told the old man. “Hang on, dad!”
Chet, still breathless stood on his knees and looked over the front seat almost fearful of what he might see. Grampa smiled back at him, still pale and still shaken, but he breathed, “You done good, boy. Good job Chet!” and he smiled.
The rest of the ride was a furious blur to little head as countryside passed quickly by and small town after small town quickly retreated behind them. The hospital showed up and a race around the parking lot before reaching the doors took all of mom’s concentration. Then they were inside. Mom hurried with the doctors as they hustled Grampa away. Chet had caught his breath but a nervous fear seemed to keep it from him. His feet did not want to work. He couldn’t move. A nice lady approached him, a sad smile on her face.
“You here with your mom and grandfather?” she asked.
He could only nod in reply.
“I’m a nurse. I’ll stay with you until your mom can join us, okay?” she told him. She led him down a hallway painted with bright colors, animal and children frolicking on the walls. It led to a kind of playroom with puzzles and toys and games and books. The little boy crossed the room and sat on a chair.
“Would you like to play with something?” the nurse asked. Chet shook his head and just sat there. “You love your Grandpa a lot don’t you?” A forlorn little nod. “Were you with him this morning?”
“Yeah, we went fishing,” the little voice all but sobbed.
“Fishing! I love fishing. I’m Kay,” She said by way of introduction. “Were you using bait or flies. Spoons, I bet! I like spoons best!” she exclaimed and the honesty was sincere. “I like the way they flash as they sail through the air before plunking into the water.”
The little boy warmed up. He nodded as he listened attentively.
“You have a favorite fishing spot?”
“The Clay Slide down our road,” he answered. “That’s where we went today. We caught Ol’ Stinker!” he boasted.
“No, not Ol’ Stinker. I bet he’s famous!” Little by little she was drawing him out. He leaned back and told her of the long struggle Grampa had trying to catch the cagey old monster. He spoke of years of battle, remembering the different times the two had gone after the elusive trophy. He smiled and laughed recalling different defeats and giggled even when he remembered the time both he and Grampa had fallen into the river trying to get him.
Dad showed up presently. He hugged Chet warmly and then left him with Kay to look for mom. Eventually they returned, mom was wrapped in dad’s embrace and she wept openly.
Dad looked at the little boy and whispered, “It’s not good, honey. Grandad is pretty weak. They might let us talk to him in a little bit.” They sat down and both reached out to him, mom and dad, and he entered their embrace cradling his head on moms lap, and let the tears he had been bravely holding back flow freely.
The doctor called and mom went first. She was gone for a long time before Kay returned and said it was okay for dad and the little one to come.
Grampa laid limp high up on the hospital bed. He seemed unreachable, elevated on a plateau but his hand moved from his chest and dropped to the wool covers and patted the bed as he called the little boy over.
“Chet,” Grampa whispered; his voice weak but full of love, “you’re growing up just fine. Don’t rush it. You’re growing up just fine.” And Chet knew that he was. Tears dried on his cheeks and he smiled. He took the hand from the wool covers and squeezed it. It seemed cold and dry, lifeless.
“Thanks, Grampa. It’s okay to go now if you want. Gramma is waiting.” The old man smiled down at the little boy and winked.
“I’ll tell her we caught ol’ Stinker,” he whispered to the boy.
Chet heard his mom choke. He turned and went and hugged her legs. She wept openly. The soft pinging of the electronic machine slowed its beeps perceptibly stretching short minutes into hours. The time seemed rushing by and Chet knew that no matter what there was nothing he could do to slow it. Finally the beeps became one plaintive whine.
“His heart wasn’t that strong anymore,” dad said, explaining to mom and the boy.
“No, you’re wrong, daddy,” Chet replied. “It was strong. So strong it finally took him to grandma.” The statement was simple in its logic and irrefutable. The grownups looked at one another in surprise and nodded in agreement. It had been a very strong heart; full of love and large enough to include everyone.
The musical chime of his hard drive finally booting up drew him back from his reverie. He rocked and sat forward in his chair, hands poised over the keyboard. They remained hovering of their own accord as he sat in delicious indecision. He leaned back into his chair again, restful, and looked at his shelf again.
He picked up the rusty old lure. Metal flaked off slightly and turned his fingertips reddish brown. The treble hooks of the spoon, the red devil, were so pitted with age that they wouldn’t have been able to support the weight of a worm, let alone a fish. He sat there looking at the lure, a lump in his throat and moisture in his eyes.
He swallowed hard, shook off the emotion of the moment and looked at his intercom. He reached out and depressed the “SPEAK” button.
“Yes, Mr. Ohm?” his secretary asked.
“Janet, take today off.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. It’s too nice to say indoors. Get out and enjoy it.”
“What about you?”
“Hmm?” he mused, “Oh, I think I’m going to go pick up my wife and then take my son and daughter fishing,” he replied. And make sure to tell them, he added to himself, that they are growing up just fine.
