I am a minister and now serve a church in Soldotna Alaska. When going through the process of making the decision to relocate so far form our home I asked Pa what he thought about the idea. Once again he was true to himself and said, “Beano I think you should go. It is one of only a few places where the fish are so plentiful a bear can walk down to the river and scoop one out.”
We made the decision to move to Alaska and on Dec.31st of 1992 boarded a plane at seven thirty in the morning. It was an emotional departure and this was to be the last time I would see my grandfather. Our relationship would now be reduced to the telephone.
I remember our last conversation. I had called home and my grandparents were over visiting with mom and dad. Talking with Pa I did not realize it would be our last good bye. His words to me were, “Beano, I may never see you again and if I don’t, I love the ground you walk on, we really have had a good time.” My response was, “Pa I will see you soon.” However it was not to happen.
Early the following week I received a call and was told Pa had suffered a heart attack and passed away. Broken hearted I boarded a plan the following afternoon for a long journey home. I was asked if I would consider speaking at the service. I accepted the offer thinking it would be the last thing I could do for my grandfather. Flying through the night I could not sleep. I was haunted by questions. Would I have the strength to stand before those I love and speak to their brokenness? Where would I find words to comfort their spirit and encourage their heart? What will I say to our family as we gather to remember him?
I found strength in my faith and words of comfort in the scriptures. For encouragement I looked to the storehouse of my yesterdays and found my grandfather was everywhere. Sifting through the keepsakes I found a few memories and shared a few stories. I think Pa would have been pleased.
Now all of our children have caught salmon on my grandfather’s fly rod while fishing Alaska’s Kenai River. I had looked forward to a time when the next generation would come along and we would place his fly rod in their hands and instill in them a love for the elusive rainbow. However the following spring someone went into our shed and took all of our fishing gear. Even Pa’s fly rod was taken.
Among the greatest trophies I have are not fish mounted on the walls of my home but memories of this man I loved, who never called me by name.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
THE FISHING HOLE
As a child I spent most weekends with Pa and my grandmother. It was my refuge. While we did not fish every weekend, we did fish many weekends. It would be fishing the small mountain streams of North Carolina where I would learn the value of having a grandfather who believed nothing on this earth, was more important than our moment.
Such a moment began early one spring morning as I was awaken to the smell of eggs scrambled with cheese, chip beef gravy and drop biscuits. While this menu may never have appeared in Martha Stewart Living it was the breakfast of champions for a young fisherman.
After breakfast we loaded the car and pulled out of the drive way. Our goal was to be standing in the fishing hole just before the sun peeked over the treetops. Until that morning this fishing hole had no name. That would soon change.
We were after the trout Pa had been trying to catch for a while. It was the big one that kept getting away. Standing in the current at dawn, cold water running over our boots, we were ever so quiet. Though I was only ten years old the memory of that morning is as clear as water cascading from a mountain.
Pa was in his element as he pulled the line from his reel, gracefully casting just above the spot where the big one was holding. Morning had broken but on the dark side of the mountain the sun had not yet shone its face.
It was the perfect presentation. His line was drifting in the current over the rocks and just as it approached the area where the water gets a little deeper and moves a little slower, Splash!
However, the splash was not in front of Pa. It was behind him. It was not the rainbow taking the bait it was the grandson taking the plunge. I slipped on a rock and fell. The rainbow would live to fight another day, but I came up from the water wet and cold. I knew I had blown our chance at the big one. Looking to Pa I asked, “Can we go to the car?”
With a chuckle he nodded his head and offered his hand. To Pa the boy was more important than the fish. While the big one eluded our catch that morning the fishing hole earned its name. It would be, “the hole where Bi'no fell in”.
I have a picture, which sits on a nightstand in our bedroom. In the photo I am sitting between my father and grandfather on a sofa. Pa is holding his first great grandson. Looking at the snap shot of a special day in our family I have often wondered, “What’s he thinking?”
Something in my soul sees what he sees. He is looking ahead a few years when the two of them will be standing in the cold current of a mountain stream somewhere along the Blue Ridge Parkway. Chances are they are fishing the hole where Bi'no fell in and more than likely Pa has already told Brandon the story.
Such a moment began early one spring morning as I was awaken to the smell of eggs scrambled with cheese, chip beef gravy and drop biscuits. While this menu may never have appeared in Martha Stewart Living it was the breakfast of champions for a young fisherman.
After breakfast we loaded the car and pulled out of the drive way. Our goal was to be standing in the fishing hole just before the sun peeked over the treetops. Until that morning this fishing hole had no name. That would soon change.
We were after the trout Pa had been trying to catch for a while. It was the big one that kept getting away. Standing in the current at dawn, cold water running over our boots, we were ever so quiet. Though I was only ten years old the memory of that morning is as clear as water cascading from a mountain.
Pa was in his element as he pulled the line from his reel, gracefully casting just above the spot where the big one was holding. Morning had broken but on the dark side of the mountain the sun had not yet shone its face.
It was the perfect presentation. His line was drifting in the current over the rocks and just as it approached the area where the water gets a little deeper and moves a little slower, Splash!
However, the splash was not in front of Pa. It was behind him. It was not the rainbow taking the bait it was the grandson taking the plunge. I slipped on a rock and fell. The rainbow would live to fight another day, but I came up from the water wet and cold. I knew I had blown our chance at the big one. Looking to Pa I asked, “Can we go to the car?”
With a chuckle he nodded his head and offered his hand. To Pa the boy was more important than the fish. While the big one eluded our catch that morning the fishing hole earned its name. It would be, “the hole where Bi'no fell in”.
I have a picture, which sits on a nightstand in our bedroom. In the photo I am sitting between my father and grandfather on a sofa. Pa is holding his first great grandson. Looking at the snap shot of a special day in our family I have often wondered, “What’s he thinking?”
Something in my soul sees what he sees. He is looking ahead a few years when the two of them will be standing in the cold current of a mountain stream somewhere along the Blue Ridge Parkway. Chances are they are fishing the hole where Bi'no fell in and more than likely Pa has already told Brandon the story.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
The story begins
Buried deep in the storehouse of our sub conscious are precious keep sakes and timeless treasures. These are memories of a time and portraits from a place we call yesterday. Occasionally, if only for a while something beckons us there again. Longfellow said, "our todays and yesterdays are the blocks upon which we build." Among the building blocks of my yesterdays are memories of a man I loved who never called me by my name.
I am certain he never called me by my name because I was not named after him. Had my mom followed a family tradition I would have been Benjamian Franklin Dockery the fifth. Upon hearing I was to be named Cameron Garrett Dockery he offered a response that was purely mechanical. "Um...a cam is and off centered wheel. We can't do that do the boy."
My father had spent enough time in Spain while serving in the Air Force to learn a baby boy in that culture is called a Bam Bi'no. The latter part stuck and presented a solution to the problem at hand. Pa would not refer to his first grandson as an off centered wheel. He would call me bi'no.
He was known by a few names. His wife of 54 years and childhood sweet heart called him Frank. Co-workers called him Doc. He was my grandfather, I called him Pa and this is his story.
I am certain he never called me by my name because I was not named after him. Had my mom followed a family tradition I would have been Benjamian Franklin Dockery the fifth. Upon hearing I was to be named Cameron Garrett Dockery he offered a response that was purely mechanical. "Um...a cam is and off centered wheel. We can't do that do the boy."
My father had spent enough time in Spain while serving in the Air Force to learn a baby boy in that culture is called a Bam Bi'no. The latter part stuck and presented a solution to the problem at hand. Pa would not refer to his first grandson as an off centered wheel. He would call me bi'no.
He was known by a few names. His wife of 54 years and childhood sweet heart called him Frank. Co-workers called him Doc. He was my grandfather, I called him Pa and this is his story.
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