|
Stories
|
|
Written by Doug Gilmore
|
|
Saturday, 04 April 2009 16:13 |
It’s a Saturday. I can see the world through the window. The sky is pale blue with thin lines of feathered clouds running west to east. A slight breeze moves the pine tree outside the glass. The hardwoods are budding and yellow-green pollen stains the parking lot.
Not too far from here, there are men and women standing in cold water, with long rods of graphite, fiberglass or bamboo. They are hoping for a fish, hoping not to fall, hoping for a good drift, and knowing that it will come.
Not too far from here, there are men and women with their dogs, walking in a park, or maybe working a field, training a young pup. And that young pup is learning to zero in on the scent cone and to let his genetics rule his impulses.
Not too far from here, there are boys and girls playing soccer and baseball and softball. And their parents are cheering them on.
And lovers snuggle and kites are flown and babies are taking their first step.
The man in the bed in front of me is dying. He’s been dying for a year and a half, but it’s closer now. How close, no one knows. The doctor says it could be six months. It could be a year. It’s a pity.
I say it’s a pity because his last six months or last 12 will not be spent checking off some bucket list of last minute wishes and reckless pursuits. No, he’ll spend it in his chair or in his bed or by pacing back and forth, rubbing his stomach where the inoperable cancer is slowly eating him alive.
My oldest son, the one who’s all of twenty-two years now, solved the riddle that is his grandfather. He told me “Dad, it never occurred to me that granddad had no hobbies. He doesn’t have anything that interests him. All he does is sit around and feel sorry for himself.”
A twenty-two year old is immortal. He doesn’t understand the fear his grandfather has towards dying. But he is right - now - about the hobbies. His grandfather had one hobby – that was making money. I don’t mean making money the way J. Pierpont Morgan made money or the way Ted Turner made it. No, the old man made money on a smaller scale, building simple houses for working class people. That was his life. And now, because of the medication, his age and his own obsessive compulsive nature, he can’t run his business. My twenty-two year old is doing that.
There is no sadder thing to see than to see a man lose the thing he loves. I don’t worry about that for myself. I love too many things. I love fly fishing. I love woodworking. I love bird hunting. I love hunting hogs. I love photography. I love my work. I love books. I love history. I love…I love…I love… and most of all, I love my God, my wife, my kids, and my country.
We’re all dying. Some of us are closer than others. Some of us even know it.
Time is short. No one knows when their number will be called. Don’t put off what needs to be done now.
Tell your wife you love her.
Hug your kids.
Wrestle with the dog. Hell, even acknowledge the cat.
Go down to the river and say hello to the fish. If you catch one, take it home and eat it…just one. You may never get the chance again.
Be happy. Praise God. Smile.
And, as the song says
“Dance as if no one is watching,
Sing as if no one will hear,
And Love like your heart’s never been broken.”
© Doug Gilmore 2009  About the Author...Doug Gilmore of Adaire, GA, was instrumental in the founding of GOTC gatherings and their support of Casting for Recovery. Besides fly fishing, Doug enjoys bird hunting, woodworking and fine scotch.
|
|
Last Updated ( Tuesday, 07 April 2009 07:57 )
|