Sitting in the proud old boat
Of creaking boards
A single oar
A weekend sacrificed entire
From morning’s dark ‘til dusk shall fall
So early?
This is when they bite, boy!
Indentured to a father’s father’s fantasy
Obligation recommended by affiliation
Endorsed on every side
Enforced by unassailable bonds
A silent network of affection
Induction to a secret world assured
On cloudy green Indiana water
Tradition rich with arcane terminology
Antique technologies and rituals combined
Techniques to be passed down or lost to history
This is your birthright, boy!
Masculine prerogatives to be instilled
The skill to kill and to survive
License to inflict pain
To disembowel and skin and kill again
Or exercise the luxury of mercy
To be a man is to know when and why
To understand imperatives
And to enjoy them while maintaining a buzz
But Grampa
Watch and catch, boy!
Watch and catch
Sitting in the proud old boat
Of creaking boards
A single oar
Listening to oft-repeated maxims and self-hypnotic poetry
Retired milkman in the winter of his life
Projecting on the modern world his own delusion
Inducing with the zip of line a transportation
To the muddy water of a simple time
Of solid structures and respect
When they stayed on their side
And it was yes sir no sir
And when you told ‘em breng a beer, boy, it got brung!
But Grampa
Watch and catch, boy!
Watch and catch
Sitting in the proud old boat
Of creaking boards
The day wore on
And patience was a virtue highly praised
That and silence and they spring
From the knack to suffer heat and dehydration
And a love of insects and warm chicken salad
But we’ll forego the silence
For stories of the triumphs of a bygone era
Of a life upon a lake and a house three stories tall
And a family of generations
Impressive references to obscure relations with familiar names
And frequent invocations of nature and of God’s creations
It’s all around us at the water’s edge
Where the beer cans float into the branches
But Grampa
Watch and catch, boy!
Watch and catch
Sitting in the proud old boat
Of creaking boards
A single oar
Implement enough to push us back to shore
To the reality that summer had only just begun
An endless line of weekends floating
On the algae-laden scum
It’s just the way it was when I was young
I spent my weekends with my grandad
Learning me to hook the catfish
Upstate where they swim in swarms
Tomorrow we can work the other end up near the mill
And breng in a twelve pounder
And what a fight that was
A story for another day
You’ll understand
For now it’s getting late
And twenty miles of road await
With one unsteady shaking hand fishing for ignition keys
The other tilted up the lid behind the seat
Producing the last aluminum beer can
But Grampa
Watch and catch, boy!
Watch and catch
.
