Yes, my son: On Fatherhood, fishing, and what to call your children.
Both of my children have learned to fish at a pretty early age. I think I started them both out around 3 years old, and it’s been something that we’ve done on countless Saturdays & Sundays ever since. It’s a blessing that it’s never taken much convincing to do; they instantly loved the tug on the other end of the line, the bait or lure disappearing underwater, and the splashing of the fish as they fought to get away. Those few intense moments between strike and posing for a picture, are something that’s provided us too many memories to recall. I was taught by my own father around their age, and I’m honored to pass the craft along to them.
Just a few months ago, one early spring morning, the kids and I set up at one of our favorite lake spots. There was nothing unusual about this morning except that I had decided to just let them fish; I was going to stand back and take it all in. Well, amidst attempting to manage the sprawl of poles, tackle, lures, extra layers of clothes strewn all about, and the kids begging me to try to catch a fish with them, I noticed a man likely in his late 50’s set up just downstream from us, probably 50 or 60 yards. I didn’t pay special attention to him, as we were in a pretty popular spot, and used to seeing folks come and go. But shortly after he made a few casts, I heard him take a phone call; somewhere over the breeze through the cedar trees behind us, and the waves in front of us, I made out the man’s conversation with a child who I quickly realized was his own.
The man answered the call as though his words were hands drawing the child into him for a hug. ‘My son!,’ he exclaimed, ‘my son!’ The father’s elation to have received a phone call while fishing was something that washed over me, as I stood watching my own children cast into the water. He had come to the lake alone, but the company of his son’s voice was an overwhelming joyous guest. Bits and pieces of the conversation came to me over the chatter of my kids, and the passing boats; ‘Yes, my son! Just tell me and I’ll be there!’ The father’s imploring left no margin of doubt that nothing would stand between them, should his son say ‘Dad, I need you.’ ‘My son, anything!,’ he continued on, as though the child were right there, cradled in his arms. The rest of the conversation was muffled, though from the man’s age, and a few words here and there, I could tell the child was a young man, probably early 20’s. I couldn’t help but picture myself along this same lake, some years down the road, and my own son calling me from college, or his first house that he had just bought. My children are with me constantly right now, but I instantly knew at 50+ years old, how my heart would hear their voice when we weren’t together so often.
It’s been a few months since that morning at the lake, but the father’s expression of ‘My son,’ has not left me. What a thing to call your child. I’m not sure I can think of anything more intimate, or that carries such adoration. My son; what an embrace. And while the son might be his father’s, the sense of belonging is incredibly mutual. While I only heard the father’s side of the conversation, the sense of urgency that he spoke with, and the assurance he tried to give, told me something was bothering his son, and he needed his father to hear him.
While most of us probably have a few nicknames for our kids, I would urge you to use that expression, ‘My son,’ ‘My daughter,’ more often. Embrace your children with your words. They are yours, and you theirs. And fathers, don’t forget to listen; we’re not always havens of wisdom, of life advise. Taking it all in is important, but when they’re begging you to fish with them, what you’ll catch won’t even fit in the net.
