The Story Teller

Stories are the creative conversion of life itself into a more powerful, clearer, more meaningful experience. They are the currency of human contact. ~Robert McKee

Bob

My dad had a very dear friend for most of his adult life, a man named Bob who loved all things outdoors, especially fishing, especially fishing for the monster Northern Pike lurking in waters north of the US border. Bob taught my dad to fish, opened a world to my dad that he came to love until the day he died, a world my dad shared with me, my brothers, and his grandchildren. Bob and my dad fished together for forty some years.

When I was first allowed to go to Canada with the men, I wanted to fish with Bob. Partly because he was, hands down, the most knowledgeable and best fisherman in the group. Also, I believe, because Bob was always willing to teach me to fish and was very tolerant of me when I lost leach after leach trying unsuccessfully to apply techniques he mastered many years previously to catch Walleye.

On my last two fishing trips with Bob, it was evident that age was taking a toll on him. He no longer was able to cast those heavy Muskie lures for hours on end, no longer able to send his lures very far from the boat, no longer to pinpoint his casts at the only open spot in a bay choked with weed. His joints ached. He grew short of breath yet still he puffed those damn cancer sticks all day long. Somehow, despite his ill health, he still had knack for catching a lot of fish, the uncanny ability to land the biggest fish on every trip.

Despite fishing with Bob for many years, he had one skill I was never able to acquire, a skill none of us came close to developing to the degree he mastered, a skill that seemed to get better with each passing year. Bob is a master story teller, a weaver of yarns, a modern day Mark Twain.

Richard (My Dad)

Never did I appreciate Bob's ability to tell a story as much I did on the last two fishing trips I shared with him. Both of these trips were taken after my dad had died. As we drove together and fished together, Bob told story after story, told most of his stories then told them again. He told me many tales of days of old, of the days he worked along side my dad, of those fishing trips he took with my dad on the annual outing to Canada, of the occasional Muskie trip to Boulder Junction. Bob was able to make the past come alive in exquisite detail allowing me to create pictures of my dad in my head from his words.

Where others might grow weary of the repetition, I never did. Bob, through his stories, kept my dad alive for me by filling me with tales I knew and tales I heard for the first time giving my new insights into my dad's life. Bob, through his stories, passed an invaluable legacy to me, to my brothers, and to my son, a grandson who adored his grandfather and was lucky enough to fish with his grandfather in Canada a few times before he passed.

Bob had a stroke this year so missed the annual trip. It may be the last time I ever get the chance to fish with Bob. It may be that last time I see him because he lives quite a few hours from me. I am very thankful to have had those last two trips during which he told story after story about my dad. Because, through his stories I could see my dad fishing for that monster lurking in the cabbage weeds, hear my dad laughing over a practical joke, feel his heart beating, feel my own heart swell with love for my dear, departed dad.