Pardon me for being a little bit tardy in posting about Go Fishing Day- the "official" date was actually yesterday's. But it would have been a celebratory event my Dad would have reveled in, and today being Fathers' Day.... well, it just seemed appropriate to address it here and now. Hey, the man's middle name was, literally, Fisher. This was a fact undisputed. I have, however, uncovered evidence that his first name, Fred- the one everyone called him by, has some minor mystery associated. I have found in various documents that there were several various iterations, to wit: "Fredrick" and "Frederick" were the most popular, but his discharge papers from the merchant marines designate him as "Fred Fisher Ellison". This apparently never bothered him- he knew that his middle name was the important one, and associated with his true nature, though he never went by that moniker. He did, however, think enough of that label to hang it on me, as my own first name, thus creating everlasting issues, since I go by my middle handle, Steve (Stephen, which can also be spelled a couple of ways- the apple don't fall far from the tree, eh?).
All my sibs seem to have, to one degree or another, inherited the fishing gene from our Father. But despite repeated attempts on Pop's part, I failed to get it. I recall going out with him and hauling in dozens of shiny golden lake bream, while he smiled in pride, despite catching none himself. I suspect that maybe he never even baited his hook, so determined was he to instill the fishing fever in my young heart. Many years later, on our last fishing expedition together, we drove out to the Outer Banks of North Carolina to hook up with a bunch of his oldest fishing pals. They had for years made this gathering an annual affair, arriving at the point where time and passing was thinning their numbers. Thus was I fortunate enough to fill one of the spots that year.
The angling was atrocious. Of the eight or ten of us, I don't recall anyone landing anything. But this was quite a few years back now, and I do seem to recall stuffing my gullet with fried seafood and hush-puppies to the point of foolishness, so someone of our group likely did have some success from their efforts- I just don't remember it. I do however recall that it was a moment in time where the stated purpose of the event was certainly secondary to the camaraderie enjoyed by all. I think at that point I began to recognize the importance to my father of that simple and ancient pastime.
Fred Ellison, to my knowledge, never landed anything bigger than the catch he made in June of 1965, on the Santee-Cooper lakes in the low country of South Carolina. He and his fishing buddy, Doctor Howard Snyder, had brought their families there on a vacation, and were both caught that afternoon in the gales of a summer thunderstorm far from shore. The kinfolk back at the cottage were all sorely afraid for the well-being of the two, but on their return, Dad was smiling like a mule eating briars, dragging behind his rigged-up innertube a mammoth large-mouth bass. He subsequently had the creature stuffed and professionally mounted, to thereafter be displayed proudly in his office at the hospital where he functioned as the administrator. It wasn't long before a trickster inserted a full set of dentures in the critter's mouth, expecting Fred to be irritated, I'm sure, at the very least. Dad never took himself that seriously, and thought the prank hilarious. So, to this day, that fish still wears that prosthesis, and none of my siblings, nor I, can bear the thought of letting that gaudy trophy go. It wasn't until several years after his death, that I noticed the date on the engraved plaque- June 11, 1965........ forty-three years, to the day, prior to his death.
Happy Fathers' Day, Pop. I love you.
As usual, a wonderful story.
Posted by: Allan | 06/20/2011 at 07:00 AM