the quiet

the trend lately is that life is simply getting in the way. i work so i can play, i play so i can forget, the in-between matter is shunned, and the routine is on repeat.

i miss my dad.

THEY say that “time assuages”,—
Time never did assuage;
An actual suffering strengthens,
As sinews do, with age.
Time is a test of trouble,
But not a remedy.
If such it prove, it prove too
There was no malady.

– emily dickinson

19 November 2010

gone fishin'

last friday, naz and i made plans for a lunch outing. my daily workout routine of precor elliptical training wasn’t going to suffer one day—although, maybe it would after noshing on fried plantains and sipping on café con leche. thank you, paladar.

once our bellies were full and the mist had subsided, we strolled down a couple of streets before i headed back to work. passing by orvis, naz wanted to take a quick peek at some of their jackets and shirts since his hunt for chambray is continual. the aesthetic of orvis doesn’t match my own personal style, but i always love stopping in. the staff is nice, the vibe is pleasant. and on this particular visit, i ambled over to the fishing section, where an old artisan sustained his craft of making fishing gear, his hands working adeptly around some wire and feathers. he asked us if we needed any assistance, and upon our polite decline, he thanked us for stopping by. a true gentleman.

surveying the varieties of rods and lures and hooks and feathery doodads, i got nostalgic. when i was younger, dad and i had our share of fishing adventures. we’d go to the anglers’ club in belleville, where we’d have contests to see who could catch the most bluegill. i’d cast my snoopy fishing pole and wait as patiently as a little girl could to see if my bobber would disappear under the surface, signifying fish activity. if i caught anything, i dare not touch it. dad did all the dirty work for me. the baiting, the unhooking, and the tossing back of the fish. my biggest intrigue with fishing was really how far i could cast, but the arms of an eight-year-old did nothing for the advancement of my line. my fishing skills never improved over the years, but the time with dad overshadowed the sport itself anyway. i’m sure he loved having me by his side regardless, as he attempted to instill some tricks of the trade.

———

a little-known fact about dad was his well-intentioned entrepreneurial spirit. i say well-intentioned simply because his follow-through was often lacking. an exhausting full-time factory job, yard duties, and any other chores the family weighed him down with all played a part into his rapid disinterest. honestly, i think he also quickly grew bored with his business ideas, maybe realizing early on that these tactics to get rich quick simply were of no merit. dad tried selling leather patching kits, wedding invitations, printing services (“specialties are our specialty”), laundry balls that required no laundry detergent (they allegedly cleaned your clothes using electromagnetic energy or some cockamamie crap), among other things.

his most successful pursuit was that of “michael’s tackle box.” dad took his love for fishing but his distaste for poorly constructed lures from walmart et al to good use. he went into the lure-making side business. in fact, he excelled at the craftsmanship.

dad stocked up on raw materials for his new venture: paints, brushes, rubber for skirting, hooks, spinner blades (hammered and smooth), swivels, wire, hooks, molds, blocks of lead, a melting pot, plastic bags, michael’s tackle box–branded labels, etc. he even built several drying racks that the newly formed lures rested upon until they were ready for packaging. looking back, and quite proudly i might add, dad did an amazing job with this operation. from melting the lead to filling the molds to fashioning the rubber skirts and dotting the eyes with a dab of paint. he even took the time to remove dried paint where the wire met the body—only the body required paint but inevitably part of the wire became coated due to the dipping process—a painstaking step the mass-produced competitors never did. a small detail he took pride in, separating his wares from others’. it was his love of working with his hands, something i inherited, that likely kept his interest the strongest with this endeavor.

he often went on fishing escapades with a couple of his brothers-in-law and other friends, where they’d try out his latest batch of goods. everyone loved them. they were sturdy, attractive (as attractive as fishing gear can be), and effective. an uncle often touted he caught bigger and more fish with dad’s product than the name-brand variety. there was talk of dad trying to get his lures into some of the stores in town. but sadly, his motivation stopped just short. he continued to make them for awhile at the request of friends and family, but it was no longer a viable business—his love for it faded.

contemplating what could have been had he stuck with it, i thought again of the craftsman at orvis. i would have loved to see dad sitting in front of a worktable with lures attached some C-clamp apparatus at a shop, greeting customers with a genuine smile and passion for his art. but life. life, she sometimes impedes herself, in ways that aren’t so easy to overcome. i wonder if he had any regrets about ceasing production on his lures and not pursuing the retail circuit. it could have led to better things for him and his family, or it could have backfired. but we’ll never know.

———

one of the last skype chats i had with dad before his fingers stopped working properly was about our fishing trips. he questioned himself as a father; i retorted with my memories of bluegill competitions. it may have been a lame answer of sorts, but it was my attempt at reminding him that if i thought his skills as a father were lackluster, then i wouldn’t have remembered those times fondly. i hope i got my point across.

and by the way, september 20 was the three-month anniversary of his loss. time apparently hasn’t slowed down.

21 September 2010

the passage of time

two months since i started a new job.

four months since my sister left for australia—and now she’s en route back to the midwest.

six months since my last visit home, but a quickly approaching trip out that way will reset the clock.

thirteen months since the boy and i landed in san francisco.

seventeen months since our last trip to key west.

nearly two years since my dad was diagnosed with cancer.

nearly three years since i married my love on a beach.

a little over five years since my grandfather died, and i couldn’t look at grandma.

nearly six years since i met naz, and we went to pick up a wee shaun the dog™ from a breeder in the middle of nowhere (missouri).

seven years since i returned stateside after a brief hiatus from my life, better known as beach bum living in curacao.

twelve years since my own adventures in “studying” abroad.

fifteen years since i graduated high school.

twenty years since my great grandfather, age 100, passed away three days after his birthday.

obviously, there are many more highlights (and lowlights) of my young life, but this sampling is plenty to illustrate just how fast time goes by. my mom often told a younger, more naive me that time speeds up the older you get. i thought she was pulling my leg. turns out, like many things, the parents are right.

14 June 2010