Memories and traditions have a way of shaping our present and our future. The places we have gone and the things we have done shape our individual lives as well as our family identity. One of our family traditions is fishing. Bob took our sons Bryan and Greg fishing at a young age. We traveled to Colorado every year and it was a highlight of our summers.
My dad taught Bob how to fly fish, then he taught the boys, and now we are teaching our grandchildren.
Our lives move on, we all grow and change, but family traditions and memories keep our family connected. Our memories are cherished when we get old and remind us of what is important in life. Family times, our values, our history, and our faith provide a consistency that gives us a sense of belonging and help us celebrate generations of family love.
This poem was inspired by our many fishing memories of early mornings, learning to read a stream, falling in, and catching the big one. Think of your own traditions or make some new ones. Memories are life itself!
Fishing I used to dread the early morn, The knocks at my bedroom door. Get up, he’d say, it’s time to go. I’d reply, just a few minutes more. I’m leaving, he would continue. If you’re going, you better come on. Ok, as I drag myself out of bed. I knew he’d not go alone. We’re going fishing, my father and I, Just the two of us together, In the warmth of summer or chill of winter, No matter what the weather. We’re making another memory, Things I have always treasured. I’ll remember all the good times, Things that can never be measured. He taught me how to bait my hook, To tend to my own pole, And when I didn’t get a bite, He’d show me his favorite hole. If my line snagged on a log Or got caught up in a tree, To untangle it or work it loose Was always up to me. It took rhythm and balance To use a fly rod just right, To place it in the perfect spot And watch the fly take flight. To read every kind of trout stream Took wisdom and hard work. I’d study the nooks and eddies, The places where fish will lurk. I had a new pair of waders. I was as proud as could be. I waded into the ice cold stream And tested my agility. I stepped out in the moving stream, But slipped on a mossy rock. Down I fell to the bottom, Soaking myself, what a shock! Dad bundled me up in a blanket And laid out my clothes to dry. Before long I was ready to go And give it another try. Fishing doesn’t always mean catching. It means being patient and still. And when you finally get one It gives you such a thrill. We sometimes kept the fish we caught, But most times let them go. We always tried for big ones, And took a picture to show. Yes, I used to dread the early morn, The knocks on my bedroom door. I never knew I’d miss them But the memories I can store. Store up to tell my own child. Do you want to get up and fish? Memories are life itself And the secret to every wish. More Pictures
