A fish tale that begs to be told.

It may surprise you that, like Flylady, I know how to fly fish. It's a family tradition that goes back several generations. My Dad and my Pap used to go together when my Dad was a young boy. And as far as I know, they never missed a year. By "year", I mean the annual OPENING DAY. It's a big hula-balloo in Pennsylvania where my parents grew up. Opening day of Pennsylvania's trout season is like opening day of major league baseball. And I'm only half joking there.

Sadly, my Pap (my Dad's dad) died of a heart attack when he was only 64 years old. But the tradition lived on. It had to. All of my siblings joined Dad on the creek at one time or another, myself included. Our fishing day began at 3am, where we started our ascent into the mountains. By 5:00am, we found ourselves ordering eggs, bacon, toast and various drinks at The Lone Star , a mom-n-pop joint up in the mountains that is not routinely open at such absurd hours, except for opening day (I told you it's a big "to do.")

By 7am, we found ourselves "securing a spot" on the creek. Now the creek stretched for miles in both directions, but everyone knew to gather at 2 or 3 particular deep water holes because "anyone who was anyone" actually drove up a day early to find out where exactly the creek had been stocked. Yes, they watched the stocking in real time. Bottom line? The holes got stocked. And if you know anything about fly fishing, then you know 15 folks in hip boots and various other fishing garb don't necessarily fare well together in a creek hole built for 3 or 4. As I said, "secure a spot."

As we stood on the creek (in our spots...some of us freezing) the requisite joking and ribbing of others began.
"What time does your watch say, Tom?"
"Oh, 'bout 8 o'clock, Norm."
"And what time does the game warden's watch say, Tom?"
"Says it's about time for you to cast your line in so we can eliminate one more fisherman."
Yes, time was poked fun at the most, as you could not "legally" cast your line until 8am on the mark. And when 8am came? All chaos ensued. Some rods jammed. Other lines ended up in the trees. Some met with success right away (my Dad always being among them, awesome fisherman that he is). And Norm? Well, let's just say his line was usually cast over 3 or 4 others and you can imagine how well that was received.

Fast foreward to two years ago. My Dad suffered a major heart attack (age 64 as his Dad had), requiring quintuple bypass surgery. Thankfully, he survived. That was the only year I know of where he missed the annual trip for opening season. Until this year. This year was nearly a miss as well. Therein lies the point of my fish tale. Read on.

Usually, one or more of my siblings still make the trip with him. Carl used to go as well, but the last several years have brought job relocations into our life and he has not been able to make it. And sadly, it looked as if no one could go with Dad this year. Sure, Dad could go alone and loves it enough to want to do so. But it wouldn't be the same. And I know we would all feel better too if someone were with him just in case he needed medical help (the creek is pretty isolated). My dear mom was poised and ready to go. The only problem with that plan is that she cannot tolerate long exposure to the cold (they fish for 6 or 7 hours) and the weather prediction calls for rain and snow with a high in the mid 30's. Not a good year for mom to go along.

Yesterday I was speaking with Dad on the phone and he mentioned he might not go. I felt sad, as I knew how much he looks forward to Opening Day. What I didn't know was that God was going to use an online friend, Cyndy, to prompt me to propose a suggestion for what it was worth. Cyndy asked for prayer yesterday because this was the first year her dear father-in-law would not be fishing on "opening day." He passed away and Cyndy's husband was facing this first year on the creek without him, thus the request for prayer. As I read her post, I thought, 'She's in PA.' A check of her profile proved me right. As I committed to praying for her and her husband (fully understanding how important opening day was between her husband and his father), my own Dad came to mind. And so did a plan.

I called Carl into the room and point blank said, "Do you want to fly to Cleveland tomorrow and go fishing with Dad?" He hesitated for but a second and only for my sake. I assured him that I would be fine alone with the kids (I "single parented" for 14 months while he lived and worked out of state due to that job relocation I mentioned). Carl has been off work for a month now due to hernia surgery. We've had plenty of time to enjoy together. And time is so very precious, as Cyndy reminded me. Thankfully, Carl works for an airline and can make travel plans at a moment's notice. A few flights were checked, a bag was packed, and at 9:20am this morning, he was on his way to Cleveland to once again make the annual trip for Opening Day of trout season with my Dad.

As the guys approach the mountains tomorrow, it will still be dark. Visible up on one of the hills is a gigantic lighted cross. It's actually located in the town of Jumonville and the site is a Christian conference and retreat center.
What a beautiful image in the dark of night.


I'm so excited for them to be going and to have some time to spend together. I remember how devastating it was to Carl when I had to call him in Chicago (where he was living and working) to tell him of my Dad's heart attack. Carl and my Dad worked together for 16 years at the same airline. They are father-in-law and son-in-law, yes. But in many ways they have a father-son relationship. And better still, they are great friends. I know they're going to have a good time complete with lots of laughs. I know they were meant to go and I thank Cyndy for her insightful prayer post that prompted me to make it happen. And I know (oh, don't I know )I'll hear a story or two about the one that got way.

Ecclesiastes 3:1
To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven;

UPDATE: Okay, so they got a flat tire in PA. That's not the kind of memory making I'm talkin' about here. But hey, nothing says "male bonding" like grease and tools, right? Carl reports that it wasn't a completely manly experience, what with his hands smelling like baby bottom and all (they only had baby wipes in the car to clean up with afterwards. ROFLOL!)