Sunday, July 22, 2007

Learning About Family

The memory of my grandfather that stands out most in my mind is from my family’s trip to a resort in northern Minnesota when I was five years old named Vacation Air. Located near my family’s traditional homeland in Minnesota, Wauben and the surrounding lakes, hills, fields, and forests, the resort was the scene of two consecutive family trips, once when I was five and again when I was six. Acting as a surrogate base-camp within our family fiefdom, Vacation Air allowed us to express our love of Minnesota at its most basic and elemental, letting each of us revel in the heritage and history the surrounding area imbued and infused within us in a way no other Earthly locale ever could.

In amongst the 12-foot Lunds and Alumacrafts that composed the majority of Vacation Air’s sturdy fishing fleet was an old pontoon boat, a vessel that had obviously seen better days yet remained an exotic carriage to adventure to a five year old boy from the cities with the blood of the north woods in his veins. The boat was docked on a long pier located at the bottom of a steep hill near the resort’s main lodge, making it a challenging destination for the elderly or persons of limited mobility and undoubtedly reducing its attractiveness to potential renters. I thought it was best boat I had ever seen.

During our first day at the resort, we had scoured the lake with Grampa’s Lowrance Fish Lo-K-Tor and trawling lures in search of big fish with little success. From my previous experience fishing with my dad, uncles, and grandfather, I knew that finding the fish was the most important step in catching them. If you could find the fish, I was taught, there was a good chance you could catch ‘em, but if you couldn’t find ‘em, you had no shot at all. Little did I know at the time how many things in life this basic logic would apply to.

On the morning of our second day at the resort, I went down to the pontoon to play and imagine myself to be some great captain or explorer doing as I pleased all around the lake. While playing, I happened to duck my head under the deck of the pontoon, curious about what mysterious unknowns resided under such a vehicle and to my amazement, my eyes spied dozens and dozens of large fish! Though I did not know it at the time, these “large” fish were not really large at all, mostly sunfish, crappies, and large rock bass, but scales are different to the young than they are to the old and at the time they seemed like prizes worthy of at least attempting a catch.

Excited by my discovery, I sprinted for our cabin and immediately located Grampa. I implored him to come down to the pontoon and see the stock of large fish I had located, absolutely certain that I had located this lake’s secret hiding hole and beaming with pride at my ability to accomplish what my uncles, grandfather, and father had not.

Grampa grabbed his hat and sunglasses and followed me over to the resort’s lodge, down the steep hill to the lake, out onto the dock and onto the pontoon. He got down on his hands and knees and gazed under the pontoon with me, marveling at all the fish under the boat and noting several times what a good job I had done finding the fish. We discussed methods and tactics we could use to catch these tricky fish that had decided to hide under the boat, but thought we should probably have lunch first before getting started on fishing. Mission accomplished, we headed back onto dry land triumphant and started back towards our cabin.

Just after getting off the dock, my dad, who was standing near the resort lodge, called me over to him. I ran to him and explained excitedly how I had found fish under the pontoon and how Grampa and I were going to catch them. Dad said that was great I had found fish under the pontoon, but I should realize how lucky I was. Grampa, he explained, had a difficult time getting up and down hills and would not have gone down to the pontoon for anybody else. He said I should be sure to thank my grandfather.

That was the moment in my life I realized what family was. Up until then, every day of my life, I had taken for granted that my family did what asked as a matter of course. It wasn’t that anybody was taking me into special consideration or making a special effort for me, it was just the way things were. With those words, I realized that my Grampa was willing to do things for me that he would do for no one else, that he would go to lengths for me because I was his grandson, because I was of his blood, that he would not even consider for others. It seems like a small thing in retrospect, but to a five year old, it was a shocking revelation of what family was, what family really meant, and a moment I remember vividly to this day.

My grandfather died on Sunday, July 14th at the age of 82. He loved to hunt, fish, talk politics, and most of all, tell stories. He taught me how to fish, how to debate, how to take down “Harvard MBAs,” how to avoid “dumb bohemies,” and most importantly, what it meant to be family. My grandfather lived a long, good life and fought a good fight for a long time; I am honored to have known him, to have lived with him, and to be of his blood.