One day when I was a small girl my dad took me fishing. There was this little creek not far from our home where smooth, rounded rocks covered the banks and you could wade across without much trouble. It was a popular spot with well-worn paths through unchecked shrubs, trees and other forms of Appalachian vegetation. You could tell that the creek received frequent visitors, what with the occasional empty milk jug, cigarette pack or discarded bait containers scattered every thirty feet or so.
Where the bank touched the water’s edge someone, probably a group of kids, had created a makeshift stone wall with the plentiful sandstone rocks along the edge of the creek. I imagined it must have taken them all day to gather just the right sized stones, placing them strategically to engineer a small pool. I wanted to wade into the pool, but dutifully followed Daddy as he made his way down the footpaths holding two fishing rods, a live bait bucket and a small cooler filled with Coca Cola. A set of keys from our Chevy truck hung out of his back pocket and a cigarette held steady underneath his mustache. I followed him closely as one would on a mission.
Before my sister and brother came into existence Daddy talked a lot about his “namesake.” He was my grandparents’ only son; the youngest son. My Aunt Kay, his older sister, only had girls and besides that she was a female herself, so Daddy felt tremendous duty to carry on the
family legacy. He talked often about having a son that could carry on the Wiley family name. Maybe someone named Tom – like himself. He eventually got his wish when my brother, the youngest sibling, was born. But this was before, and at the time he couldn’t have known what his family would end up looking like.
I was the firstborn, and I was a girl. Two facts that were never far from any conversation. “Meet Dee Dee, my eldest,” he would say. “She’s my Tomboy.” I beamed with pride – never resentful. I would smile and feel a sense of accomplishment that I, a little girl, had (through circumstance, fate, devine intervention) stepped into the role of firstborn as it existed in Daddy’s mind. I could, and would, do anything that a boy could do, with the exception of a few obvious things like pee standing up. Accordingly he gifted me with the ritual he would have otherwise reserved for a son – fishing in the creek with live bait amid long, quiet stretches of time spent waiting and tall tales of the one that got away.
We took some rusty metal lawn chairs, the kind where the woven seat fabric frays easily and if you’re not careful the sharp edges of the arm rests threaten to tear a gash or leave a nasty bruise on an unsuspecting hip, or waist even – if you’re short and around five years old. The cooler hid some frozen Zero bars in case we got hungry.
We made camp in broad daylight, building fortifications for our fishing rods out of rocks and piling them so that they secured our poles. Daddy positioned the lawn chairs not far behind the pole stands; cooler in the middle ready and waiting for a snack attack. After a ride with the windows down in the truck, a modest trek down the footpaths to the creek and the thoughtful positioning of our equipment and beverages we were ready to fish. I felt excited to see what would happen next. I wanted to catch the biggest one – what a story that would make.
The sky was part overcast, as is often the case in the West Virginia summer when the heat and humidity seem to be trapped between the mountain ridges. Daddy baited the hook – something I refused to do because, gross, and why turn down his offer of assistance? I felt sorry for the slimy earthworms with sharp hooks in their bellies. “Don’t worry baby,” he assured me. “They can’t feel it.” Daddy helped me cast the line two or three times until I started to get the hang of it. Then he stepped back, wiped the sweat from his brow and said, “Go on. Throw it out there. You don’t need my help.”
I cast the line into the creek with all the strength a scrawny little girl could muster. The doomed earthworm went about four feet, barely beyond the water’s edge. I looked at Daddy and he just nodded. Try again. He stood and watched me as I made a second attempt, this time putting my whole body into the cast. It went about twelve feet.
Then, I waited.
While Daddy set about casting to different parts of the creek and setting his own line I sat for a little while in the rusty old lawn chair, watching. I felt a twinge of competition when his line reached the other side of the creek, and a snicker when it went too far and snagged a tree trunk. Just as he found his sweet spot, I noticed my line shivering just slightly. I jumped up to grab my fishing pole. “No, not yet,” Daddy said. “It’s just the current.”
The smooth, rounded sandstone rocks on the bank fit my little hands well. I remember holding one that fit perfectly in the palm of my hand, feeling its coolness, integrating its weight. Then I threw it. I threw it as hard as I could. The stone splashed into the water causing a happy disturbance in the quiet of the afternoon. Giggling, I threw another. And then another.
“You’re going to scare all the fish away, now,” Daddy said. With a frustrated sigh I went back to my post in the lawn chair, kicking my little legs in fits of restless energy typical of a kindergartener.
It seemed like an hour went by before I said, “Daddy this is boring.” Nothing was happening, and the prospect of inspecting and then throwing rocks seemed way more entertaining than waiting for the inevitable consumption of the ill-fated earthworm.
“It’s only been about five minutes,” Daddy said. “Be patient. A watched pot never boils.”
“I have to pee,” I complained.
Sighing with an ornery grin he replied, “Ok. Go pee behind those bushes. I’ll keep an eye on your line. Don’t wander too far.”
“But Daddy!”
“Go on before you pee your pants.” Daddy focused on the water looking for any sign of movement. Nothing seemed to bite. I walked slowly back to the footpath looking for an open spot along the side for some privacy. When I was settled among the bushes and sure no one could see I pulled down my Toughskins and shyly peed on the ground, tiptoeing forward with my girl squat to avoid getting it on my shoes. I wondered if other kids peed outside.
I walked back to the bank. Daddy handed me the fishing pole and said, “Now here. Hold tight.” Almost as soon as I took the fishing pole from him I felt a sudden, strong jerk so forceful it nearly pulled me into the water.
“You got a bite?” he said. Confused, I just stared at him. “Jerk hard!” he said. “Let’s reel that puppy in!”
“Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” I shouted over and over, trying desperately to hold the line as the creature on the other end resisted and fought. Satisfied that he had provided me with an authentic “catch” experience he stepped over to help, and the two of us reeled in a fish that was about half my size (which means it was pretty small). He smiled at me and said, “Well look there baby. I’ll make you a fisherman one of these days.”
One Saturday morning a couple of weeks ago I woke gently, as I try to do on Saturdays. As I rolled over to check my phone and set about the morning ritual checking in on missed calls, texts and mostly meaningless social media banter, something was immediately wrong. Noting the suspect nature of two missed calls and several text messages from my brother I knew it was serious. “Dee, get in touch with me or mom.”
Dad’s heart attack was a shock to everyone. Having never experienced any problems associated with his heart, he felt sick the entire day prior and it wasn’t until the wee hours of Saturday morning before he realized that he needed swift medical attention.
My mother, brother and extended family gathered at the hospital while he underwent a catheterization and angioplasty. My sister lovingly sent video messages and called from Chicago. My daughters sent messages of love for their Poppy from Cincinnati. Neighbors and members of his church congregation visited one after the other and in shifts, all bearing gifts.
When I arrived in Charleston, WV that Saturday afternoon my mother hugged me close, teary eyed, but relieved. She had been up all night and I could tell she was just beginning to process what had happened. It was a new day for Daddy. “He came through the heart cath just fine,” she said, hopeful. “He opened those big blue eyes and I said, ‘There you are!'” It was the same voice that she used to comfort my children when they were babies; the same voice I heard when her mother’s love outweighed all reason and circumstance.
I walked with my mother into the Surgical Intensive Care Unit, and indeed there he was. He reclined in a hospital bed that just fit, and was covered with a thin, slate blue sheet and beige blanket. The machines and computers stationed all around him told me coldly, “Do not touch. We have important work to do.” He was monitored more closely than a flight deck it seemed. The daddy that always stepped in to help everyone else was tired, knocked down for a time by an unseen menace. He was weakened, frightened and discouraged. But he was alive, and loved. I leaned down to kiss him on the forehead and teased, “You didn’t have to go to this much trouble to get me to come home from Cincinnati.” He nodded his head and raised his arms to hug me. “You didn’t have to come down here baby. Dad’s fine,” he said, unconvincingly.
A quiet and comfortable calm settled over the hospital room and the three of us. “Ginger is worried sick about you and Tony will be over after work tonight,” my mom offered. He cheered immediately knowing he would see his son and daughter-in-law later that evening and addressed my sister saying, “Tell her no need to worry.” Daddy didn’t know she was making plans to stay for an extended visit when he returned home. Clearly more concerned about his children than himself he said “I don’t want her to have to see me this way.”
We talked for a few more minutes before being interrupted by his nurse, a sweet talking, straight shooting woman named Ramona. “Tom, aren’t you going to eat your chicken?” she asked. He looked as though he might vomit at the notion of one more bite of plain, broiled, white meat hospital chicken breast and plain carrots. “Ok, she said. How about a grilled cheese?” Daddy declined at first, pouting just a little bit before he said, “I guess. Yeah get me a grilled cheese. Ramona, have you met my eldest?” Ramona smiled at me and extended her hand warmly. “She’s my little fisherman.”
Dee Wiley 