There are moments that occur on an alarming number of days where I feel like I’ve run out of things to write. I was going to write “say”, but I realized I’ll probably run out of things to say only long after I’ve run out of things to write. This column has increasingly changed the way I view my life, and the changes have been both profound and welcome, even though there remains an underlying concern that I will ultimately cease to invent things to talk, er, write about. I’ve come to view my life not as one fluid event, but as a series of memories, and moments. You may think that’s a simple enough thing to realize, but for me, it has come as a surprise of sorts. I tend to rush through life, always reaching for something new, something bigger (my waistline), and this blog has forced me to take a step back and realize how truly fortunate I am to live this very blessed life. And, at times when I think I’m at the precipice of an eternal written silence, I have moments like I had last night.
My Sunday was fairly typical. It involved normal Sunday things, and gladly, the real estate quotient of my Sunday was limited to a single appointment. The rest of the afternoon saw a dizzying array of events ranging from a family baseball outing to Fontana’s Reid Park, to a near nap experience while watching the Cubs game, mixed with a couple hours of mindlessly nailing up shingles on the side of my 1978 foreclosure. A siding project that is indeed in its second year, which means I’ve given you a very intimate glimpse at the very disappointing exterior of my home. A calm storm wandered through Walworth County at about four in the afternoon, and afterward there was a stillness in the air that only a fisherman or a sailor would discern. After trying desperately to help Thomas with his homework (learning about denominations of coin currency is more difficult than I had originally thought), it was time to make good on a promise that I had previously made to Thomas and to myself. So we went fishing.
It wasn’t a full on fishing trip, but it counts. With an easy push off the ramp, and a couple yanks on the Johnson motor, we were off. The water was still, and I was struck by the simple beauty of my surroundings. Sure Geneva is a bastion for the wandering well to do of Chicago, but it only became such a destination on account of the natural beauty that is indefatigable. When I think of Geneva, I think in color. I think of the deep blue of the water, and the dark green of the trees. Clouds of white, white Douglas Fir piers, white sails, white hulls, and the refreshing white of the prop wash. These colors are Geneva to me, yet last night, the colors were entirely different. The post-storm sky was purple and gray, and my constantly racing mind found the melancholy colors quite soothing. The trees are yet to take on the rich deep green hues of a chloroform filled summer, instead preferring now to be a simple pale green, a muted color made even more striking by the absence of bright sunshine. The colors around me fit my eye, and the site of my son gladly and adeptly whipping a little silver lure to and fro made me smile.
It’s a simple thing, a spring fishing trip. And it’s even a bit of a stretch to call something like last night’s endeavor a “fishing trip”. More of an exploratory jaunt, with father and son eager to get on the water again, to feel the wind in our faces and the wet line in our hands. It was a memorable trip, and the little brown trout that hit the silver lure off the mouth of Uhlein’s Creek capped off the trip in climactic fashion. The fish, not more than 12 inches in length, wouldn’t have made the cut for many Saturday morning fishing shows, but it was all I needed to be reminded about what it is that I’m writing about.
I went out fishing again this morning, a 4:39 Blackberry alarm and a quick drive to my parents pier later, I was again out on the water. This time, alone. The scenery I have memorized, but the mood on the lake this morning was nothing like it was last night. The gray and purple sky was repainted a brilliant blue, and when the sun rose over Cedar Point and warmed by hands, I snapped a quick photo to send to my brother. My brother lives in Riverside. He works downtown. He sent me back a snapshot from his phone, and the contrasting scenery said what words cannot. If I had to stare down those train tracks five days a week, I’d do everything in my power to swap out that gritty city view in place of a scenic Lake Geneva morning for the remaining two. See you at the lake.