Still Water

My grandpa and I used to fish on Lake Cadillac. We would camp in his little camper and go fishing in the morning. There was one rule I still remember clearly: never use the camper bathroom. He did not want to have to clean it.

We would take our little boat onto the lake, and sometimes my uncle would join us. I loved when he came. He smoked a pipe, and for some reason I thought it was amazing—the billowing smoke and the sweet cherry smell of the tobacco. He was always kind to me.

I had my little cane pole. My grandpa and uncle had casting rods, which allowed them to cast far away from the boat while I could only drop my line into the water beside us. I dreamed about the day when I would finally be old enough for a grown-up fishing rod.

The strange thing is, I never was.

By the time I was old enough, the camping trips had stopped. My grandpa had younger grandchildren with cane poles, and the cycle continued without me.

I remember catching fish. I remember Grandpa occasionally catching a sucker, cutting it open, throwing it back into the lake, and always saying the same thing:

“Turtle bait.”

Mostly, though, I remember the hours we spent talking about nothing—or, more honestly, the hours I spent listening to my grandpa and my uncle.

At the time, I thought I was waiting for something better: a casting rod, a longer reach, the privileges that came with growing older. I did not understand that what I wanted someday was worth far less than what I already had.

A little boat. A cane pole. Cherry pipe smoke drifting across the water. My grandpa beside me.

Those mornings are the reason I have always loved fishing. And they remind me that while we are waiting for life to begin, the moment we will someday treasure may already be happening.