Gone Fishing

by
Kellie M Shanley


My father, born in Scotland, sailed to the United States as a child in 1923 with his family. He was an opinionated, bull-headed man; rarely wrong about anything. It’s hard to accept sometimes that I’ve not fallen far from the tree, when I see things in myself I didn’t like in him. Especially the trait of having no problem telling people when they’re wrong. When someone suggests I might be mistaken though, the hairs stand up on the back of my neck and the almighty powers of evasion infiltrate my core.
Being alike, my father and I had a volatile relationship, and although we loved each other, many times we did not like each other. The love was hard to see through the conflicts and my mother telling the two of us to stop. Nevertheless, it was there, trawling the depths of our relationship.
I, the younger of two daughters, was an energetic child, always looking for things to do. I often pestered my dad, who owned an excavation business, to go with him on jobs. I regularly hung around in his garage while he repaired equipment with hopes that he would need my help. Occasionally he would protest and my mother would say, “So what she’s not a boy? I drive a dump truck with you, don’t I? Let her go with you. Guide her so she’ll someday be able to the same.”
Dad gave in to my mother’s words. From him I learned to drive a standard shift dump truck, plow snow, dig a ditch, and—as he explained to me from a man’s point of view—what a lady does or does not do. He taught me common sense, how to walk in high heels, and that having compassion for animals is good.
My father never expressed his love in words, freely gave hugs, or often told me “job well done.” Yet if someone asked him about me, his Scottish boasting ability appeared. One day, surprised, I heard him bragging about me. He never knew I heard. With my maturity came the knowledge that he respected me for who I was, in spite of our turbulent relationship and my inability to stay quiet when quiet would have been better.

One of my earliest recollections of his love was when he saved my life. I was about five and at his side. Instinctively, he shielded my face with his arm from what may have been a deadly kick from a horse. That kick tore the skin and muscle from his arm to the bone. He never got mad at me. His only concerned as he held his bleeding torn arm was if I was all right.
Another time his love came through his usually standoffish manner was when he grabbed my junior high school principal by the tie—and tightened. Such an aggressive gesture may have not been the correct thing to do, but it was a loving father’s gut reaction to the principal’s comment that “you and your daughter are mistaken” after we told him that a male teacher had slyly fondled me.
I told the principal that a couple of other girls said he did the same to them, but they were afraid to say anything. They thought no one would believe them. That’s why I told my parents; I knew they would believe me. My sister, who had come with us, explained that the teacher had done the same to her when she was in his class. This made no headway with the principal. Talking over me and ignoring my sister, the principal said he knew my dad worked a lot, so he tried to be a father figure to girls like me.
That remark set my father off. Like a cat hunting a rat, Dad lunged over the principal’s desk and, with a hand quicker than the eye, grabbed the principal’s tie and held it tight. Speaking about one inch from the principal’s face in a low voice, he growled, “A father, you #$%#% would not let someone touch his daughter or not believe her when she tells you something like that.”
At the time, of course, I did not realize it was love that made my father respond as he did. I chalked it up to his defiant Scottish nature because the principal insinuated he was not a good father and he might have been “wrong” to believe me.

A couple of years later, it was Thanksgiving recess; Dad and I were in his Jeep, plowing snow. We usually did not talk a lot on these journeys; we were just together. Sometimes he explained things, but mostly I watched and learned. Dad was not driving fast. His visibility was limited from heavy snow. Suddenly a pheasant flew in front of the Jeep, and we hit it.
I pleaded with Dad to stop, but he insisted there was no time. Driveways needed plowing, and the pheasant was probably dead. Not giving in to his first “no,” I asked him again to stop. After a moment, he sighed, did a three-point turn, and drove back.
Snow pelted us as we got out of the Jeep and walked toward the pheasant. From its colors, I could tell it was a male. Amazingly, the bird was still alive. As we approached, a little too close for its comfort, it mustered some strength and tried to get away. Agilely and gently, my father grabbed the pheasant on either side of its wings and held them against the body to keep it still.
Handing the pheasant to me, Dad said, “Here, hold him. Keep his wings under the palms of your hands to keep him quiet. Don’t squeeze hard; his wing is broken and I think his leg is, too.”
Holding the pheasant I had already named Grill, I admired its beautiful colors, while Dad trudged back to the Jeep and retrieved a burlap bag. He explained that we were going to put that pheasant in the bag to keep in quiet.
“Grill will suffocate in that thing and it’s so dark,” I protested.
Short and to the point, Dad explained that this thing would keep the pheasant quiet until we could fix it, and the bird would not suffocate. We carefully slid Grill into the sack, tied it with baling twine, and then laid him on the floor of the Jeep at my feet.
Dad plowed. We did not talk. I stared at the motionless burlap bag at my feet for five hours. As far as I could figure, Grill was dead.
By ten in the morning, Dad had almost finished plowing. The winds had died down, so he suggested it was a good time to go home and grab some breakfast. I stifled a smile when we pulled into the driveway at the barn first.
Getting out of the Jeep, Dad said, “Bring that pheasant. We will see what we can do.”
To my joy, Grill moved when I picked up the sack.
In the barn, there was a cabinet with first-aid items for the horses. Dad told me what we would need as he pulled an empty rabbit hutch from behind some fence posts. He brushed it off and fluffed hay inside it. Together, we took Grill from the bag and then spent an hour stabilizing his wing—all the while with Dad’s instructions: “Hold this here. Tie this. Hold him still; I can’t work on a moving target.”
After setting Grill’s wing, Dad suggested we leave the leg because it was not distorted and, if the pheasant lived, the break would heal.
“I understand,” I said, staring through the wire, knowing Grill would be okay.

On a sunny mid-winter day, Dad rested his hand on my shoulder and said, “It’s time to turn that pheasant loose. He needs to go to his home.” In silence, we let Grill go and watched him fly to the trees behind our house. Grill stayed there in his pine tree home for a while, coming in and out to get food.
Then one day he was gone.

Spring was budding and, to my surprise, who should come strutting from the pine trees with a female pheasant? Grill. I knew it was he, because one wing was a little lower than the other, and he had a slight limp.

“Dad!” I yelled, elated. “Dad, look! That pheasant we fixed up is in the backyard!”
My dad rushed to the window, looked out, and said, “It looks like we did a good job on Grill.”
It was the first time I had ever heard him mention our foundling “pet” by name.

Getting off the bus from high school one afternoon, I noticed a green-and-white Coleman cooler and my dad’s fishing pole near the doorway to the house. Curious, I opened the cooler. Staring back at me were six catfish, gills reaching, laboring in a desperate attempt to get air. I closed the lid and went in the house to have my after-school snack, which I could not eat, thinking about the tortuous death the fish were experiencing. I tried to tell myself, they are only fish.
Unable to finish my toast because of a grand idea, I filled the bathtub, running my fingers through the water to make sure the temperature was just right. I lugged the cooler into the bathroom and dumped the fish in. One floated to the top, belly up. With hopes of bringing it back to life, I pushed the fish under the water and swished it around. Its gills moved and it started to swim.
Of course, I had given no thought to how my mom would feel about fish in the same tub in which we bathe. Nor how dad will feel when he found his catch missing. Pleased with myself, I retrieved my toast from the kitchen and watched the happy fish swimming, splashing, and eating breadcrumbs that I broke off for them. Then I put the cooler back, thinking, Dad always told me to put things back where I found them.
I was uncertain about what to do now that the fish were in the bathtub. My mind wandered out to the pond behind our house. Time slowed as the fish mesmerized me; then I heard my mother call to me, wondering where I was and why I had not started dinner.
“I’m in here—in the bathroom,” Oh rats, I thought; Mom is not going to like these fish in the bathtub.
Seeing me sitting on the floor, with my arm over the edge of the bathtub, she asked what I was doing. Peering over, she gasped, “Kellie Marie—WHAT do you have in that bathtub?”
“Fish? I found them alive in the cooler, and I could not eat my snack knowing they were suffocating. Mo—om, I could not let them die.”
We stared at the six catfish, swimming in our tan bathtub, occasionally surfacing to grab a floating crumb. With a smirk on her face, she speculated on what Dad’s reaction would be. He had called her at work and told her about the fish; but had to do a job estimate before he was able to fillet them. Suddenly we heard Dad calling for us, wondering where his fish were. Mom covered her mouth and giggled.
Now, a little too late, I worried that Dad was going to be mad. Mom, meanwhile, glided out of the bathroom like one those fish swimming through the water to go talk to him
Straining my ears, I tried to hear what they said. Uh-oh, sounds like Dad is upset, I told myself. Oh boy what have I done? Reaching over the side of the tub, I let the catfish brush against my fingertips.
Hearing footsteps, I focused my attention closer on the fish, not wanting to look at the doorway. Fear gripped me as I envisioned Dad’s scowl. As he got closer, my heart beat faster. Finally, the footsteps stopped. The tile of the bathroom floor made that squeak it did when someone was standing on it. Still afraid to look up at him, I held my breath and swallowed. Why didn’t I think about this part before I put the fish in the tub?
My father’s deep voice echoed in the bathroom, “What have you done with my fish?”
With a sheepish smile, I finally looked up at him. He was handsome with his neatly combed black hair, pencil-thin mustache, tanned skin from working outside; his hands on his hips. I always thought he looked like Tennessee Ernie Ford. (I thought Tennessee handsome, too.) Frantically I explained I could not let the fish die in the cooler.
As I tried to explain myself out of trouble, his thin mustache moved into a small smile. He squatted down next to me and asked what I was going to do with the fish now; and reminded me that he had planned to have them for dinner.
My heart racing, fearing he still might net them out of there for dinner, I pleaded for him not to fillet them, explaining they were happy fish.
“So if I don’t fillet them, what are you going to do to make up for the loss of a fresh fish dinner?” he asked me.
Paint his boat? Clean the bulldozer? Straighten the garage? My eyebrows rose higher with every good idea.
He wasn’t sure about me straightening up the garage; he wanted to be able to find things. He then told me that one of his dump trucks needed the worn gasket scraped off and the inside of the head cleaned; I could do that.
I jumped at the chance, thinking I got the better end of the deal. I saved the fishes’ life.
“Now what are you going to do with the fish?” my dad asked me. “They can’t stay here in the tub.”
Shyly I suggest the pond behind the house.
“Good idea, we’ve never put catfish in the pond before.”
Excited, jumping up to go get the cooler without a word spoken, I gave my dad a kiss on the cheek—unexpected on both our parts. Running past him, I stopped and turned for a moment to say thank you. Instead, I said nothing.
He stood there, staring at the fish in the tub, with his hand on his cheek. Today, I thought, I love my father.
Both of us got wet gathering the fish, carrying them to the pond, and turning them loose. Standing at the edge of the pond, we watched them and meditated in a rare moment of father-daughter connection. Those fish lived and propagated a long time—long past my father’s death.


Standing at that pond’s edge, I think about my father, the day of the catfish rescue, the times we fished for blue gills (only to throw them back), plowed snow, and mended a pheasant. I commemorate those good times of our relationship and the memories we made.
Yes, our relationship was unpredictable and more often than not, we did not like each other. What’s more important, though, I know we loved each other. It was our relationship, done our way. I dare say we both could not have been wrong about that being the way it was supposed to be.
Knowing I am right, I grin with the reflection staring back at me—the refection of my father and me.



KMS © 2008