The Angler's Companion

The Angler's Companion

I remember my dad waking up both my brother and I early on a Saturday morning for an impromptu fishing trip at the Kern River. With our rods and tackle in hand my dad would lead us down a brush filled path with his Stanley strapped firmly on his back via the makeshift sling he designed in our garage. The first hour he would sit back and watch my brother and I. He would coach us passively with his Stanley cup in hand sipping his coffee. He would let us figure it our on our own, but we also knew he was always there. Last week, I saw a Stanley bottle at a local department store and found myself overwhelmed by the memories of that Saturday morning. I decided to look for that bottle at my mom's house but with no luck. After my dad's funeral his stuff was haphazardly claimed by family members whose lives he touched. A week later, I decided to take my son fishing and began looking for my old fishing gear in my mom's garage. Well, I saw that old Stanley hanging there, and I'm quite certain that the last person who touched it was my dad. That's why I will never trade this bottle for anything in the world. People may not live forever, but memories certainly do.