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Death is more universal than life; everyone dies but not everyone lives. - A. Sachs
 Golden October ended and the soft browns and greys of November waited. The few remaining leaves maintained the quiet dignity of elders, their dry crackling voices softened by the night's steady rain. Soon the land would be dusted white, like the temples of a man who'd stepped beyond his youth. In a short time, a quiet mantle of snow would begin to fall, covering the aged year with a peaceful silence.
Perhaps it's the time of year that makes it so hard for me to focus, I thought to myself as I struggled with writing the last verse of a poem. I was alternately enveloped in cold damp clouds of melancholy, or comforting mists of nostalgia, and one seemed to lead ultimately to the other. I'd been at my desk for what seemed like forever, and the final lines and their meanings drifted in and out my mind, eluding capture like lightening bugs on a summer's evening.
I heard footsteps on the stairs; two sets of them always made the identification more difficult, but I knew long before they appeared in the window, that they belonged to Jake and Jamie, They seem so much older. I realized, turning in my chair to watch them walk through the door of the studio.
"I've been avoiding this for a long time." Jakob said to his little sister. "I don't think I could have done this on my own."
"It's so sad about dad," she said. "I can't believe he's gone... especially when I'm standing here in the studio."
Today's image is an oil painting titled, "Last Goose of the Season". It's a painting about one of those evenings when I almost didn't make it back to home.
My kids had grown up with the idea that having a studio to hang out in was normal, and as they became older and started to visit with their friends, they thought it odd that no one else had a one. When their friends spent the night at our home they always asked to sleep there, on the floor, in front of the wood stove, surrounded by drawings, easels, canvases, and books. The place had become an important element in their lives.
"It's been such a long time since I've been here." Jake said. "It kind of freaks me out, because it feels like he's still here."
I smiled and wanted to scruff his hair and touch her face.
"There's still so much of him in this place," Jamie said. "I can almost hear Trois Gymnopedies playing in the background. Do you remember how he used to listen to them over and over while he painted or wrote his essays?"
"Do you remember when he painted that?" Jake said, nodding to a small oil of a little brook trout, nestled in the palm of my hand. The trick had been to paint it so it looked wet and reflective... alive and ready to be released. "It was just after Tommy was born."
"Look!" She said. "Remember this rock? Dad told you that it was a dinosaur egg, and you took it to school for show-and-tell. You told all of the other kids that it was a real dinosaur egg."
"They all laughed at me." he said. "And, later that night, when I asked dad about it... if it was true, he just laughed and asked. "Who are you going to believe? A bunch of little kids, or me?"
"Look at all of these photographs." Jamie said, walking right past me to the wall. "Look at how young he was in this one... it must have been taken in Argentina."
"You're so little in this one," he said, laughing. "You must have been just five years old."
"And you were seven, and that was on the Kinni. Do you remember?"
It was your first time fly fishing. I said. If you don't count sitting on my shoulders while I waded the Brule.
"Yeah... I remember." he said. "That's my fish you're holding up from the end of the rod!"
"I was only five... I didn't even have waders! I remember that you fell in the mud and dad got mad."
I wasn't that mad. I said. Well... not really. Did I act mad?
"I remember the time we went up to Trout Camp for the spring opener, and the waders that he gave me had holes in them." Jake added. "I was so wet and cold that I wanted to cry. I tried to tell him that they leaked, but he didn't believe me."
I should have checked them. I said. I should have believed you... I'm so sorry.
"Look at this one." Jamie said, touching the glass of a framed photograph. Her finger left a trail in the dust. "Do you remember Luke?"
Luke of the North. I said, almost choking. I'll never forget the day that we had to put him down, and we all went to the vet together to be with him.
You little guys were so brave that day, I said. To be with Luke when he left us.
"Dad never even cried." My daughter said. "I can't believe he didn't cry."
"Me neither." Said Jake.
I cried plenty of times... when you couldn't see me. I said. And I still do; every morning when I go out to sit with him and have coffee.
"Remember the song we used to sing to Luke?" And, she began to sing, "Luke, Luke, Luke of the North. He came out of the west, and took a left, and he became'..."
"Luke of the North!" Jake and I joined in at the finish. "I miss dad." He said.
"Me too." She sighed. "Especially when I hear geese calling. I wish it hadn't of happened the way it did. He must have been scared."
It wasn't so bad. I said. I have plenty of friends who've have gone out in worse ways.
"Yeah..." Jake said. "It's hard to imagine him being scared and alone at the end. At least he was doing something he loved."
That's what I mean. I continued. I was doing something that I loved, and I was only cold and afraid for a little while. Once I understood that it was inevitable, the cold made it easier. Dying's not so difficult for the one who's going... it's always worse for those that are left behind. The hardest part of it all, for me, was knowing how badly Lisa, Tommy, and you guys would feel. I wish that I could have been with you to make it easier.
"I know what you mean... but it's still sad."
"It's interesting," Jake said walking over to the corner, by the window, where all of my bamboo rods are stacked. He picked one out of the bunch, and began unscrewing the cap. "I never thought that he could be gone. I mean... I thought that he'd always be here. I always thought of myself as his son... now that he's gone I have to be just me... just me... alone. Sometimes, that's scary."
I'm still here, Jake. I said, I'll always be here... whenever you hear the wild geese call.
"Remember this?" He said, picking one of the aluminum tubes from the corner and handing it to his sister. "The Payne... I don't think he ever fished it."
"You should." She said. "You should take it and fish it. He'd want you to."
Fish the hell out of it! I added.
"Remember this?" She said, pulling a book from the stacks of them on the shelves. "This was his last book. Do you remember the inscription?"
Jake set the rod down, took the book from his sister, opened it to the dedication, and read. "Every day is a precious gift. This book is dedicated to my children who..."
Remind me to celebrate life. I said, finishing his sentence for him.
"What do we do with all of this stuff?" Jamie asked, "All of these relics."
"I think that we should just leave it all the way it is for a while. It'd be a shame to change anything just yet." Jake said, as he slipped the 'dinosaur-egg' into his pocket. I smiled to know he wanted it.
"We should go down to the house." Jamie said. "Tommy will be home from piano lessons soon and Lisa will have dinner ready. Hey, what's this? It looks like he was working on something before he went out on the marsh that last evening."
I still need to finish it. I said. But, the ending just won't come to me.
Jamie began...
Summer Fields
I miss my summer fields
Wet dawns, sultry mornings
And windy afternoons
I miss those summer fields
And how they smelled to a boy
With dirty elbows and knees
Listening to a cricket's air
Summer fields
Of cut winter wheat
And bobwhite's song
Drifting over golden hills
Summer treasures
Collected in pockets
Full
And a sun burnt nose
I paint those times
To recapture
Or perhaps relive
"That's all there is." She said. "He didn't finish the last verse."
I turned to the window in that instant and saw Tommy, our daughter, walking down the driveway, home from her piano lesson. Jake bounded down the stairs and caught her up in his arms.
"Tommmmmy!" He said, twirling her around as he'd done a thousand times since I'd died "How was your day?"
"Jaaaakeee!" she squealed, completing their ritual.
But, before she could answer, Jamie had her seated in her lap on the back porch stairs. "What did you learn today, Tommy?" she asked.
"Something that mom picked out for me," my youngest daughter answered. "Barefoot Dancers", by Erik Satie.
I smiled and finished my last verse...
My children's laughter
On their way to summer fields
Bob White ©2008  About the Author... Bob White is a tremendous artist and talented writer. Bob guided in Southwest Alaska and has nearly two decades of experience there as a fishing and wing shooting guide. He also guided sportsmen in Argentina for a decade, and continues to host fly fishing and wing shooting trips to Patagonia, Alaska, Kamchatka and other destinations.
His photography and art are easily found in many prominet publications, including Fly Rod & Reel Magazine, Gray's Sporting Journal, and Gun Dog Magazine.Bob also owns Whitefish Studio where you can find today's featured art, as well as many other beautiful works. Please browse around at whitefishstudio.com.
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