I was Angry with my Father.

As we do from time to time, my Father and I head out to go fishing in the mountains of New Mexico. We are meeting up with my brothers in a town about halfway and heading out from there. I had flown in to where my Father lives with my clothes and a need to fish, having left my fishing gear with him after last year expedition. When we drive, my father and I stop every couple of hours or so to get out and stretch and this time is no different. We stop at a small store and "empty our radiators," an old code phrase related to bathroom breaks. I get an orange juice and a snack and my father gets a chocolate milk and something to nibble on. We are on the road again and making good time.

I am content with my relationship with my father. I call him once in awhile to tell him stories to make him laugh, or when I need the advice his years of experience has honed. We talk of the weather, work, and the occasional comments on life. So it comes as a shock to me when I became angry with him. Driving down the rode, talking as I always am, I glance over at him and immediately become angry. My father is sitting there sipping on chocolate milk, and I am angry. I do not express the anger, not a word, for the anger came at me so intensely, so irrationally, so uncharacteristically, that I am in shock. My father is drinking from a bottle of chocolate milk, and as he brings it up to his lips his hand trembles, as is typical of someone his age. His hand trembles, and I am angry.

A stark reality hit me - my father is growing old. It is something I do not want, something I cannot stop. I want him not to tremble, not to grow old. For the first time I had a fear instilled in me at a depth I had not experienced: a fear that my father is growing older.

That event became a pivotal moment for me, for I cannot control time, but I can control how much of it I spend with my father. Over the years that followed I changed how I often I talked to my father. I call him more often, at least once a week, and almost always while driving. I call and the first thing I hear is his greeting to me - "you driving?" Some of those conversation revolved around the weather, some delved into life beyond what I allow others to see. Fishing became more of a priority, and went more often.

I have spent time with my father; time that, had I not gotten angry, I would have missed - going to lunch after flying in, fishing, and spending more time talking with him one on one. Even the trips to and from the airports provided me the opportunity to talk.

My father passed away this year. Looking back, I still wish I had taken more time. I think once we lose someone we love, we all wish we had talked more, hugged more, and listened more. I am not sure if it is ever enough.

Somewhere there is a power that gently nudges us when there is something that requires our attention. Sometimes, it requires a bit more. Sometimes it requires a shock as if prodded with a sharp reality.

In 1987 my Father made a recording for me comprising stories from his childhood to the meeting of his soon-to-be wife. A simple thing, but worth more than I can describe, for the feeling I get listening to him tell stories again is incredible.

I will miss my Father. When the week passes I feel strange having not called him. He was not only my Father, but also my friend, my Best Man at my wedding, my teacher of ethics and integrity, and an incredible companion to my Mother. I miss talking with him. I miss asking him for advice. I miss going fishing him with him. I love him and I miss him.

Warm Days and Monsters

Adventures sometimes come when we least expect them. While foraging for a birthday gift for my nephew, I stop by one of those places devoted to the entertainment, equipment, and education of kids. Now when I buy toys for little boys, I remember back when I was "that" young and capable of destroying just about anything, I search for items that not only can withstand the test of time, but withstand the abuse a three-year-old can deliver. I head for the Tonka trucks: metal with rounded edges to prevent cuts and caught fingers, large enough to ride on at three, still intact at five, and remain in a usable form long after eight. A quick checkout and I am out the door.

As head down the street, I realize I still need to wrap the beast. My next stop is a variety store to get wrapping paper. I find an acceptable paper and ribbon combination. True, at three they really don't care, but the tearing of wrapping paper provided its own bit of entertainment. Seeing how I am pressed for time since the party starts in 20 minutes, and not wanting to head back to the house, I'll need tape… and a cheap pair of scissors, a child versions run less about $1.19. Crap! I need a nametag! I grab a black marker.

I open the back of my little SUV and quickly wrap the yellow box, add the ribbon, and write my "from your Uncle" message on the box, more for the parents than the nephew, and head to the party.

Several days later, as spring spreads it warmth, I engage in one of my favorite driving experiences. I head down the highway, open the sunroof, drop all the windows, and turn up the music. The combination of sunlight, wind, and music has their effect, and for the next few minutes the world is in harmony.

Somewhere, in the back of my mind, an alarm sounds. The sub-conscience monitors our surroundings and lets us know when something is not right. It starts with a flapping noise then grows with intensity, a sound crawling from the back of the truck; from the back of my empty truck. Suddenly, like a rattlesnake after giving its warning, it strikes; the remaining wrapping paper has vacated its cardboard roll and proceeded to wave and twist in the swirling air. I have to move fast, I do not want it to escape and bite any of the cars behind me, but I also do not want it to attack my head, as I am inept at driving blind. I slow a bit while closing the back windows; it is enough to snuff the life from the little monster and it falls, draping its lifeless body over the backseat. I reach back, grab and wad it into a tight little "heavier than air" ball and stuff it under the seat. I re-drop all the windows and sped up to cruising speed, secure in the knowledge I have vanquished the enemy. The combination of sunlight, wind, and music has their effect, and once again the world is in harmony.