Animal Crackers with Zebedee

“Pap? How come Mamaw didn’t come with us?” says the little guy with spindly legs strapped to a car seat resembling an electric chair. This thing is an intertwined maze of buckles. It’s like untangling a fishing line with a dozen bird nests in it.

             “She had to go to a baby shower.” I answer.

             “Was it dirty?”

             “What?”  

            “The baby? Was it dirty?” I pause for a second to think about my answer. I back off the unbuckling process, confused.

            “Jeremy, the baby hasn’t been born yet.”

             I’m wondering how I get him strapped into this contraption when we decide to leave, since I can’t figure out how to get him out now? I should have let his Mamaw show me how this thing worked before I left. Take a deep breath. It’s the first test of retirement. You must be smarter than the car seat. Out of nowhere, I begin a litany from my childhood.

            “Mary, Undoer of Knots, pray for me. Mary, Mother of fair love, Mother who never refuses to come to the aid of a child in need, Mother…”

            “It needs a shower, and hasn’t been born yet?” He interrupts.

            Coming back to the problem at hand, I reach into my pocket for a knife to cut the straps, but miraculously (of course), he wiggles loose from his bonds. Thank you, Blessed Mother. I know it was a trivial but thanks for the help.

             “They just bring presents for the baby before it’s born, Jeremy.” Says the guy who can’t figure out a car seat. I lift him up and place him on the blistering pavement.   

            “How do they know what it wants?”

            “Who?”

            “The baby?”

            I shrug. “They don’t. They just guess.”

            We amble to the back of the truck to let down the tailgate. There sits my cooler, fishing poles, grocery bag, collapsible wagon and pint-sized life jacket adorned with baby tigers. My grandson is a billboard for Tigger. The sun is too bright for him, so he rubs his eyes.

            “Not Santa?” he asks, grimacing up at me through the streaking rays of the sun. I unfold the wagon and dig his sunglasses out of the bag. More tigers.  

            “Santa?”

            “Why don’t they have Santa bring the baby toys?”

            I’m assuming that in my six-year-old grandson's world, all presents are toys.

            “Good point, buddy. That would certainly save Pap a lot of money.”

             I unload everything into the wagon and put on his life jacket for him. He’s a pale oompa loompa with Tigger sunglasses on. I appreciate the flotation devices they make these days. Just a few safety straps, thank God. There is one strap that goes down between his legs, but I leave that one hanging like an umbilical cord dragging the ground. Not sure where that one goes.

             I ask the inevitable. “Do you want to ride down to the dock in the wagon or walk next to Pap?”

            No answer. He just climbs in the back of the wagon. With fishing poles in one hand, I drag our gear and his majesty in the wagon with the other. I make my way through the parking lot, down the wooden walkway leading to the dock. On our walk to the boat, I decide to have a little conversation with my rider.

            “You know, now you and I can do things together instead of just you and your Mamaw.”

            I look back at my little man. No surplus of fat on his face. Thin as his years, hair blowing haphazardly on the breezes of a pristine day. This morning, I sensed a bit of distress in his voice as we pulled away from the house, Mamaw waving emphatically. You would think it was going to be the last time she would ever lay eyes on him or something. But now was my time to introduce him to lake life, Pap style.

            “Are you going to be home all the time?” He squints from behind those orange-colored shades.

            “Yup.”

            “What about Mamaw? Why can’t she come?”

             I wonder why is he so worried about his Mamaw? I just retired from work two weeks ago, and I’ve been dying to have some grandpa and grandson time. Old Pap’s not exactly chopped liver; you know.

            “What? You don’t think your Pap is fun?” I joke.

            “Not like Mamaw. She plays Pengy with me.” He was shooting straight from the shoulder with that one. I knew the answer, but I asked anyway.

            “Who’s Pengy?”

            “A penguin silly.”

            “You play with penguins?” I inquire.

            “All the time. I have a stuffed penguin named Pengy and a stuffed rabbit named Bunny. I also have a pony.”

            “What’s the pony’s name?”

            “Joe.”

            I took out the card key from my wallet to access the gate door. “Why wouldn’t you call him Horsie?”

            “He’s not a horsie, he’s a pony.” Hmm. My bad.

            I ask. “So why don’t you call him Pony?”

             “Because it’s not his name.” Fair enough. We enter the gate.

            He peruses the boats cleated up on both sides of the walkway. As we approach my slip, Brad, a red nosed shabby tub of a man, steps off his Sea-Ray, which only works when it wants to. I know. I’ve helped him fix it plenty enough.

            He waves. “Hey old man. Whatcha got in the wagon?” I stop since it seems pleasantries are in order.

            “Jeremy, this is Brad. Brad, this is Jeremy.” I point at Brad's boat. “Running good?” I ask.

            “Yeah, thanks for your help.” Brad bends over and I actually feel the dock sway to one side. Doesn’t he understand how ballast works?

             “Hey little man. Are you going to do some fishing with your grandpa?” He asks. Jeremy just stares at him. I figure it has something to do with not talking to strangers, so I jump into the conversation.  

            “Hopefully, they’re biting Brad. Would love to chat, but I’ve got to get this boy out of the sun. I’ll catch ya later.” I continue my pack mule trek down the dock. Jeremy sits silently, watching Brad wave as we walk on. I finally reach my boat at the end of the wooden trail, bobbing in the water.

            “Hang on, buddy. Sit here in the wagon while Pap puts up the bimini.” Jeremy sits tight, his hands sheltering his face. I hurry to create some shade, unfolding the square canvas and stretching out the cover over the boat. Once secured, I hoist him on board. He sits down as I pack everything into the bow.  

            He lifts his glasses. “Why did he call you old man, Pap?”

            “Oh, I’ve known Brad for years. We’re friends, sort of. I help him with his boat occasionally.”

            “But old man is not your name, Pap. Why did he call you that?”

            “It’s a term of endearment, Jeremy.” And just as I answered, I realized it would demand an explanation. “Let’s see. A term of endearment is like a nickname. Do you know what a nickname is?”

            “Yes.” He nodded. He refitted his head to the palm of his hand, perfectly balancing his elbow on his knee. “I like the nickname you gave me.” Funny. I wasn’t aware I had given him a nickname.

            “What nickname?” I asked.

             “Scooter.” He beamed for the first time since we left Mamaw behind.  

             “Scooter? When did I give you that nickname?”

            “You know, when I want to do something, I’m not supposed to do?” And then the little guy did his best imitation of me.

             “I don’t think so, Scooter.” He snickers.

            He must have been reliving a time I may have said it, or maybe he just enjoyed making fun of his Pap. Either way, I never realized he thought he was Scooter when I said that. I was just saying something I had heard on a comedy show once. Funny what little ones pick up on. Serves me right for watching the Blue Collar Comedy Tour.

            “Oh, yeah. I guess you’re right… uh, Scooter. Yeah. Let’s use nicknames. Okay, Scooter?”

             “Okay old man.” The brazen little turkey replied. Hesitating, I gave him a quick glance. He was oblivious to the remark, so I went back to getting the boat ready. I asked for that, I guess.

             As I was securing the buoys and untying lines, I noticed how much he looked like his daddy, Nathan. Year in and year out, this lake had been our refuge, our sanctuary. Just my son and me. Those were the best times of my life. Nathan had loved his time on the water, just like I had with my dad. My son had been a boy that had taught his father more about being a dad than I ever taught him about being a son. And here I was with his little one. How years peel away. Back then, I had this crazy idea that Nathan and I would be doing this forever. Father and son fishing on the lake. But time is fleeting. Things change. Lives change. 

            Once I secured everything and untied from the dock, I idle out to the channel, then open it up, throwing the throttle forward. The boat shot across the glassy water, with my passengers' hair a light brown pennant in a gale wind. The cool June waters splashed up on his jacket and tee shirt, causing him to clutch and squeal, but his attention always returned to the ride with a smile. A glorious, controlled hurricane roaring across the lake. For the last forty years, I just wanted to get to a place where I didn’t work and could spend all my time out here. I had hoped it would always be with Scooter's father, but work and responsibilities would take him elsewhere. There are more important things in the world than fishing with your father, I guess. I brought the boat to a stop at my favorite honey hole.

            “Want to fish?” I asked.

            He nodded, unsure. I lifted out the tackle box I always kept in the back storage compartment, then grabbed the cooler. In the cooler on top of the apple juice cartoons and diet drinks was a tub of red worms. I sat next to my little guy and took one of the fishing rods.

            “Get me a worm out of there, Scooter.” I said, pointing to the tub. He pried the top off of it and grabbed a juicy wiggler. He dangled it in front of his shades for a second.

            “Oh look. He’s cute.”

            “Hand him here and I’ll bait the hook for you.” I took the worm in one hand and the small shiny hook in the other and plunged the barb into the middle of the writhing earthworm.

            “No!” He screamed banshee maniacal trying to grab the hook as I pulled it away from his grasp. “Don’t kill him, please!”

            He burst into tears as worm guts slid down my fingertips. I watched the tears seep down his sun fried cheeks, realizing I was Dick Dastardly skewering his new best friend right before his eyes. Regret washed the color from my face.

            “You killed him!” He accusingly eyeballed me. I jumped instantly into repair mode.

            “No! No! He’s okay. Pap’s going to turn him loose and let him go home to his family. Watch!”

            I ripped the worm off the hook, which only made the little guy squeal louder. I pitched it over the side as quick as I could. “Look! See? He’s swimming away to see his family. He’s okay.” Just as I got that out of my mouth, he witnessed a nice size bluegill careen to the top of the water and gulp his eviscerated friend whole. You could hear his caterwauling clear across Southern Indiana.

            “Wow. That was a nice sized fish.” I uttered under my breath, then turned my attention to my panic-stricken grandson. “He’ll probably spit him out anyway, Scooter. Bluegill hate the taste of red worms.” He looked up at me, not buying one word of it. It was an anemic attempt at comfort. I took him by the hand and led him away from the scene of the crime. “Let’s see what’s for lunch.”

            Through the dribble of tears, I coerced him to sit down by the cooler as I burrowed through the ice and produced a ‘Lunchable’ that Mamaw had packed. He sat staring at me as I handed him a carton of apple juice with the gooey remains of his friend, still fresh and guilty on my fingers. Wiping off the evidence, I grabbed a ham sandwich and a drink, avoiding his incriminating stare. The waterworks eventually waned.

            “You okay, buddy?” I asked. He wrenched a peanut butter and cracker into his mouth, bouncing a hailstorm of crumbs on the deck. I took that as a yes. After a few minutes, I heard the gurgling from the bottom of the juice container. Well, one crisis averted.

            “You know something? I used to bring your daddy out here on weekends when he was your age.”

            He wiped his cheeks with the back of his paw. “Why only weekends?”

            “Well, Pap had to work.”

            “Did you work for the damn public? Daddy does.”

            “No. And daddy needs to watch his mouth.” A little guy's honesty is always a reason to smile. I excavate treats from the bag. He settles on animal crackers. After grouping the five or six wafers in his hand, he hands me a rhino.

            “How come he doesn’t come fishing anymore, Pap?” Scooter asks.

            “Good question.” I answer, placing Mr. Rhino into my mouth. Then, out of nowhere, it pops into my head. Something from last Sunday's gospel.

            ‘Going on from there, he saw two other brothers, James, son of Zebedee, and his brother John. They were in a boat with their father, Zebedee, preparing their nets. Jesus called them, and immediately they left the boat and their father and followed him.’

            Fr. Paul was preaching on the call of the apostles. I suddenly realized how Zebedee must have felt when the Lord called his sons James and John, standing in that boat alone watching his sons leave without so much as a goodbye. Nathan left me holding the net just like him. Minding the boat as they left to pursue something better. I’ve always listened to the story of the calling of the apostles, but I had never thought of Zebedee. Never considered how he felt or played a part in all this. It seemed like a moment to hang my head and reminisce, but it would be inconsiderate, considering Jeremy would have no idea what I was feeling.

            “Maybe you should ask your daddy. I’m sure it had something to do with marrying your mommy and having you. That’s probably a lot more fun than fishing with Pap.”

            “Probably.” He answered truthfully.

             Thinking about Nathan, I decided I would use the time to tell Scooter a fishing story about his old Pap and his daddy. Just as I thought my tale was getting interesting, a butterfly flew drunkenly onto the boat and perched gratefully on Scooter's hand and the boy was gone to me after that.

            I watched as he tempted his newfound friend with a finger from his other hand. All my remembrances of Nathan and all the times we went fishing took a back seat there to his contented gaze, with the insect now only centimeters from his nose. After a stare of a minute or two, it was airborne again. It staggered over the water to run aground elsewhere, with Scooter's eyes following its haphazard image, wanting to follow it. Catch it. Keep it. Like James and John.         It was then I understood. It was our job to raise them the best we could. Zebedee and I. Bring them to a certain point and nothing more. To raise them in the faith, then watch them leave and let the Master take over. I imagine an empty boat with only a grandson signaled a job well done. I remove my Notre Dame ball cap and scratch a parched for hair scalp. What was that proverb from the bible my old man had told me once? Oh yeah.

            ‘Grandchildren are the crown of old men, and the glory of sons is their fathers.’

            How true. From dad, to me, to Nathan, to Scooter. To God be the Glory.

            Eventually, the butterfly disappeared amid all the bright shiny diamonds floating on the water's surface. For a fraction, the child tilted over the bow, watching the last semblance of the insect's flight dissolve away. He laid his head back on the seat and with a radiant smile looked up at the swiped blue heavens.

            “I’m going to call him Floaty.” He said, satisfied. He proceeded to bite the head off a lion from his pile of crackers in his fist.

            “Did you come out here with your Pap?” He asks.

            “Yes, I did.”

            “Where is he now?”

            “He just got old and died.” I replied, not getting too serious.

            Scooter bites the head off another cracker. “Did you cry?”

            “No. That’s part of the deal, Scooter. You spend so many years here on earth and then the rest in heaven.” I answer awkwardly. I can sense the wheels turning in that noggin of his. It made me wish I had Mamaw’s way with words.

             Eventually, he rejoined the conversation. “Do you know what I’m going to do when you die, Pap?”

            “No. What?”    

            “I’m going to marry Mamaw.” He answers unashamedly.

            I laughed out loud at that one. Seems no matter what I do, I’m destined to play second fiddle, whether it’s God or Mamaw. I’m a small potato when it all boils down to it. And I’m fine with that. I place my ball cap crown back on my balding melon and ask Scooter the obvious.

            “Do you miss your Mamaw?”

            His eyes welled up slightly. “Yes. Do you think they’re done washing the baby now?”

            I shrugged my shoulders. “Let’s go and see. Hold on Scooter, and I’ll get us back to the dock.”

            Such was the shortest fishing trip ever. I start up the engine and make waves for the marina. He smiles that smile of his that always begins in his eyes and ends with a howl. They scrunch up first, then it erupts, spreading to his mouth and overtaking his face. It’s like a three-part assembly line for laughter. For him, the world is good again, and for me; I realize I don’t have to worry about this one leaving me holding the nets. At least not anytime soon. Not if Mamaw has anything to say about it.