Garry Eaton

Uncertain Weather for Fishermen

It is a family tradition that nothing comes between the men and their fishing. Up well before dawn, my Nova Scotian grandmother is packing sandwiches and thermoses of tea so they can arrive at the fishing spot by first light, when according to grandpa's theory, the fish will be hungry. They probably remember watching their grandparents do the same thing in Cumberland County and Cape Breton, putting out to sea in dories at first light seventy-five years before. If it's good, they are home to the city by early afternoon with pails full of stiff greyling and trout from prairie streams and lakes, most of which they clean and give away because they can eat only so many themselves. A lot of them, I'm sure, end up in neighbour garbage cans.

echoes of foghorns
off the Grand Banks
flies abuzz over old news

Dad and I usually leave mom home sleeping when we join them for a day by the rods, and sheepishly lie that she has other things she has to do. She will clean the fish when we get home, but doesn't even ask how it was.

fishing for Mom
always the pitter-patter
of rain on her tent