My morning pages were cut short today when I found out my uncle had passed away.
Check out this handsome dude:
In his obituary, they spoke of how he loved fishing. This is a MacLeod trait. To my dad’s family, fishing is religion. On Sunday mornings, when mom would cart me off to church, dad went fishing. And honestly, I think he got more of a spiritual connection on those Sunday mornings than I ever did in church.
When we returned home, I’d peel off my dress and itchy stockings, don my t-shirt and shorts, and go look in the bucket to see what would be our dinner that night. Perch was the prize of the day, but catfish would suffice. My dad would fillet the fish on the picnic table outside as the cat’s mewed around his legs knowing they’d get a scrap or two.
In the kitchen, the fillets were dipped in flour and gently set down in the pan of oil as if they were flower petals. While they cooked, dad would slice potatoes to make fries and toss them into the deep fryer. I would set the table.
On those Sundays, I knew that the church had taught me about Heaven but the church was dead wrong. For my mother, Heaven might be a place you go when you die. But for my father, Heaven was fishing hole that was “bitin’ good that day.” And for me, Heaven was sitting at the table with my family eating fish and chips.
Uncle Lew. I hope that your Heaven has a good fishing hole and it’s bitin’ good today.