When I was a kid, my brother and I loved to go fishing with our Dad. He loved to fish too, so he was more than happy to take us for a ride to a mountain lake or river whenever we asked . My brother Vince, who is three years younger than me, was a bit of a pain in my Dad's rear, as I'll explain later, but other than that, we had a great time on these fishing trips, just the three of us. Part of the enjoyment for my Dad was the relaxation in the fresh air of the beautiful Rocky Mountains. The other part of course, was the thrill of possibly catching some trout. My eight year old brother and I had much bigger, greater aspirations than merely relaxing and catching a few measly fish . We wanted to see how far we could cast our lines and possibly see if we could skip a few rocks across the lake. My brother wa s very skilled at throwing rocks, but didn't fare so well with accurately casting his line, and my poor Dad was the one always bailing him out of trouble; untangling knots, jams, and snags from his line and reel. When I think back on it, Dad's patience was amazing considering how little time he had for himself when Vince was fishing with us. There would come a day that I learned the limits of my Dad's patience.
That day came one fateful summer morning. Vince had snagged a tree on the shore for the seventh or eighth time in the first 45 minutes since we arrived at our favorite fishing lake along the Pouder River, and for the first time I could sense a little of Dad's patience wearing thin. As I stood alone on the opposite side of my brother, slinging my own line in the lake, I overheard Dad getting a little frustrated. There was never more than a couple of minutes of peace and silence before he was interrupted by my younger brother's feeble word, "Dad?". My brother's voice became quieter and more reluctant each time he was forced ask him to fix a snag or untangle a knot. "Dad?......Dad?.....Dad?........Dad?........ Dad? ......"
Meanwhile, Dad's own reaction became disproportionately more hostile with each of my brother's shrinking pleas for help. Finally, after removing Vince's hook from a tree branch for the seventh or eighth time, Dad gave my brother one last ultimatum. He said, “Vince..That's it!. No More! (He was yelling, now) If you snag your line one more time, I don't want to hear about it!!. I've had it! You're on your own!" Dad was serious, and we knew he meant what he said. Vince would either have to be really careful, or just do something else besides fish the rest of the day. One thing was for sure. He could NEVER again interrupt my Dad. That was out of the question. At least that's what we thought. On his very next try, Vince proceeded to find the one and only spot in the entire lake that he had not snagged with his hook up to this point, my Dad's rear-end. The moment might not have been so painful for us, had my Dad actually felt the hook himself, but it didn't find any skin, only the seat of his pants, as he was crouching over the tackle box addressing his own line. Dad was completely unaware of the fact that the very same fishing hook that he had untangled from trees, shrubs and rocks for the last 30 minutes was now lodged firmly in his britches. I looked over at Vince and cringed. He looked back at me as if to ask me, 'now what do I do? Dad warned me not to interrupt him again'.. I walked over and whispered to him, that it's probably better he say something than to let Dad find out on his own. So, in my brother's most reluctant, scared and tiniest voice ever, he repeated our father's name for the last time that day… "Dad?"… Dad nearly lost it. He jumped up from his tackle box, still unaware of the fishing lin e which was now dangling from his pants, and 10 feet down the shore where Vince was still holding the attached fishing pole. Dad was screaming, "Now where is it?!!"… We were both speechless, as my brother fearfully pointed in the direction of the hook. When my Dad reached around and felt where it was, his face instantly changed tones, from furiousness to homicidal rage. A few seconds later, he did the one and only thing a blood-thirsty, enraged father could do. He laughed. He laughed his butt off, hook and all. We both joined him. To this day it seems ironic to me. It wasn't until just seconds after my brother faced what seemed like certain death, that we truly started having fun that day.
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