I spent part of my day at the lake today, even though it was cold, cloudy, and windy—therefore I sat in my truck with my windows down and a jacket on. I wanted to come here, and have wanted to, because this is where some of my favorite memories with Dad are. Knowing that I’m returning to school soon, I’m having this odd, frantic feeling of needing to go all the places we used to go together—like that’s all I will have left or something (which, it kind of is).
On the right side of this picture, there is a boat ramp. This is the boat ramp where Dad (oh so patiently) taught me how to back a trailer in, and waited for me to straighten my truck up multiple times before getting it right. I’d watch him in my rear view mirror, turning his finger in a circular motion as if he were steering my wheel for me. He was showing me which way to turn it. Then he’d yell out for me to try again, and we’d repeat the process for what felt like hours. I am still not great at this whole backing up thing, but I can usually figure it out with time.
In this little bay on the lake, Dad and I spent a day kayaking. I loved doing that kind of activity, but as usual, he only did it because I wanted to. He would have preferred to have been on a boat with his line in the water, preferably with a big bass at the end.
Many memories were made on this lake while standing on his boat. His kind heart always showed through when putting the bass back into the water, and he would speak to them and usually thank them. I think he probably always said it as a joke, but I feel that you can only joke about it so much before it just becomes truth. I would sit on the back of the boat, catching “salad” (or the hydrilla that has overrun Seminole), and suddenly he’d jerk his line and reel in a fish. All I’d catch was more salad. He re-taught me how to bait a hook on this lake (because I’d forgotten from when I was like six). He would always take any fish that I miraculously caught off my hook for me because I wasn’t a fan of touching them anymore. My favorite memories are looking over at him when he was running almost full speed across the water, and he would be smiling because he was doing what he loved with one of the people he loved.
The truck rides home were always great, even though he usually teased me about “smelling like skunk” (I’m not a great fisherman, ok?). We’d quietly sing songs together because both of us were too afraid to let the other hear our actual singing voice. Or we would sing ridiculously for the same reason. We’d always call Mom on the way home to either let her know we were getting dinner or that she could go ahead and put dinner on. He’d always tease me when I would slow down because I thought I saw deer eyes, and it was really just reflectors on a gate (I was driving with his baby—or boat— attached, so how could I not be overly cautious?)
I spent the hour here writing some thoughts in my notebook. I finally felt peace. I wasn’t rushed. I felt like I had all the time in the world, just like Dad used to make me feel when I was backing his precious boat in.
This was his place. And I’m just glad he shared it with me.
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