Rick Watson.
My Dad’s birthday was this week. He would have been 96 years old. I have a picture of him on my desk, and he seems to be watching over me as I work. Sometimes looking at that picture makes me smile, and sometimes it makes me sad. You’d think that after 33 years the memory of losing him would lose its edge, but this one is still sharp as a shard.
I drove to the cemetery on his birthday and parked in the shade next to the family’s plot. Flipping the tailgate down, I sat for a while in the morning sun and drank coffee from a thermos cup. A freight train blew the horn as it approached the Burnwell Crossing in Dora. The sound echoed through the hills and hollows. On this morning, the horn sounded lonesome for some reason. My dad loved that sound. He was a hobo at heart, but I’m not sure he ever rode a train. The cemetery fell silent after the train rumbled by.
As I sat there, I realized that someone had stolen the flowers that Jilda and I had put on the graves earlier in the fall. It would not surprise me to learn the graverobbers picked up a nail in their tire while driving out of the cemetery because my dad hated a thief.
Each time I go fly fishing, I think of my dad. He couldn’t afford high-dollar rods and reels, but he managed to net enough bream and perch to fry for supper. I still have his old fly rod and reel behind the seat of my truck. Several years ago, I sprung for a new fishing rig with a graphite rod and a fancy reel. They cost more than my first car. The equipment is nice, but I find myself using the old Shakespeare fly rod and reel that my dad gave me before he died in 1986.
My dad also loved to drive the backroads. Some of the roads were tar and gravel, but others were paved with crushed red rock. The potholes in some of those old backroads were brutal. I heard him tell his friend Glen Sellers a story about getting stopped by a policeman while driving down one of those backroads. The officer said, “Mr. Watson you were weaving. You’re not drinking, are you?” My dad said he told the constable, “Well hell officer, you have to be drunk to drive these roads.”
My dad’s mother lived to be 95. I often wonder what it would have been like had my dad lived longer. My dad was one of my biggest cheerleaders. When I had a win or reached a milestone in my life, I loved sharing the news with him. He would listen, nod his head and smile broadly. “I’m proud of you son,” he would say. Those words made my spirit soar.
If your father is still living, I encourage you to spend as much time with him as possible. There are very few things in life more important.
Happy birthday, dad.
