dad

It's thursday and he says:

how'd you like to go fishing?

up at Bubbs Creek, just you and me.

we'll leave tomorrow after work.

so friday night we pack two army

surplus sleeping bags rated for the arctic,

(they leak a little random goose down

but warm enough), a ground tarp,

some battered aluminum

cookware and ancient packs.

-the kind with skinny straps

that dig into your shoulders-

warm coats and fishing gear.

that's all that fits in a '67 MG

midget. a couple cups of oatmeal,

dried fruit, and instant coffee.

we better catch some fish or

we're gonna be pretty hungry,

but dad is good at that, he'll teach

me where they hide and how

to catch them. we drive off

into the valley after sunset, still hot,

at least it's dark and the top's down

so we smell the cattle and alfalfa

in the fields, the scent of hamburgers

and french fries in the yellow pools

of light as we pass through the grid of

two-blocks-and-a gas-station valley towns.

it's black out in the orange groves

draped over the granite roots of the

sierra. a sudden bend in the road

catches dad going much too fast

but we get through, sliding just

a bit. how did you do that? with

hands and foot just so, a balance

on the cusp of chaos and control.

it's cooler as we climb the spine

of a ridge leading to the mountains.

dead rattlesnakes and squirrels

mark the road, bear clover

and cedar perfume the nose,

the mountains announce the

altitude with scent. a greeting

in the dark, warm and fresh.

we don't talk much, the silence

split by his stories of youthful trips:

wading rivers, sliding down canyons

through the chaparral, riding bikes

up from the valley. in '49 he had

the hot rod '32 ford on the '28 frame

with the big flathead Merc and the time

it boiled over. the scalding scar

on his forehead still shows

if you know where to look.

but we don't talk about what

might be important to us.

maybe he just can't do that

not the kind of thing that men did

then or do much now i guess,

sports and cars and politics

are easier. an inheritance of

inhibitions and wandering stories

with wandering points, shyness

about telephones, an easy slip

into waking dreams, a fondness

for anticipation -tomorrow tomorrow

well it's here and somehow less

than i had hoped. just like him.

we did catch trout and ate them

fried in butter with sage and lemon

made a bed of leaves and pine

needles covered with a tarp that

crackled when we laced our hands

behind our heads, staring at the

galaxies and stars far up in the black.

the universe looks deeper seen through

mountain air. on sunday we walked

back down the canyon, out into

the valley's hot western sun, stopped at

a crossroads store for cokes,

each wrapped within our silence

within our own returns to work

or school, the first monday of all

the ones that march relentlessly,

the ants that carry away our lives

in tiny pieces while we wait for friday

night and promises. he still waits

for magic, and it seldom comes

but sometimes it does. he drew

St Margaret's Church and they built it

in the desert and it is beautiful.

he taught me how to fish.

to love the smell of mountain cedars

and orange blossoms in the foothills

on warm San Joaquin summer nights,

rushing through the tunnel carved

by headlights on an empty two lane road.