One of my favorite places in the world. I'm flyfishing, yet how can you concentrate on fishing with a canvas like that in front of you?
There are but two sides to every story..............
My Fathers version: He was innocently fishing, standing a few feet out in the water of a river when my Mother, grandmother, and a few various Aunts sat down behind him much too close of course, with new infant in tow. Oblivious to him (and for the life of him he couldn't understand why they would pick that spot), we were within striking distance of a flying spinner and by some stroke of bad luck a treble hook planted itself firmly into the side of my cheek. So much for the beauty of 2 week old skin.
Instantly he heard the shrieks of woman and the crying of an infant. Horrified as any Father would be, he swooped in, gently bent the barbs back and slid the hook out. Meanwhile, of course, being in the trusted hands of her father, I stopped crying and took my first "hooking" of a fishing hook like any fisherman would, calmly. Just as the dramatics of the hooking calmed my Mother again began to shriek, screaming rants and raves of a woman gone mad. It seems a tick had made it's home sneakily behind my ear. Again, in the face of crazy women, he calmly removed my first tick and again I took it like any person of outdoors birthright, calmly.
My Mothers Versions: The womenfolk spread their blankets out in a pretty little spot next to the river, in the luscious shade of evergreens. The men were all out fishing, my father included, was some 5 yards down from us. My Mothers ever present watchful eye noticed my Father inching his way towards their safehaven and called out to him several times to not get so close. In one of those defining moments when she had glanced away, he had again moved closer and without warning flung his spinner viciously back impaling my innocent sleeping face and mercilessly tried to cast his infant daughter into the river.
Upon realizing he didn't have a huge fish on the line, but that of his 2 week old daughter, he casually meandered over to the horrified woman. My mother promptlytold him he need to cut off the barbs and remove the offending hooks. With his large, cumbersome hands he yanked, pulled, twisted, all the while I am screaming bloody murder, my mother is bawling and the other woman are screaming at their husbands to come help. Once my Father gave one final vicious yank the offending hook was removed and my Mother briskly removed me from his hands and tucked me tight in her arms.
This is when she saw the offending tick and in her words "Almost killed your father for making me take a 2 week old baby camping." Now if your still following this story, you'll have to understand these were the days when removing a tick was a simple task of lighting a match, blowing it out, quickly placing the burning stick on the ticks backside, which in turn scares the tick so badly it backs out of the skin and poof, cured.
My mother swears he hardly took the time to aim and burned a small hole the size of a canyon in my precious skin.She insists that by now I'm sobbing so hard I'm turning blue, she didn't think I would live through all the trauma. Divorce was now a pending threat. Again my father tried to burn the little tick, and with the help of several hands holding me still, he was able to burn and yank the tick out.
I LIVED.
My Legacy is created.
Family folklore will dictate that by the age of 2 weeks old I received the "mark" of a fisherman and therefore would always bear the weight of this totem. Just as the man who was viciously sliced by the claw of a bear now walks with the bear totem, or the woman who saved a child will forever be a protector of all children, I became fisherman.
One of things that happens in a woven family like mine, is we all camp religiously. Always have, always will. The gathering place has always and will always be the campfire. Stories are retold time and time again in the amber glow of this fire.
As a young child I would sit, quietly roasting my marshmallows listening to the elders speaking these stories. The stories changefrom each story teller, each with their own rendition of what "really" happened. Yes, there are stories we all wish would disappear long lost in memories, but there is always someone who remembers and starts the conversation with "Rebecca.......do you remember when you.........." And either it will be a proud story, or one that brings on a sheepish smile and good natured embarrassment.
On every successful day of fishing, around the fire, notes would be compared, number of catches, size of fish. Everytime I out fished those in any age bracket larger then mine, remarks would be made that of course I should fish better then everyone. It's my birthright, I bore the mark at such an early age, it was my destiny.
Legacies are made this way. There are no writers in my family other then myself, no family history recounted in journals and diaries, documented for the generations to come. These stories of current times, and long away memories are kept alive in the minds of all of us. My own children now listen as I once did, and learn about harder times, funny mistakes, glorious good old days, family members since gone, they will never meet, will continue to live on in their minds.
I imagine some of the stories have turned into such myths that only the ghosts of our past know the real truth. Sometimes I've laughed and made remarks that Paul Bunion would be proud of some of our stories. But whether myths, legacy or just simple stories of memories, I know my story will continue to be passed down generation after generation. It's birthright, it's tradition, family, it's my legacy.................
"As the angler looks back, he think less of individual captures but of the days, and scenes in which he fished"........anonymous
