We were going camping; up to the great outdoors of northern Michigan. The pop-up camper was packed and hitched and Art’s Jeep full of family, crayons and coloring books, and plenty of snacks for the next four hours or so that lay ahead on the highways and side roads.
My dad drove and chewed his Big Red. The radio was playing Bob Seger as I stared out the window watching the city fall behind and the clouds soar across the sky. I could do that….stare out the window for long periods of time and go someplace alone in my thoughts.
Halfway was the first rest stop on our trip, John C. Mackie rest area in Clare, Michigan. It was named after a politician and the former State Highway Commissioner for the state. I loved that place. To a kid it was huge and the lobby was packed with brightly colored information flyers with everything under the sun that one could do in the great state of Michigan. Sometimes there were activity books or little trinkets to be had, first come first serve. The best was having the various groups who would have donuts and orange Kool aide ready and waiting for the weary traveler.
This trip was going to be special; I just knew it. I could tell my dad was up to something by the way he smiled most of the way and the hidden whispers under his breath to mom. Something was up.
As we get off U.S. 127, we take Highway 10 west heading for our final destination. Shortly after our switch of roads my dad pulls into a run-down shop that stands all alone surrounded by treasures of the past which now look beyond old and tired. The man who owns the shop looks about a generation younger than the treasures out front.
“Wait here, I’ll be right back.” My dad says as he leaves the Jeep.
After about twenty minutes, which to a kid who wants to get to camp so they can jump right into the lake seemed like forever, he comes out of the shop with three long poles and a small cardboard container.
Everyone in the Jeep gets out with curious hesitation. I can see there is what looks like string attached to the long poles. These poles must be eight feet long.
“What do you think, hah?”
“What are they dad?” I ask.
“They’re fishing poles. I got one for each of you.” His smile says it all; he is so happy. He is going to show his kids how to fish.
“But dad, they don’t look like fishing poles.” I say.
“I know, they are bamboo! You can’t break them!”
It was true, my practical and smart dad knew that kids could break just about anything and everything, he had three kids himself and had seen some destruction in his time. The poles had no reals, just a long pole with a longer line and a hook at the end of it. How bad could that be?
“God-damnit.” He could say his God-damnits ever so sharp, to this day it still impresses me. “The damn poles are to long to fit into the camper.”
Somehow dad managed and we were back on the road. Yes, I was still excited to get to the lake, but it wasn’t for the swimming. In fact, I am not sure I spent much time swimming that trip. I spent a lot of time with my dad on a dock that at one time was painted red and he taught me how to fish with a bamboo pole, just like Huck Finn I was sure. Together we caught one bluegill after another. Some were tossed back but the good ones were fried up at camp and served with hot potatoes.
My dad was not one for surprises, in fact I inherited his “Creature of Habit” gene from him, also his sharp God-damnits. Thinking back, I know I am Art’s daughter because sometimes a simple surprise that I offer to my two kids, who never break anything, makes me feel exactly how he must have felt all those years ago on the one-time painted red dock….proud.
Chris Writes 