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Fishing with Daddy
Jane Beckman
"Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!" I screamed. “Kill it! Kill it!” I once saw a tee shirt that said, "Cool dads take their kids fish- ing." After one sunny, April morning in 1992, I would have completely disagreed. "Ready to go?" Daddy had asked through his teeth as I ran out to Big Red, his beloved truck. He swept me up and plopped me into a seat that could fit a sumo wrestler, where I sat importantly upright. I clutched a paper sack containing two bologna sandwiches and a bag of potato chips for my daddy and me to share. This was my first opportu- nity to eat out of a paper bag, and suddenly, I felt taller. I slouched to make my knees reach the edge of the seat and mused, "I'm a big girl."
Full of daydreams and high expectations about a river, I ad- mired the dash while Daddy hand cranked my window about halfway down and started the engine. There seemed to be an infinite number of mysterious knobs and buttons, and every time Daddy twisted one, I would watch for an effect. When nothing noticeable happened, I as- sumed that the buttons were broken. "Here," Daddy handed me a little pink cube of watermelon-flavored gum. As I tore the wrapper off of my gum, I saw Daddy spit something brown into a beer can. I was about to turn four years old and had not yet made the connection that Daddy had tobacco in his mouth. I just thought that his lower lip was sometimes big. He sat with one strong, brown arm leaning out of the open window and the other on a steering wheel the size of a large cheese pizza. A handsome, young man of twenty-eight, he wore a white tee shirt with a little hole in the bottom right hand corner. His loose denim shorts smelled a lot like his truck, and he was wearing water shoes like mine, but mine were pink. "I wonder if I'll see a mermaid." My think blonde hair blew all over my grinning face. “Will Daddy let me hold the pole?"
Despite the fact that the Duck River was only two miles down from our house, we had not bounced over many potholes before my imagination was interrupted. Big Red was a 1960 Ford F350, a beast of a truck. Like a tiger, it was beautiful, but dangerous. Big Red was a wasp magnet. I never rode in that truck without at least one wasp flying in. I had been trying to blow a bubble but instead kept spitting my gum out onto my pink, yellow and green, tie-dyed dress when a big red wasp with long, dangling legs made its grand entrance through my window.
"Daddy! Kill it!" I shrieked and frantically tried to unbuckle my rusty, metal seatbelt. It landed on the seat in the middle. WHACK! WHACK! Daddy swerved on the road as he beat the wasp with a navy blue cap that said NISSAN and knocked its body onto the floor. I peered over the edge of the seat and saw it convulsing like it was hav- ing a seizure. ""Ahah, he's dead," Daddy promised and spit into his can. We turned off onto a little dirt road in the woods. "We're here! Don't forget the lunch."
A moment later, I was waiting in the boat, scanning the sparkly river for mermaids and yellow flounder. Then Daddy catapulted us off and leaped in. "Whoa!" I grabbed one of the sides of the boat and clamped my eyes shut. On opening them again, I noticed that the river was not blue. It was brown, and I could see sticks and leaves floating near the bank. Then I spied what would later be identified as a water bug. To me, it looked very much like a spider, and it was gliding to- ward me. I started to bounce my legs nervously and pointed, "There's a spider!" Daddy rowed towards the middle of the stream to a very calm part of the river, thick in the forest. A bird was cawing from an oak on the opposite bank. The oak was leaning, with its longest branch touch- ing the water and reminded me of the lagoon where Sebastian sang "Kiss the Girl" on the Little Mermaid. Then I saw it. A granddaddy long-legs, the monster of the spiders, although their mouths are too small to bite, was crawling on the edge of the boat. "Now don't be standin' up or you'll tip the..." I heard fear in Daddy's voice. Sud- denly, the boat swayed and swerved, and I stood there with my arms flapping up and down. I saw the spider scurry over the edge, and losing my balance, I fell down onto the wet floor of the boat.
"I wanna go back!" I sobbed, gasping at every sway of the boat. "I don't like this. I wanna go back.
Daddy gaped at me with his paddle in his lap. "You wanna go home?" he choked. Underneath straggling dark brown bangs, his eyes were piercing, wide and unreadable.
“Yes," I pleaded, huddled into a ball on the floor. "I don't like this."
Daddy sighed, looked away, and scratched his neck in indeci- sion. The bird from the opposite shore squawked impatiently. I saw Daddy's scruffy jaw twitch as he cleared his throat, picked up the pad- dle, and dipped it into the water. Time slowed to a turtle's pace as he lifted me out of the dreaded boat. The click of the seatbelt echoed against the heavy silence of not knowing what Daddy was thinking be- hind his shifting jaw. "Fishing's not any fun at all." As we jostled
Jane Beckman
"Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!" I screamed. “Kill it! Kill it!” I once saw a tee shirt that said, "Cool dads take their kids fish- ing." After one sunny, April morning in 1992, I would have completely disagreed. "Ready to go?" Daddy had asked through his teeth as I ran out to Big Red, his beloved truck. He swept me up and plopped me into a seat that could fit a sumo wrestler, where I sat importantly upright. I clutched a paper sack containing two bologna sandwiches and a bag of potato chips for my daddy and me to share. This was my first opportu- nity to eat out of a paper bag, and suddenly, I felt taller. I slouched to make my knees reach the edge of the seat and mused, "I'm a big girl."
Full of daydreams and high expectations about a river, I ad- mired the dash while Daddy hand cranked my window about halfway down and started the engine. There seemed to be an infinite number of mysterious knobs and buttons, and every time Daddy twisted one, I would watch for an effect. When nothing noticeable happened, I as- sumed that the buttons were broken. "Here," Daddy handed me a little pink cube of watermelon-flavored gum. As I tore the wrapper off of my gum, I saw Daddy spit something brown into a beer can. I was about to turn four years old and had not yet made the connection that Daddy had tobacco in his mouth. I just thought that his lower lip was sometimes big. He sat with one strong, brown arm leaning out of the open window and the other on a steering wheel the size of a large cheese pizza. A handsome, young man of twenty-eight, he wore a white tee shirt with a little hole in the bottom right hand corner. His loose denim shorts smelled a lot like his truck, and he was wearing water shoes like mine, but mine were pink. "I wonder if I'll see a mermaid." My think blonde hair blew all over my grinning face. “Will Daddy let me hold the pole?"
Despite the fact that the Duck River was only two miles down from our house, we had not bounced over many potholes before my imagination was interrupted. Big Red was a 1960 Ford F350, a beast of a truck. Like a tiger, it was beautiful, but dangerous. Big Red was a wasp magnet. I never rode in that truck without at least one wasp flying in. I had been trying to blow a bubble but instead kept spitting my gum out onto my pink, yellow and green, tie-dyed dress when a big red wasp with long, dangling legs made its grand entrance through my window.
"Daddy! Kill it!" I shrieked and frantically tried to unbuckle my rusty, metal seatbelt. It landed on the seat in the middle. WHACK! WHACK! Daddy swerved on the road as he beat the wasp with a navy blue cap that said NISSAN and knocked its body onto the floor. I peered over the edge of the seat and saw it convulsing like it was hav- ing a seizure. ""Ahah, he's dead," Daddy promised and spit into his can. We turned off onto a little dirt road in the woods. "We're here! Don't forget the lunch."
A moment later, I was waiting in the boat, scanning the sparkly river for mermaids and yellow flounder. Then Daddy catapulted us off and leaped in. "Whoa!" I grabbed one of the sides of the boat and clamped my eyes shut. On opening them again, I noticed that the river was not blue. It was brown, and I could see sticks and leaves floating near the bank. Then I spied what would later be identified as a water bug. To me, it looked very much like a spider, and it was gliding to- ward me. I started to bounce my legs nervously and pointed, "There's a spider!" Daddy rowed towards the middle of the stream to a very calm part of the river, thick in the forest. A bird was cawing from an oak on the opposite bank. The oak was leaning, with its longest branch touch- ing the water and reminded me of the lagoon where Sebastian sang "Kiss the Girl" on the Little Mermaid. Then I saw it. A granddaddy long-legs, the monster of the spiders, although their mouths are too small to bite, was crawling on the edge of the boat. "Now don't be standin' up or you'll tip the..." I heard fear in Daddy's voice. Sud- denly, the boat swayed and swerved, and I stood there with my arms flapping up and down. I saw the spider scurry over the edge, and losing my balance, I fell down onto the wet floor of the boat.
"I wanna go back!" I sobbed, gasping at every sway of the boat. "I don't like this. I wanna go back.
Daddy gaped at me with his paddle in his lap. "You wanna go home?" he choked. Underneath straggling dark brown bangs, his eyes were piercing, wide and unreadable.
“Yes," I pleaded, huddled into a ball on the floor. "I don't like this."
Daddy sighed, looked away, and scratched his neck in indeci- sion. The bird from the opposite shore squawked impatiently. I saw Daddy's scruffy jaw twitch as he cleared his throat, picked up the pad- dle, and dipped it into the water. Time slowed to a turtle's pace as he lifted me out of the dreaded boat. The click of the seatbelt echoed against the heavy silence of not knowing what Daddy was thinking be- hind his shifting jaw. "Fishing's not any fun at all." As we jostled