Let’s Make Some Grown Men Cry.

prime minister

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I’ve been thinking a lot over the past few days about better times with my dad. Back when he was still healthy. Which brought to mind a discussion that could only happen on the Haven. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to share memories of those we have lost.

So, my friends, who would like to share their favourite memories of loved ones who have passed on? To provide a little immortality to them. To let us know these great folks through your eyes and your memories.

I know this will be tough. But I’d be honoured to read the musings of anyone who was willing to share.
 
I'll start. My father, Orvil, used to take my brothers and I fishing, from the time we could hold a rod. He was always making us the priority. Most of the time his line was not in the water, because he was helping land one of our fish, or fixing a snarl, or teaching us something.

One overcast afternoon, we were drifting along the shore of Grassy Island, in the Detroit River, off LaSalle, in the Downriver area, south of Windsor. We were fishing with light line, and catching perch, and small pickerel (walleye). We were doing quite well, for about an hour, when, all of a sudden, somebody turned off the tap. It was like the fish just hightailed it, and we couldn't get so much as a nibble. My father told us to reel in our lines. I thought we were leaving, so I moved to the helm, but then I saw a look in my father's eye, one that I had never seen before. Steely-eyed, he cast his line out about 30' from the boat, and told me to get ready. His full attention was focused on where his line entered the water. He stood, motionless, knuckles white, as he held on to his rod and reel. All of a sudden his reel started screaming, as line was being ripped from it. He set the hook hard, and told me to get the boat moving. I started the motor, and turned the boat around, as quickly as I could, before he ran out of line. My brothers were sitting on the bottom of our open fishing boat, and we were bounding along, in the chop of the river, having left the shallow waters along the shore of the island. My dad was fighting the fish, until, at last, we caught up, and he could start reeling in some of his line. We chased that fish up and down the river for almost an hour, and I could see my dad, jaw clenched, determined not to lose this fish. We still hadn't seen it, but finally, it started to slow down. My dad hauled on the rod, reeling in the slack, as he lowered the rod tip, until he yelled, "Get the net!" When I saw the outline of fish, in the murky water, I thought we were gonna need a bigger net. He got the fish to the surface, and I got it into the net. My father beamed, as he lay his eyes on his trophy. It was a Muskie, 42 inches long, 41.5 pounds, and just barely shy of the line-class record. The reel was loaded with 8 lb test, and the hook was tied with 4-lb test line. I looked at my brothers, and we congratulated my father, on catching a magnificent fish. I used that old line, "You taught us everything we know, but clearly you did not teach us everything YOU know." That was the first time I saw my father cry, as he smiled, full of pride, and we cried with him, glad to have shared the experience.

That fish got mounted, and hung on his living room wall, till the end of his days.
 
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I'll start. My father, Orvil, used to take my brothers and I fishing, from the time we could hold a rod. He was always making us the priority. Most of the time his line was not in the water, because he was helping land one of our fish, or fixing a snarl, or teaching us something.

One overcast afternoon, we were drifting along the shore of Grassy Island, in the Detroit River, off LaSalle, in the Downriver area, south of Windsor. We were fishing with light line, and catching perch, and small pickerel (walleye). We were doing quite well, for about an hour, when, all of a sudden, somebody turned off the tap. It was like the fish just hightailed it, and we couldn't get so much as a nibble. My father told us to reel in our lines. I thought we were leaving, so I moved to the helm, but then I saw a look in my father's eye, one that I had never seen before. Steely-eyed, he cast his line out about 30' from the boat, and told me to get ready. His full attention was focused on where his line entered the water. He stood, motionless, knuckles white, as he held on to his rod and reel. All of a sudden his reel started screaming, as line was being ripped from it. He set the hook hard, and told me to get the boat moving. I started the motor, and turned the boat around, as quickly as I could, before he ran out of line. My brothers were sitting on the bottom of our open fishing boat, and we were bounding along, in the chop of the river, having left the shallow waters along the shore of the island. My dad was fighting the fish, until, at last, we caught up, and he could start reeling in some of his line. We chased that fish up and down the river for almost an hour, and I could see my dad, jaw clenched, determined not to lose this fish. We still hadn't seen it, but finally, it started to slow down. My dad hauled on the rod, reeling in the slack, as he lowered the rod tip, until he yelled, "Get the net!" When I saw the outline of fish, in the murky water, I thought we were gonna need a bigger net. He got the fish to the surface, and I got it into the net. My father beamed, as he lay his eyes on his trophy. It was a Muskie, 42 inches long, 41.5 pounds, and just barely shy of the line-class record. The reel was loaded with 8 lb test, and the hook was tied with 4-lb test line. I looked at my brothers, and we congratulated my father, on catching a magnificent fish. I used that old line, "You taught us everything we know, but clearly you did not teach us everything YOU know." That was the first time I saw my father cry, as he smiled, full of pride, and we cried with him, glad to have shared the experience.

That fish got mounted, and hung on his living room wall, till the end of his days.

Wow, Ernie. As I read this, I saw how much you are your father's son. He must have been a wonderful man.
 
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My father is still with us, although the end of the trail is approaching (he's almost 100). One fond memory was when I was a kid my father took me to an Indian Guides (sort of a granola Boy Scouts) camp east of the Cascades for a long weekend. Given that it was the 1970s and economic malaise was in the air, it was a bit of an extravagance for him to take a couple of days away from work (he was the owner-operator of a landscape-design company) and spend a fair amount of money on the gasoline and camping gear. However, he knew how much I wanted to go, so he found the money and time and we went.

(yes, fishing was involved, although we didn't catch anything)

When we got to the camp, we stayed in a cabin with the other Indian Guides and the dads. To pass the time, one of the dads suggested that they play cards while the kids got to bed, and maybe they could play for a few bucks to keep it interesting. Little did he know that my dad spent an entire winter in Alaska during WW2 at a forward Army base.

I enjoyed falling asleep to the sound of the dismay of the other dads as my father payed for the entire trip with that card game...and learned a valuable lesson about never gambling because you might end up across the table from someone like him. :)

-D
 
My father is still with us, although the end of the trail is approaching (he's almost 100). One fond memory was when I was a kid my father took me to an Indian Guides (sort of a granola Boy Scouts) camp east of the Cascades for a long weekend. Given that it was the 1970s and economic malaise was in the air, it was a bit of an extravagance for him to take a couple of days away from work (he was the owner-operator of a landscape-design company) and spend a fair amount of money on the gasoline and camping gear. However, he knew how much I wanted to go, so he found the money and time and we went.

(yes, fishing was involved, although we didn't catch anything)

When we got to the camp, we stayed in a cabin with the other Indian Guides and the dads. To pass the time, one of the dads suggested that they play cards while the kids got to bed, and maybe they could play for a few bucks to keep it interesting. Little did he know that my dad spent an entire winter in Alaska during WW2 at a forward Army base.

I enjoyed falling asleep to the sound of the dismay of the other dads as my father payed for the entire trip with that card game...and learned a valuable lesson about never gambling because you might end up across the table from someone like him. :)

-D

Love it!!!
 
My grandfather, Gilbert, had a gift for conversation unlike anybody I have ever known. He would talk to anybody nearby. And there were often people nearby to talk to, for it was our pastime to sit on benches at the mall every weekend while my grandmother shopped. Or "turned the clothes to the right side that she'd turned to the wrong side last week." Often the people stranded on the mall benches were men just like my grandfather in situation (waiting for their wives to shop), but not in life-story.

I'll stop here and give a little context. I grew up in an all-white middle class small rural/suburban town. I only ever saw people there who looked like me and had the same basically ok economic situation.

Ok, back to the mall benches...which were in a mall in an increasingly run-down area of the city limits, and populated by all the different kinds of people that live in the city.

So my Grandfather would turn to whoever was stranded on the mall benches with us, and strike up a conversation and it would wander to wherever it wondered. These were generally older men but they were black, they were white, they were asian, they were poor, they were wealthy, they were American Indian in one instance. I remember one time where we specifically followed one black gentleman because he was about 8 feet tall and my grandfather wanted to ask him what it was like in a world made for shorter people.

And what I learned from my time on the mall benches with my grandfather was that all people are basically the same. They had the same worries. They had similar senses of humor. They loved their kids, they thought a lot about where the country was going, they all had interesting stories to tell. Every single one of them was an interesting person.

I think about those times on the mall benches a lot today. I see the country fracturing into this or that type of people, all of them scared of "the others". I wish they'd all been a grandson to Gilbert. They'd know that on the mall benches, we're all the same.


That mall, Rolling Acres, has been abandoned for many years. I can hardly see pictures of it without my eyes welling up. They're currently, thankfully, tearing it down. I hate to see it like its been. These are some of the benches:

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I'll start. My father, Orvil, used to take my brothers and I fishing, from the time we could hold a rod. He was always making us the priority. Most of the time his line was not in the water, because he was helping land one of our fish, or fixing a snarl, or teaching us something.

One overcast afternoon, we were drifting along the shore of Grassy Island, in the Detroit River, off LaSalle, in the Downriver area, south of Windsor. We were fishing with light line, and catching perch, and small pickerel (walleye). We were doing quite well, for about an hour, when, all of a sudden, somebody turned off the tap. It was like the fish just hightailed it, and we couldn't get so much as a nibble. My father told us to reel in our lines. I thought we were leaving, so I moved to the helm, but then I saw a look in my father's eye, one that I had never seen before. Steely-eyed, he cast his line out about 30' from the boat, and told me to get ready. His full attention was focused on where his line entered the water. He stood, motionless, knuckles white, as he held on to his rod and reel. All of a sudden his reel started screaming, as line was being ripped from it. He set the hook hard, and told me to get the boat moving. I started the motor, and turned the boat around, as quickly as I could, before he ran out of line. My brothers were sitting on the bottom of our open fishing boat, and we were bounding along, in the chop of the river, having left the shallow waters along the shore of the island. My dad was fighting the fish, until, at last, we caught up, and he could start reeling in some of his line. We chased that fish up and down the river for almost an hour, and I could see my dad, jaw clenched, determined not to lose this fish. We still hadn't seen it, but finally, it started to slow down. My dad hauled on the rod, reeling in the slack, as he lowered the rod tip, until he yelled, "Get the net!" When I saw the outline of fish, in the murky water, I thought we were gonna need a bigger net. He got the fish to the surface, and I got it into the net. My father beamed, as he lay his eyes on his trophy. It was a Muskie, 42 inches long, 41.5 pounds, and just barely shy of the line-class record. The reel was loaded with 8 lb test, and the hook was tied with 4-lb test line. I looked at my brothers, and we congratulated my father, on catching a magnificent fish. I used that old line, "You taught us everything we know, but clearly you did not teach us everything YOU know." That was the first time I saw my father cry, as he smiled, full of pride, and we cried with him, glad to have shared the experience.

That fish got mounted, and hung on his living room wall, till the end of his days.
Damn, best story I've read in a very, very long time. Your father had wisdom of the very best sort.
 
My grandfather, Gilbert, had a gift for conversation unlike anybody I have ever known. He would talk to anybody nearby. And there were often people nearby to talk to, for it was our pastime to sit on benches at the mall every weekend while my grandmother shopped. Or "turned the clothes to the right side that she'd turned to the wrong side last week." Often the people stranded on the mall benches were men just like my grandfather in situation (waiting for their wives to shop), but not in life-story.

I'll stop here and give a little context. I grew up in an all-white middle class small rural/suburban town. I only ever saw people there who looked like me and had the same basically ok economic situation.

Ok, back to the mall benches...which were in a mall in an increasingly run-down area of the city limits, and populated by all the different kinds of people that live in the city.

So my Grandfather would turn to whoever was stranded on the mall benches with us, and strike up a conversation and it would wander to wherever it wondered. These were generally older men but they were black, they were white, they were asian, they were poor, they were wealthy, they were American Indian in one instance. I remember one time where we specifically followed one black gentleman because he was about 8 feet tall and my grandfather wanted to ask him what it was like in a world made for shorter people.

And what I learned from my time on the mall benches with my grandfather was that all people are basically the same. They had the same worries. They had similar senses of humor. They loved their kids, they thought a lot about where the country was going, they all had interesting stories to tell. Every single one of them was an interesting person.

I think about those times on the mall benches a lot today. I see the country fracturing into this or that type of people, all of them scared of "the others". I wish they'd all been a grandson to Gilbert. They'd know that on the mall benches, we're all the same.


That mall, Rolling Acres, has been abandoned for many years. I can hardly see pictures of it without my eyes welling up. They're currently, thankfully, tearing it down. I hate to see it like its been. These are some of the benches:

View attachment 10238
Thank you for that, John. Very much so.
 
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My father passed on nearly five years ago at 88. As much as we were very different characters - he much more conservative, not a risk taker by nature, me very much the opposite we were largely two sides of a coin as well. His passions became mine, mine became his. That I am here on this site is due to his early influence, that if he were still alive he might also be here would be due to mine. We spent our lives learning from each other and sharing the results. All good things end, or do they truly?
 
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