He passed in’83. I often think of him as I ready my fishing gear each year.
W ith gentle nudges
dad’s hushed deep voice
urges me from the cocoon
of my toasty morning covers
wake up Bobby
my childhood moniker
I’m gonna make us breakfast
then those fish better beware
fishing
our passion
which I now share
lovingly with my son
and he and I
with his son
my grandson
…well, back to my story…
I hear muffled footsteps
the creak of an iron door
then a wooden — thunk thunk
fresh kindling being loaded
into the stove’s fire chamber
then the scuffing of forged ore
as a heavy iron poker
probes the iron fire chamber
coaxing a glowing ember bed
to ignite the fresh logs
this is gonna catch quickly
start gettin’ up son
sure hope you’re hungry
staggered, softly percusssive
phuft phuft — phufts
announce lengths of virgin fuel
bursting to crackling flame
I poke my eager head out
into the damp morning chill
of Ontario semi-darkness
as the big black stove
groans to full life
a welcomed burgeoning heat
begins permeating the cabin
the soft glow and muffled hiss
of dad’s Coleman lantern
clutches at the darkness
as dad clunks and shuffles
the bulky iron skillets
atop the rapidly heating stove
breakfast is coming son
dad proclaims
a smile in his voice
Canadian bacon, cakes ‘n eggs
his statement accompanied
by the sizzle and aroma
of strips crisping in the pan
hungry — I slide from bed
excited and shivering
imagining this day of fishing
that lies ahead
slipping on my robe
I go to the window
where the tin bowl
of kettle-warmed water
rests on a small table
waiting for me to soap
my morning face and hands
through the cabin window
I still see a myriad of stars
in the clear northern heavens
above our wilderness island
small waves lap at our stone shore
occasionally knocking our boat
laden with our fishing gear
against our weathered wooden dock
I see the Espanola sky
just beginning to lighten
and hear the pre-dawn loons
calling across the pristine lake
barely rippling in the AM breeze
as I stand washing up
I continue to reflect
how lucky I am to be here
fishing with my father
this amazing man
who adopted me
saved me
at that moment
I’m snapped from my reverie
by his kind voice…
breakfast is ready
*
rob kistner © 2021
Poetry OLN at: dVerse
Be it with your son or daughter, this is what fishing really is…
…unrelated, but a couple of great ‘sunrise’ tunes…
