My Father

My father loved this time of year. He endured winter only because he knew spring would come again. At the end of February he would start to examine his yard, searching for that small green shoot that would acknowledge that spring would come again. He knew he would be able to tolerate the cold long enough to see its arrival.


I would do the same thing, asking him the names of plants based on one small leaf or a rough description. He was always able to identify my little sample, first giving me the Latin name, then the common name when he saw my look of frustration. I know I asked him the same questions every year, but he patiently answered them, with just a little smile on his face.


When fishing season opened he would head to his favorite spot, cast his fly rod and appreciate his surroundings. He would return to the dock with a boat filled with trash he had fished out of the lake. No fish, he was a catch and release man.