It Was Never Just a Drive or Just Fishing

Every holiday feels different now. Because how do you celebrate when someone so important is missing? Especially Father’s Day.

A few days ago, I stood in the greeting card aisle trying to pick out a Father’s Day card for my husband. Before I knew it, tears were running down my face. What should have been a simple errand suddenly felt impossible.

I was embarrassed because I couldn’t keep my composure. But grief doesn’t care where you are. It shows up in grocery stores, greeting card aisles, empty chairs at family gatherings, and random Tuesday afternoons.

This year, instead of planning a cookout with Dad and the family, I’ll be visiting him at the cemetery.

That reality still doesn’t feel real.

What I miss most are the ordinary moments. The text messages asking, “Workin’?”

I’d text back what time I got off, and we’d take a ride. His black lab sneaking a sloppy lick on my cheek or a wet Willy in my ear from the backseat of the truck. Dad sippin’ his Mt. Dew with the oldies station playing.

Sometimes we talked about important things. Sometimes we talked about absolutely nothing. We’d solve the world’s problems, tell stories, share the latest gossip, laugh about something ridiculous, or just ride down the road together.

Back then, those drives felt ordinary. Now they feel priceless. And I’d give just about anything for one more.

The funny thing about losing someone you love is that they’re gone, but they’re also everywhere. They’re in the habits you picked up from them, the lessons they taught you, the stories you tell, and the family traditions you keep. The little phrases that come out of your mouth and make you think, “Well, that was definitely Dad.”

“Do what?”

“Mother Goose!”

“And another thing…”

“What in the hell are you doing?”

I heard that one a lot because I made Dad shake his head and laugh on a regular basis.

During Covid, I wasn’t working, so I got to spend more time with Dad. One day we went catfishing.

Instead of worms or minnows, we were using stink bait. It may look a little like cheese, but it smells like sweaty gym socks that have given up on life. Dad assumed I knew what I was doing because I’d fished with him growing up.

I was sitting in the front of the boat with my bucket of bait and poles. Dad had already baited and cast both of his lines and was busy dealing with a fish when I took the lid off the bait, stirred it with a paint stick, grabbed my jig, and then started scooping the gooey mess onto the hook.

With my bare hand.

Dad looked over and gave me a look that was equal parts confusion, disbelief, and amusement.

“What in the hell are you doing?”

“Baiting my hook,” I replied, thinking it was pretty obvious. “Why?”

He stared at me for a second before bursting out laughing.

“Use the stick, not your hand!”

I looked down at my bait-covered fingers and realized I was, in fact, a dumbass.

I happily rinsed my hand off in the water beside the boat and used the wooden stick the rest of the day, but that smell lingered on my hand for days. I tried soap, lemon juice, and just about everything else I could think of. Nothing worked.

We laughed about it all day and caught a nice mess of catfish. At the time, it was just another fishing trip. Now it’s one of the memories I’d give anything to relive.

Last fall, my son and I went fishing with Dad one more time. None of us knew it would be our last trip together.

We laughed, talked trash, and kept a friendly competition going all day. Of course, we came home with plenty of fish because Dad was the fish whisperer. Looking back, I don’t remember who caught the most fish…it wasn’t me. But I do remember the laughter.

I realize it was never just a drive or just fishing. It was time together.

Story by story, laugh by laugh, conversation by conversation, we were filling a treasure trove of memories that would one day help carry me through a Father’s Day like this one.

This year won’t look like the Father’s Days we’ve always known. There won’t be a cookout because I just can’t right now.

But there will be gratitude. For every drive, every fishing trip, every hour spent hanging out in his garage, every time we worked as a team mowing grass or clearing snow, every conversation about everything and nothing, every bit of Dad wisdom and wit, every laugh, and every memory.

And for the privilege of being his daughter.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.

I miss you every day and love you always.

Anyway—off we go. The dogs still need walked, love doesn’t end at the cemetery gate, and life keeps lifin’.

If this story reminds you of someone you love, give them a call. Take the drive. Go fishing. Sit on the porch. Listen to the stories.

And if you’re in the same sad club as me this Father’s Day, I hope you spend some time remembering all the amazing ordinary things you did with your dad

Because one day you’ll realize those ordinary moments were never ordinary at all.

© Erica Shoemaker | Anyway—Off We Go