Pop's Perch
Richard Tyler McGrath, 33° Elect
7093 Covebrook Lane, Mechanicsville, Virginia 23116–4833

A grandson fondly remembers a final fishing episode with his beloved grandfather and Masonic Brother.

It was a holiday weekend, and I was going fishing with my grandfather, Richard Harlan McGrath, lovingly known as "Pop" by all who knew him. Pop had been my fishing buddy since I was just a little boy. He had signed my petition to become a Mason, and we had shared many memorable times together. Excited by the prospect of having some quality time with him, I arrived a little early to pick him up from the Masonic Home of Virginia.

As usual, Pop was ready and asked why I hadn't come earlier. "The big ones eat early you know," he said with a wry smile. I grinned, grabbed his gear, and said, "Let's not keep 'em waiting then, old boy," and off we went.

The sun was rising as we loaded the boat and started out for what turned out to be a gorgeous day of fishing. That's not to say that we caught a lot of fish (we didn't), but every fisherman knows that there is no such thing as a bad day fishing.

Pop was in the front of the small "john boat," seated in a large oak chair that I had brought so that he would be comfortable. He had threatened to bring his walker in case I asked him to get out of the boat for catching all of the fish, but we had left it at the dock, preferring to have space for the minnows and the fish we hoped to catch.

I couldn't help but notice that everyone we met smiled when they saw my grandfather seated in the front of the boat on his throne, with his baseball cap on backwards and his white hair flowing from underneath. How proud I was to be with my grandfather, my fishing buddy, and my Masonic Brother.

As I alluded earlier, the going was slow, and Pop was not having his most productive day catching fish. When the shadows had started to grow long on the water and the bait bucket was almost empty, I noticed Pop eyeing a spot where a log had fallen in the water. Then he turned to me and said, "Tyler, that spot over there looks like it should have a big old largemouth bass," so I pulled up the anchor and slowly motored to where he was pointing.

I cut the engine off early and let the boat glide silently for the last 40 yards so that the fish wouldn't hear us coming. Realizing why I was doing that, Pop said, slightly under his breath, "at least you learned something I've been trying to teach you all these many years."

Pop's minnow was still on the hook in the minnow bucket as the boat came to a stop. I flipped it out and, before I could pick up my own rod, Pop cast his minnow next to the fallen log. I watched in amazement as the bobber went directly under the water without staying afloat for even a second. I could see the bobber under the water racing back to my end of the boat. Pop, with a gleam of determination in his eye and a smile on his face, was leaning over and turning to the side to keep his eye on the bobber. I could tell from the length of time that he was allowing the fish to run with the bait before setting the hook that he definitely was not going to let this one get away.

Just as I saw his muscles tense to set the hook, the whole world seemed to rock and shake. When I was able to focus my eyes, both hands on the side of the wildly rocking boat, I saw that Pop was gone! All I could see were the legs of the oak chair pointed up out of the water, the tails of his cardigan sweater rising slightly from underneath the chair, and a stream of bubbles around them both.

I rolled over the side and out of the boat in the blink of an eye. Fortunately, we were close to shore. As I came up, I was within reach of the chair, and I pushed it aside to grab at the sweater. Up came Pop out of the water, and he still had his rod in his hand! His eyeglasses were on the very tip of his nose, water was pouring out of his hearing aid, and he was spitting water fast enough to make a fire hose proud.

Realizing he was 90 years old and wore nitroglycerin patches on his chest for a reason, I suddenly faced the grim prospect that I might be in the process of losing my beloved Pop. I knew he would prefer to go in just this way, but I wasn't ready to lose him yet.

After putting his hands on the side of the boat, I grabbed his rod and asked if he was all right. Instead of answering my question, he looked me in the eye and asked me if the fish was still on the line! I knew right then that he was probably going to be fine, so I reeled in the fish. What a fish it was! I had never seen so large a ring perch in my life. "Put that thing in the boat and get me out of here!" Pop exclaimed.

After putting the fish and the chair in the boat, I slowly pulled Pop and the boat over to the shore. I noticed that even though there was less water near the shore, there was no more of us above the water. The mud was so deep that I couldn't get Pop in the boat. I led him out to deeper water and gave him a life vest to put on. "Now you give me one of these," he said.

After securing him in the vest, I told him to take both hands and grab the metal loop attached to the front of the boat. "What are you doing?" he asked. "Just hold on with both hands and you'll see!" I started the engine, put it in reverse, and proceeded to back the boat slowly the whole 100 yards to the dock. Pop never let go, but I'm glad the noise of the outboard motor prevented me from hearing what he was saying during that trip back to the dock.

By the time we were at the dock, Pop was shivering, and I was scared. He assured me that he was fine, so, after hoisting him up onto the dock by the back of his pants and sitting him on a bench, I started to unload the boat quickly and prepare to leave. When I was almost finished, I looked up to see what, at the time anyway, was a lovely sight. Pop was walking towards me on the pier, using his walker, wearing nothing but his underwear and his nitroglycerin patches!

Needless to say, the trip back to the Masonic Home didn't take very long. After getting Pop a robe out of his room and putting it on him on the sidewalk beside the truck, we walked slowly back to his room. I couldn't help but notice that several sets of blinds from the rooms along the way seemed to move ever so slightly as we approached. "Who's watching us from those rooms?" I asked. I was just a little surprised when Pop rattled off the names of several of the ladies who were residents at the Home. "I'll never live this down," he said with more than a hint of chagrin in his voice.

I left and went home after providing a full report to the nursing staff and after extracting strict promises from them that they would keep an eye on him during the night. Not that I needed to worry. I was certain that the several little ladies in the sitting room, empty just minutes before, who were looking at me from out of the corners of their eyes, were the same ladies who had spotted us coming in from the truck. No wonder he had rushed me off so quickly, I thought.

When the phone rang at nine the next morning, I had a sinking feeling in my stomach. When I answered the phone, it was Pop. Before I could ask him how he was doing, he told me he was going "down to the country" to see my aunt Edith and that he hoped I was well. With that, he hung up.

Postscript: Brother Richard Harlan McGrath, 32°, Valley of Richmond, Virginia, passed away on May 12, 2000, one week before his 98th birthday. Were he with us today, he would concur with John Buchanan, a Scottish author, who wrote over the bend of a fishing pole that "the charm of fishing is that it is the pursuit of what is elusive, but attainable, so it thus becomes a perpetual series of occasions for hope."