He passed in’83. I often think of him as I ready my fishing gear each year.
W ith gentle nudges
dad’s hushed deep voice
urges me from the cocoon
of my toasty morning covers
wake up Bobby
my childhood moniker
I’m gonna make us breakfast
then those fish better beware
fishing
our passion
which I now share
lovingly with my son
and he and I
with his son
my grandson
…well, back to my story…
I hear muffled footsteps
the creak of an iron door
then a wooden — thunk thunk
fresh kindling being loaded
into the stove’s fire chamber
then the scuffing of forged ore
as a heavy iron poker
probes the iron fire chamber
coaxing a glowing ember bed
to ignite the fresh logs
this is gonna catch quickly
start gettin’ up son
sure hope you’re hungry
staggered, softly percusssive
phuft phuft — phufts
announce lengths of virgin fuel
bursting to crackling flame
I poke my eager head out
into the damp morning chill
of Ontario semi-darkness
as the big black stove
groans to full life
a welcomed burgeoning heat
begins permeating the cabin
the soft glow and muffled hiss
of dad’s Coleman lantern
clutches at the darkness
as dad clunks and shuffles
the bulky iron skillets
atop the rapidly heating stove
breakfast is coming son
dad proclaims
a smile in his voice
Canadian bacon, cakes ‘n eggs
his statement accompanied
by the sizzle and aroma
of strips crisping in the pan
hungry — I slide from bed
excited and shivering
imagining this day of fishing
that lies ahead
slipping on my robe
I go to the window
where the tin bowl
of kettle-warmed water
rests on a small table
waiting for me to soap
my morning face and hands
through the cabin window
I still see a myriad of stars
in the clear northern heavens
above our wilderness island
small waves lap at our stone shore
occasionally knocking our boat
laden with our fishing gear
against our weathered wooden dock
I see the Espanola sky
just beginning to lighten
and hear the pre-dawn loons
calling across the pristine lake
barely rippling in the AM breeze
as I stand washing up
I continue to reflect
how lucky I am to be here
fishing with my father
this amazing man
who adopted me
saved me
at that moment
I’m snapped from my reverie
by his kind voice…
breakfast is ready
*
rob kistner © 2021
Poetry OLN at: dVerse
Be it with your son or daughter, this is what fishing really is…
…unrelated, but a couple of great ‘sunrise’ tunes…
Mmm, you certainly brought it all to life, in a way that made me almost envious – even though I experienced somewhat similar things when I was growing up, with my stepfather in Tasmania. Great memories! (Yours and mine.)
Well, here’s to us Rosemary… 🙂
What a wonderful memory.
Thank you Susanne!
What a lovely, special memory to have stored in the attic of your brain. Thank you for sharing it with us, Rob. Now I’m hungry for some bacon ‘n cakes!
WE TOO BEV… 🙂
God knew you needed this gentle man in your world. Important to realize how much you blessed his world with your presence as well. Such a poignant memoir, Rob.
Thank you Lisa — but I got the lion’s share in that wonderful relationship. He lives forever in my heart, and now through me, likewise in my son and grandson.
Incredible memory tap. My similar memories are all with my grandfather. I wrote dozens of poems about him. I had them bound, and gifted the book to him. I got it back when he passed in 1986.
Indelible memories Glenn. So cool bro, about the collection for your grandfather!
As always ~~~ wonderful watching as you read this very special poem.
So glad you enjoyed it Helen.
This is incredibly poignant, Rob! Thank you so much for sharing this poem with us at the LIVE Event. I was deeply moved after hearing you read 🙂
You are so welcome, and I am pleased this touched you.
I have father memories too, Rob; most of which are on the far other end of the spectrum your father clearly inhabits. Even the fishing thing didn’t work for us…it was my Mother who was the fisher; at least I had that.
Loved your recollection, though.
I am glad you had your mom Ron. My story is the polar opposite of yours. Glad you enjoyed my recounting my friend.
What amazing memories for you Rob. I have some very fond memories of fishing with my mom- she loved to fish!
They are still vivid Linda. Very cool fishing with your mom!
This took me back to the wood stove that used to heat our house growing up.
Glad you enjoyed this.
Such warmth in this easy companionship. Lucky indeed.
Loved my dad Kerfe. He was my true-life hero. Saved me from a dismal orphanage and turned my life into a young boys dream, which lasted until he died in 1983. By then I had been married twice with three kids of my own. I have the adventurers spirit, which really grew during my 25 years living and fishing in the Cascade Mountains of Oregon. (Our home was in the western foothills near Oregon City, outside Portland. I shared with my kids. It is getting passed along to my grandson by his father. I have been slowed in recent years by declining health – but my father’s adventure still lives in my heart. I still fish with my son and grandson.
A simple breakfast for most but your Dad made it an art and it rubbed off with you through life! You were privileged Rob!
Hank
I loved those summer trips up to the island Hank. When my parents first co-purchased the island in 1950, it required we drove, pulling a 17-ft-long trailer with boat, the full south to north length of Ohio. Likewise the S to N length of Michigan — interrupted 2/3 of the way up, by a very long, and to young me, mysteriously exciting ferry trip across the Michigan Straits of Mackinac, prior to the 1957 opening of the amazing 5-mile long Big Mac bridge. The Straits connect Great Lake Michigan with Great Lake Huron. Then a shorter ferry ride across Sault Ste. Marie canal. Then a 150 miles east across Canada on Trans Canada Highway Rt17, followed by an 18-mile rocky, dirt logging-road trip out of Espanola, to where we put the boat in at the primitive, log-building Lehman’s Landing. Lehman’s was a wilderness depot, with boat dock, sawdust ice house, and limited supply of food stuff, fishing gear, and gasoline. We picked up our Canadian fishing licenses there the first trip each year. Then began a 2-hour boat trip, through challenging, twisty, bolder-filled narrow after bolder-filled narrow that connected 6 of the chain lakes, until we got to our island. Two of the narrows our boat just barely fit through. Hard as my mom tried, oar in hand, to hang over the front of the boat, peering into that clear, cold, shallow water, helping dad maneuver through those huge rocks — we sheered a prop pin every now and then. This meant a repair stop for dad to put in a new pin. Only completely broke the prop once. I helped guide as I got older, but the huge submerged stone beasts alwayd creeped me out — don’t know why? Always saw big fish under us as we made those careful narrows passages, True wilderness. No electric, no running water, no sewage. Just pure lake water, wood fires (wood we cut every few days on the mainland, boating it out to the island) and Coleman lanterns, and outhouses, that we relocated every summer. We got a big gas powered electric generator for the island in 1961. It was such a fantastic adventure every summer!
Love this back story (and your poem too)
Thank you Ron!
I loved your reading of the poem today. It has such a nostalgic pull! I remember the old wood stove in the kitchen of my uncle’s house when I worked there as a teenager!
Thank you Dwight, I am pleased this resonated for you my friend.
Beautiful piece, Rob, captures a wonderful moment and the poem has a great sense of place. (I lived in Ontario for a while)
JIM
Thank you Jim…! In 1950, my parents became co-owners of an island in a chain of wilderness lakes, just outside Espanola Ontario Canada. The other owners were a Canadian couple, named Aldo and Amelia Disanti. We lived in Cincinnati Ohio snd went up to the island fishing for two weeks at the beginning of summer season and two weeks at the end of Summer season. The Disanti’s lived in Sudbury Ontario Canada, and lived on the island approximately 1/2 the year, as the winters allowed. Dad sold his part of the ownership back to the Disanti’s when his health failed in 1975. I loved those times on the island!
A beautiful tribute to your father Rob: I could smell the bacon sizzling in the air!
Thank you Ingrid. I do so much want to thank Bob, as he preferred to be called, so many times — be able to be face to face again with the man, and speak the gratitude in my heart so that he could hear it! I do not know if I thanked him anywhere close to what I should have — it feels that I was terribly inadequate in doing so.
Your poem is so gentle, personal and intimate, Rob, and, although I know that you were adopted, I think you inherited your dad’s ‘hushed deep voice’, which is so calming to listen to. I loved the snatches of your dad’s speech and all the sounds, which made it feel as if I were there too, especially in ‘the sizzle and aroma of strips crisping in the pan’ and the ‘pre-dawn loons calling across the pristine lake’. Memories to treasure.
Thank you Kim, I am so glad you enjoyed this. I know now that my “birth” father was Joseph Perrmann — but what soul of a man that resides in me, was birthed by Robert Kistner Sr. — so I have no doubt who my dad is, and I am thankful every day.
A beautiful memory of a time both more simple and rustic, fathers and sons and cold mornings by the wood stove. Thank you for sharing, Peace ~Jason
You’re welcome Jadon, pleased you enjoyed this. 🙂
Your vivid details really put me there, smelling the bacon and feeling the appreciation you have for your father. What a blessing to have had that time with him and those memories!
Glad this resonated for you Tricia. Those memories and his presence are still very alive for me.
I can almost see him walking through that door, Rob, especially after your reading.
His presence is always with me Ken. He was my “island” through a very challenging childhood.
Beautiful tribute, Rob! Enjoyed much. 🙂
Thank you Kitty…
Oh my goodness, I wasn’t expecting to be so moved. The early morning start the relationship with your father, the kindness in this poem, and then the ending. I welled up.
I am pleased you were moved Sarah, it came straight from my heart!
The best breakfast I have ever eaten was cooked on an old iron stove top! I love the snippet of your morning!
Glad you enjoyed Dana, thank you!
I love all the detail you put into this poem. Felt like I was there waiting for breakfast to be ready!
It is indelibly imprinted in my memory Sara.