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An old remedy calling for one-fifth to deal with a cold, forty-fifths would be more than enough to calm (or likely kill) the worst flu. But the count here is years of marriage and a family story. Please be seated.

Mother had a long-suffering way of saying, “Steve, we don’t go fishing anymore?” 

It was my suspicion the person speaking was why, a speculation kept to myself along with uneasy images of being stuck on the water with mother. Age 10, I could and did endure such tortures. Later in life the suggestion of brought impulses to run as if on fire. Run! 

But then, those two had fed, sheltered, clothed and put up with me, so maybe, as their 45th anniversary neared I could do something in recognition.

At the time between canoe guiding and Canadian MCC archaeological surveys I was familiar with numbers of small resorts where a dutiful child could reward his parents with a week-o’ fishing. Great idea, huh? 

I thought so, plus I had loose ends of a survey to tackle. Two birds with one rock was sufficient motive to book a week-long stay on a decent fishing lake where it happened my survey work could be finished. I felt the combination of selfish aim and generous gift was both nice and clever. 

‘N fact, having a cabin to return to instead of tent camping was an unaccustomed luxury, with the side effect of satisfying mother’s “fishing” complaint.

Whether you’d have thought a week at a fishing resort was a suitable 45th anniversary gift is beside the point of myself and the recipients buying in. As the week neared I increased suggesting we leave dad’s boat-motor-trailer to instead rent a resort boat. 

“Lot easier, Dad.” 

Child recommendations to parents start out with a steep grade to climb, especially when the parent has an incomprehensible affection for the boat and motor that had (in all my experience with it) brought only suffering. 

Dad’s outboard was made by West Bend, they of the excellent popcorn popper, which no way translated into boating pleasure. 

Dad’s firm praise of the finely engineered engine skipped details of a control system requiring delicate handling. But even if you did everything right the controls would decide you hadn’t and would put paid to further progress. 

In a shop, removing the cowling to restore the cables was a tricky, laborious job made ultra vexing bent over the back of a bobbing boat. 

Regardless, I was soundly outvoted on renting a resort boat.

As crows flew we were an hour flight from our target lake. As crows don’t do boat-motor-trailer flights, we had closer to a four-hour drive (washboard much of the way). 

Having Land Rovered the route many a time I bit tongue near to bleeding to keep from yelling “Told you to rent rather than tow!” 

My ire was no less after a busted strap and blown trailer tire. But OK. We got there. All was well. 

That is until dad decided to get a jump on the morrow by putting the boat in the water today. 

An excellent machinist, dad outdoors was a person trying to pick up marbles using chopsticks. So of course, ignoring my counsel to position on firm ground and back straight down, dad decided he’d take the Wagoneer and trailer on a wide arc on the pretty sand. 

Mechanical ability and woods savvy don’t necessarily meet, and certainly didn’t in my dad, whose great faith in Quad 4-Wheel made no difference to the sand bogging him down and making a hell-uv-a-mess. 

Called to our rescue, the resort owner said nothing derogatory. He’d seen it before and was prepared.

With the boat and Wagoneer sorted out, we were clear. So I thought. 

Stepping into our cabin changed that. Guess who it was fumed “There’s no bathroom.” 

Having deliberately secured a good location I smiled. 

“It’s one cabin down, mom. Lighted, heated, flush toilets like home.” 

Mother’s utter silence was new and proved lasting. 

Growing up I knew male anger as loud and vigorous. An uncle ordering “Get over here,” meant run! Female anger was read in weight and speed of tread (think Jurassic P, T-Rex, puddle). Profound silence was unknown. What did it mean? Unknown, but likely not good. Do the eggshell walk.

The following days’ time-to-go-fishing had its silence broken by “I’m not going.” Persuasion availed us not. She wasn’t budging. In the boat dad and I had the same thought, “What in hell am I doing here?” What kind of anniversary event was it where the anniversants were apart? “Should we keep anything?” “Don’t think so.” “Maybe if it’s big.” “Maybe.” 

Sitting in a boat with dad was OK, but not, as either of us saw it, much of an anniversary experience. Not knowing what awaited us (by which time I wished the T-Rex to break the silence) we returned cautiously empty-handed to a cabin heavy with cigarette smoke. Our absence, so it appeared, had been celebrated with solitary coffee drinking and championship smoking. Maybe tomorrow would be better. It wasn’t.

Each day the main break in the silence was “Go without me” or “I’m not going.” Who’d ever have thought a welcome break in the still would be complaint about the high cost of coffee at a remote resort? One lb. of Nabob at 9.90 Canadian. Caffeine was costly, as was the nicotine need of a silently brooding mother who smoked through her U.S. smokes and was suffering a Canadian alternative. (Horrible, indeed, if you ever went through it.) 

But no force would get mother into the boat. None. Nothing. “I’ll stay here,” and she did. Feeling traitorous having dad leave me to finish a site survey, I wasn’t surprised he was late retrieving me. The cables on the popcorn popper had kept him busy.

We departed gladly, the anniversary fishing trip never spoken of. Year of marriage 49 plus 9 months, dad died. I knew why and to this day think it a wise decision. Learned one thing. I was responsible for the effort, not the result.