Lately I’ve been having Step ford Wife meets Mrs. Clever dreams about my mother. The 1956, you’ll eat your milk and cookies and like it, psycho mother eyes scaring me awake dreams. These aren’t intended for public use. It’s not meant to be believed or analyzed, no matter how profound it feels, but nonetheless, I avoid mirrors the morning after.
So, cautiously, I climb into the loaded Mini-van.
Wait Mini-van?
That isn’t part of the dream, but this isn’t part of the 1980’s landscape either. This is my parents’ mobile empty nest. Loaded with the canoe, camping equipment, telescope, fly-fishing gear, bikes, dog and occasionally one of the children too. My mom is climbing through the Family room window, with sleeping bags, folding chairs, a camp stove, pots pans and flatware. Did you get the air mattress dear? Now I remember, overnight camping can be this complicated. The dogs and I wedge into the seat. I slam the slidy door. So far so good, and just as comforting as cough syrup we stop in Pine Junction to pick up two six-packs of Belgium's finest and a bottle of wine.
South Park.
We meet up with an old friend of the family, coincidentally an ex of mine. For 12 years he’s been the white knight, the last chance, in my parent’s hopeful eyes, for heterosexual salvation for their middlest daughter. The reunion is as follows.
Mom: Darrell oh good to see you kiss how have you been?
Dad: hug yes, how is “my other brother Darrell”.
Darrell: Good, good, it’s GREAT to see you guys; I am sooo glad you could come up.
Darrell, with his awkward, sincere greetings laughs, touching his fingers to his lower lip.
My father, Darrell has, faithfully uttered since the first Christmas dinner the Bob Newhart saying, “This is my brother Darrell and my other brother Darrell,” Watching their reunion I am enlightened by the Newhartian humor of all this. I’m smiling, mom looks over and thinks because of Darrell, no mom I am living in a dry witted1980’s sitcom, just call me Larry.
But this isn’t about him, except that we stayed on his family’s 160 acres for the evening, cooked fantastic food on the industrial sized stove, at his cabin, and fished in stocked lakes.
Fishing with Dad.
We’re on the shore of the upper alpine lake, he’s teaching me how to knot a fly. He’s adorable, because he’s wearing the funny fisherman’s vest, hat, oversized sunglasses and white shorts. The vest pockets of are stuffed with boxes filled with homemade flies, which he’s made with his own newfound Zen like temperament. He’s explaining the stages of the May fly; dun, eggs, larva and nymph. He attaches the Blue Dun, to the end of my #4 handmade, graphite fly rod. We’re both in heaven. The key to casting is between 11 o’clock and 1 o’clock, that’s where I keep my rod. Positioned at one, I draw line from the reel, creating slack in the line, the rod wishes to eleven and the line is pulled through the eyelets. Back and forth until I cast the tiny fly as close as possible to a rise, in the water. The fish are feeding at the surface, this is good, but unusual, dad ponders with his Bachelor in Biology, Masters in vertebrate zoology and PhD in Wildlife Management.