The Writings of LaVarr B Webb

This is written in behalf of all old fishermen and fisherwomen who have lost their kids to geographical distances and a frenzied world.

This morning, about 4:30, I was out in never-never-land, half way between deep sleep and drowsy awareness. I dreamed I was fishing at Black Canyon, and my family was with me.

We had stayed up quite late the night before talking and visiting, so some of the adults, and many of the grandchildren were slow getting up, not wanting to crawl out of their sleeping bags and tents. However, I fried hot cakes, bacon, and eggs for all who could arouse themselves sufficiently to come to breakfast. When I was through cooking, I told everyone left in camp that I was going fishing. But, when I went to the bait box, the worms were all gone, and when I went looking for my fishing pole, I found that one of my grandsons had borrowed it.

So, I stood there, debating whether to go dig more worms, then borrow my wife's pole, and go fishing, or whether to just stay in camp and visit with the non-fishing members of the family.

Then I thought, "This is just a dream. In a dream, one doesn't have to go dig worms. The dreamer can just dream worms into existence, and one doesn't have to wait for a grandson to bring his pole back. The dreamer can dream the pole is available, leaning against the cab of the truck, or even in his own hand." Reality, "This is only a dream," brought me out of never-never-land, wide awake. The dream was over, but I didn't want it to be over.

This morning I put some records on the phonograph, songs from the 30s and 40s. Andy Williams sang "September Song." "September Song" is one of my favorites, but it makes me aware of the passing of time. It gives me a sense of urgency. My family doesn't sense that urgency. This last week, a son called from Farmington. (My wife and I live in St. George.) He only called to get the telephone number of another son living near Washington D.C. Another Son, living in Hooper, owing me a little money, sent me a check. Not even a note, just a check.

I went to the grocery store a few days ago, and met a friend who asked, "Did you see your son on TV?" I said, "No, my son never tells me when he is going to be on TV."

Then, my grandson, who is on a mission for his Church in Chile, sent me a Christmas card. I received it last week. The card was in Spanish. I couldn't read it. I had to go looking for an interpreter.

"September Song" finishes with:

"The days dwindle down,
"To a precious few.
"September,
"November,
"And these few precious days,
"I'll spend with you."

Fishing? Visiting? We hope so.

We old fishermen and fisherwomen hate to see the days come when we will only be able to fish with our families in our dreams. We know the days are dwindling down, but we hope these last days can be precious, even though few.

An old fisherman