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The Musings of Reverend Catherine Harrington The Last Fishing Trip My sweet father passed away last month. He was 83 years old. I’m OK. I consider myself lucky, actually. I flew to Florida a week or so before he died and got to say good-bye and tell him how much I loved him. The truth is I was ready to let him go when I saw his frail condition. It was time. Amazingly, Dad retained his dignity through it all. He taught me that humility and dignity intertwined at the end of one’s life might just be that miracle Davidson always referred to as “becoming fully human.” Could be, this is as good as it gets… We had a wonderful memorial service in Florida this weekend. My father was a hero to all of us, his children, his friends, to everyone who knew him, but especially to his children and his grandchildren. He taught us to swim, to fish, to think, to laugh, to love, and to appreciate life in its simplest yet most exquisite forms. He was pretty remarkable, I have to say. How lucky was I, to have had such an amazing father? My sons grew up fishing with their granddad on a beautiful lake in Central Florida. They had grand adventures in a little boat with a trolling motor with their grandfather. They would disappear for hours and I knew they had to be learning all they needed to learn about life and things they probably shouldn’t know as well, and doing things like peeing off the boat and learning to cuss like sailors. But, that was ok with me. I was grateful. I was a single mother and I, more than anyone, knew how much they desperately needed a father figure. How lucky were they, to have had such a wonderful grandfather? Yesterday my sons decided to go fishing with their grandfather for one last time. His wife, Jane, arranged a boat and access to the lake, etc. They were ready with fishing poles, tackle, sunscreen, and at the last moment the arrangements fell through and we had no boat. Discouraged but not defeated, we didn’t give up. We drove to the condominium complex on the lake where my mother and father lived for almost twenty years and hoped to find someone with a boat who might be willing to take us out on the lake to at least scatter his ashes. We humbly asked a couple of young boaters who weren’t interested at all. There was talk of abandoning the project but the boys weren’t willing to give up on such a right and noble venture. My oldest son, PJ, looking like one of the characters from the movie, The Matrix, sunglasses and all, stalked the landscape for a boat-owner willing to earn $100—but to no avail. The neighboring condominium complex was the last hope. PJ and Andy got in the car and headed out while we waited by the pool under a beach umbrella to ward off the hot sun. The next thing I know, my mother said, “Doesn’t that look like PJ and Andy across the lake on the shore?” About the same moment, PJ called me on my cell phone and triumphantly announced, “I scored a 17-foot pontoon boat! Get over here fast!” They were driving around and saw a hand-written sign on a mailbox: “PONTOON BOAT FOR SALE ON LAKE, INQUIRE WITHIN.” The owner had passed away and his widow was trying to sell the boat. PJ said he was truly interested in purchasing the boat for the right price and would have paid $5,000 at that point to achieve our goal, and I believed him. We all had a free ride around the lake captained by the woman’s next door neighbor. He was a really nice man who agreed to take my sons and their uncle, Tim, fishing for three hours on Lake Howell in his own pontoon boat for $100. After our boat ride, my mother, sister and I went off to see a movie while the boys completed their noble task. Well, after we girls left for the movie, it was time to be completely honest with the captain of the ship, so they broke the news to the guy, “There’s just one more thing…,” my oldest son said. “What? Are you hiding three naked ladies and a dead body?” the man asked. To which Andy replied sheepishly, “Well, the three ladies just left.” PJ piped in and said, “Not a body, but we’ve got some ashes.” Andy said his heart started racing and he expected the guy to freak out and call security, but instead the man apologized for his tasteless joke and expressed his sincere condolences. This kind, wonderful man who loved fishing and that lake almost as much as my father and my sons did was on board one hundred percent. It was perfect. They each caught respectable fish and shared almost three glorious hours underneath the hot Florida sun returning for a time to the classroom of their childhood, to that place of peace, adventure, and coming of age, where they exchanged stories and reminiscences. And then, just before sunset, Andy released his grandfather’s ashes into the water at the mouth of the creek that feeds into the lake beneath the cypress trees whose hanging moss provides shelter to the egrets nests and where a plethora of Florida wildlife reside—a sacred place engraved forever in the hearts and minds of my grown sons, because their grandfather had spent hours and hours teaching them to appreciate and respect the wonder of nature as one of life’s greatest gifts. It was a miraculous day. Cathy |