Lyfting Me Up

A couple of days ago, we went out on an evening walk. There is no sweeter time of day in summertime Colorado than from 7:30 p.m. to sundown. I have had to adjust my expectations when it comes to walking and now use my rollator. Mind you, I just figured out that since last August that blue “Cadillac of Rollators” has traveled over 36,000 miles keeping me upright.

It helped me complete all 50 states, travel up and down the eastern coast of Canada, pass through the Panama Canal, enjoy a 14-day cruise to Europe, journey up the North Sea to Denmark and Norway, stop in Iceland, and make another road trip to Southern California. It has danced on four ships, taken me to more wonderful meals than I can count, and I only fell once, in Grand Island, Nebraska, when I thought I did not need it. So a one-mile walk in our neighborhood is nothing.

As I was walking through our community park, we ran into a young boy carrying a fishing pole headed toward one of the three ponds that grace our neighborhood. Hanging from the tip of his pole was a green rubber lure.

I struck up a conversation with him about his fishing excursion.

“Do you fish a lot?”

“Nope. I’ve never been before.”

I asked what kind of fish they were catching there.

“I have no idea.”

“Are you going to eat them if you catch any?”

“No, I have to return them.”

With that, he headed out into the evening with the pole slung over his shoulder.

The encounter opened up my memory bank to the countless times I went fishing as a kid. I was blessed with a dad (Happy Father’s Day) who got me started fishing at age four. The first time I went, I caught five fish, and I have the 8mm movie to prove it.

I remember spending a week or so each summer at my great-aunt and great-uncle’s house in Littleton. They borrowed me from my family because they only had an older daughter and, by their own admission, wanted some boy time. I was spoiled rotten there. Aunt Katherine was a great cook, and the week always included a trip to Elitch Gardens, that magical amusement park.

Their house was about three blocks from a city park with a nice little lake. Many times I would take my fishing gear there by myself and catch catfish. I learned very quickly that catfish have barbs and that it takes some skill to remove them from the hook and put them on a stringer. Hours later, I would show up at their house with my catch, and my aunt would transform those fish into dinner.

During the eleven years I lived in the San Luis Valley, my dad often found his way over there to fish the lakes owned by some wonderful church members on a ranch. It truly was like shooting fish in a barrel. The best part was never the trout we caught, but the time spent with my dad and my kids. I was spoiled.

The last time we were in California for Sofia’s seventh birthday, a most interesting request surfaced out of the blue from this somewhat quirky and picky young girl.

“Park,” her name for me, “will you take me fishing when we are out there this summer?”

I admit, I did not see that coming.

Stephanie said, “Yep, she’s been talking about it and wants to go.”

New son-in-law Scott came to the rescue. He is a fishing magnet and knows just the spot to take her.

So Mark and his rollator will find a place where I can cast my own line. I could not care less whether I catch anything, but I am sure looking forward to seeing the look on Sofia’s face if she does. And trust me, she’ll not be using some green rubber lure that came from Walmart.

I am not sure if my young neighbor caught anything that night, but he sure opened up my heart to a very special childhood.

Onward and Upward.

Mark