By Doug Patteson
The last time I went fishing with Susan was at the place we call “the country.” A small public golf course carved out of the rolling tobacco farms by Susan’s grandfather, it is dotted with several small ponds and our family’s getaway homes.
The thing is, most of those ponds hold some monster pumpkinseeds and bass if you don’t mind dodging errant golf balls, angry Canada geese, and the occasional cottonmouth.
I liked fishing one of the small ponds on the back nine, just below the tee box for a par three across the water. Folks hitting from the masters’ tees can’t really see you at the water’s edge, but we generally don’t worry too much about them. The other golfers sometimes cause more concern.
The pond is probably about 12-feet deep in the center, with cattails and duck grass on the edges and mulberry and catalpa trees providing overhanging shade in parts.
Susan and I fished this pond off and on for all 33 years of our marriage. She never loved fishing as much as I did, but you’d never know that from the whoop and smile on her face whenever she caught something. A few of those days with her were unforgettable.
Last Cast
Of course, I didn’t know this would be our last time fishing together. We rarely do know these things, our “last times.” I don’t know that it would have changed anything anyway, maybe added a sadness to the day that would have overshadowed it.
Her disease had progressed enough that it was difficult for her to do some things she used to be able to do. Spotting a fish for her and guiding her on where to cast was futile now. So I would cast and hand her the rod, telling her to twitch the line to give the hopper some movement, or strip it to swim the streamer along the water column.
She couldn’t see well enough to see the strikes anymore, or feel them grab the streamer, so she kept missing the fish. I’m not sure she noticed, but I could tell she was hoping to catch something.
So the next cast I made, I gave the fly some action and watched as a big pumpkinseed sucked the hopper down. I set the hook and then handed the rod to Susan. She immediately exclaimed, “I’ve got one,” and began to reel the rod in excitedly. As she landed the fish, I picked it up and unhooked it (never her favorite part). A quick picture and then it was released back to the pond.
Gloriously, Remarkably Ordinary
And so that’s what we did for the rest of the evening. I’d cast and quietly hook a fish, hand the rod to Susan, and she’d land it, a mix of bass and sunfish, mostly small but fierce. She was proud of the fish she’d caught, proud to still be able to do something.
We fished together as dusk fell, the cicadas and crickets picking up their evening song, bullfrogs loudly calling. We ducked the odd golf ball falling short of the water, laughing as we hid behind a tree as the golfers tried to drive the pond.
We talked about plans and dreams that would never come true, and about the hard realities of her disease. We shared the joy of being together on family land that held so much meaning to her, and now to me.
It was an unremarkable evening fishing with my love, were it not for the fact that it would be our last time doing that together. And for that, it was remarkable in every way, the ordinariness of it, being with the one you love doing something together, poignant in its fleetingness. The day’s photos show that the fish, too, were unremarkable, but seeing that smile on Susan’s face was nothing short of glorious.
