Graduation Day
By John Luthens
Despite my best efforts to reel him back, it finally happened. My son wrapped up his curricular apprenticeship to life, also known as High School, in certain circles, and has done gone and got himself tangled up in a graduation commencement. As for myself, my feelings are mixed on the matter.
I know I should feel proud, patting him on the back with wisdom in my eye and telling him along with countless other teachers and scholars who have come before that “This is only the first step towards a bright future.” I think that’s what my dad told me when I graduated, maybe in not so many words, more like, “Thank goodness, congratulations, now you can get the heck out of the house and finally make something of yourself. I’ll help you pack!”
It’s nerve-racking for a kid to imagine what lies ahead around the bends of the future, but the truth is that I’m just as nervous about what lies in the waters of my own tomorrow after my own son has packed up and gone. I’m worried that the lessons he’s taught me won’t stick, worried that I’ll fall from the summit of knowledge in the outdoor world and revert back to the bog-infested pools of the swamp.
I need to remember. Like a student furiously taking notes, I need to scratch the memories down so I’ll be ready for the test when the day arrives:
My son patiently explained, and even the dog agreed with his theory, that heading to the gravel pit to target shoot at tin cans would be more fun than slogging through waist-deep snow in search of buried partridge. Turned out he was right. Not only are tin cans easier to dress out – they also don’t fly as funny.
Catch-and-release on a trout stream is a solid concept, but a fly-fisherman should never hold his nose in the air like he’s suddenly learned to speak Latin by studying a bunch of bugs. Even a purist needs to bring home a stringer of fish once in a while to release the inner-child.
When fishing from for Arkansas catfish in the Missouri River; keep the damn boat steady and well away from the bank tangles. The big catfish hole up in the middle of river, and the water moccasins hang in the brush. If I have to go over this one more time, we’re stopping the canoe and I’m coming back there to do it myself.
Wood ticks kill you slowly in the wilds of Douglas County. Death by bear and wolf goes a bit quicker. But wild blueberries…well, now…wild blueberries live on forever.
We spent long, summer days in the natural world, and we spent long, winter nights hunkered over a table by the space-heater in the basement, doing homework, sorting photographs and writing about what we saw. Stories and papers piled up, some of them good, some of them, not-so-much. Pencils were broken in anger, and it sometimes became so tense that we were forced to take breaks from our homework to play video games.
I’m going to miss those nights more than anything. I believe the most important lessons of all were learned from time spent together huddled over our work. I learned from my son not to toss used fishing hooks on the floor and not to snap fountain pens in half like I did with the pencils. Ink stains and barbs are equally difficult to get out of the carpet, the only difference being that the ink stains are easier to avoid stepping on. I also learned not to throw the expensive controller at the television when the video games didn’t go my way, but I really don’t have time to go into that now.
I have a graduation to go to. I’m having a hard time getting ready.
John Luthens is a freelance writer from Grafton, Wisconsin. His son, Tyler, has worked closely with him throughout High School as a photographer and sounding board for many of his stories.