Casting

I had never seen him fish. Before he headed out into the steady flow of the river he had stepped into his waders with their wide suspenders and chosen his gear, including a tiny lure carefully selected from a very full tackle box. With cautious yet purposeful fingers, he attached the wee lure to the end of the line of a very long rod. His attention to detail was intriguing to me. It was clear he was unaware of anything other than the task at hand. Perhaps he casually thought about the fish he might catch. I don't know. We didn't speak.

I was 25 years old at the time. Doug had been my friend for four years. But, watching him fish that day created a shift in my heart and mind. I remember the sun lit his soft blond hair and seemed to warm his fair skin. He stood in the current of the river so naturally, solid and comfortable with his place. His shoulders stood broad as he pulled one arm back, holding a length of line in the opposite hand.  He skillfully aimed and arced the barely visible lure up and over the water, landing it on the water's surface a distance away for a short dance before drawing it back again for another flight and another dance in another carefully chosen location. The rhythm of his casting was mesmerizing. He was fly fishing. Another first for me. Clearly not something new to him. Although I had brought a book with me to read, I don't believe I picked it up at all that day. I was content to study him and this new sport.

It would be some time before I saw him fish again. It would be in a river on the opposite coast of Canada after I had driven 4192 kilometers to visit with him. That's where I would meet this little guy, the Crazy Crawler, and watch him swim wildly across surface of the water, his wings catching and throwing the sun with every stroke. It's where I would hear my first stories of Doug fishing as a boy, and learn that this large, brightly painted, wonderfully awkward lure was once his grandfather's. If you look closely, you can see where the teeth of biting fish have left their marks. Doug doesn't use this lure to fish any longer. He used it as a boy. He doesn't want to lose it now. But it was a joy and a wonder to see it swim a few lengths that day -- one of our first days together as more than just friends.

After visiting a little less than a week with Doug on this occasion, I drove back across the country to finish my studies while he pursued his. We wrote each other regularly for about a year. Letters in the mail. Many pages. Many feelings shared. Then, one afternoon, there was a knock on my apartment door. I opened the door. There stood Doug. One week later, after selling or giving away anything in my apartment that wouldn't fit into my small car, I made one last journey back across the country.  This was my fifth time making this drive.  The third time with Doug in mind.  It was the first time with Doug at my side. 

Awaiting Metamorphosis

I had known the story for many years before I saw the proof of it. That is, until one day a couple of years ago, when my mom quietly put this letter in my hand. Sentimentality isn't always something that springs from happy memories. It has its roots in our history, and history doesn't care about our feelings.

My mom found this letter written by her mother to her husband (mom's dad) in a small pile of her mother's belongings stored at my Great Aunt Beatty's home. Beatty was my grandmother's sister and my mom's favourite aunt. Apparently, when my grandmother passed away, most of my grandmother's belongings were either quickly sold or thrown out by my grandfather who wasn't particularly sentimental himself (or, so I've deduced from the many stories I've been told over the years).

Among the items my great aunt had saved, was this letter. It was written in 1925. My mom was born in 1926. The letter speaks of a pregnancy, and, sadly, about failed attempts to end that pregnancy. This letter is about my mom before my mom was born. And, her mom before she became a mom. It bears harsh witness to a scared woman who had lost a sister in childbirth, confessing her dark secrets to a man who declared near the end of her life that he had never loved her. My mom had kept this letter, hidden, for over sixty years, bringing it with her from place to place in the same way I carry my own treasures. She handed it to me in a whisper, her anxious fingers passing it to me like it was a confidential document holding secrets that held the potential to bring down an empire.

I carry a story of my own, somewhat parallel to this one of my mom's. My mom didn't learn that she was pregnant with me until she was nearly six months along. She was 44 years of age, not in the best of health, and had two teenaged boys. She wasn't married and wasn't sure she wanted to be tied to the father of this child, my dad, because of this pregnancy. She had suffered fibroid tumors very badly for years and was told by more than one doctor that it was not possible for her to get pregnant. Realizing her body was changing, however, my mom made multiple appointments with her doctor, who steadfastly insisted she was not pregnant. Until, near the six-month mark, they did a test that confirmed I was in there, growing. She told me that she would not have gone through with the pregnancy had she known about me earlier, although she said that when she saw me thought I was beautiful and must have been given to her for a reason. I can't even put into words how I felt hearing that I wasn't wanted. I was young the first time I heard that story. As an adult, I understand and sympathize with where my mom was coming from. I'm not sure I needed to know that truth though.

But, I do. And, it's a piece in the puzzle of who I've been, who I've become, and who I'm becoming. A small piece. I'm glad I can't hold proof of that part of my own story in my hands. I'm ready to let go of the power that story holds over my sense of self-worth. I will not be carrying this letter, in this form, with me for the rest of my life. At some point in the not too distant future, I will incorporate it into a piece of art. Something meaningful, hopefully, that will not need to be a whisper or a secret but will sing boldly of the resilience of the human spirit.