I snuck away from the pool with my fishing rod tucked under one arm and a tackle box in the other.
After a week of hauling overstuffed beach bags, making three different lunches because apparently no one in my family can agree on a sandwich, and keeping everyone entertained, this was my hour.
My chance to be alone.
I quickly power walked away from my family before someone could ask, “Mom where are you going?”
I’m tired. A bit burnt out. Always everything to everyone. I go to the dock to escape responsibilities, clear my mind, and remember who I am as an individual.
I walked up to the dock and noticed there were no cars there. I felt my smile widen. A perfect sign that I’d found solitude.
I walked up and saw an older man sitting at the picnic table with a fishing rod resting beside him. I’d be lying if I said my first thought wasn’t, “Ugh, I have to share this space. I have to share my quiet. I have to make small talk.” I was tired of giving pieces of myself to everyone except me. I wanted time with the version of myself I rarely got access to.
There was part of me that considered turning around and finding a different spot. But that meant risking my family spotting me first and pulling me back into referee duty.
I walked up to the picnic table, smiled, and said hello. He was well into his mid-80s. He wore two knee braces, an American flag hat, sunglasses, and was slowly rolling a cigar.
I set down my tackle box and started casting. Within minutes, he felt a tug. He reeled in a panfish with a grin.
“You ought to try live bait,” he said, eyeing the lure I’d tied on. “I’ve got some worms if you want.”
I laughed and said, “I’m terrified of worms.” I launched into an overexplanation about how I couldn’t even look at them without feeling physically ill. He inspected me for a minute and then belly laughed. “Bring your rod on over.”
I walked to the picnic table, and together we sat on the bench while he carefully threaded a worm onto my hook. He looked at me and said, “We’re going to get you a fish.”
It was in that moment I realized I wasn’t going to spend the rest of the afternoon alone. I was going to spend it with Jim.
As we talked, he looked out toward the massive lake. I couldn’t see exactly where he was looking because his dark sunglasses covered his eyes. “My family’s all out on the boat,” he said. “I don’t go out much anymore.”
I smiled and shared that it seemed we had both escaped our families that afternoon.
We made small talk about the lake and the different fish that we’ve caught and lost. I joked with him that he probably wanted to fish in peace, but now he was stuck with a Chatty Cathy. He laughed and said there’s nothing he loves more than telling stories.
We continued to chat about the small stuff — where’s your house? How long have you been here? — and he shared that he was, and still is, a farmer. He farms fields of cabbage and other fresh vegetables. He shared that life on the farm is a bit harder now that his wife passed away two months ago from congestive heart failure.
Her last few years were spent on oxygen and frequent hospital trips. Two weeks before he lost her, his family was preparing to celebrate their sixtieth wedding anniversary.
But instead, he had to call everyone and share that he didn’t think she was going to make it to the party.
And she didn’t.
Instead of celebrating sixty years together, he was busy planning her funeral.
He shared that everyone still came, and they had the most beautiful celebration of life. Exactly what she would’ve wanted.
He said to me,
“I miss her every single minute of every single day since I’ve lost her.”
My heart sank. It took me a minute to respond. Then I asked the only question that felt right: “So tell me how you met.”
He shared the story of her growing up on the farm next to him. He said he used to sit behind her on the bus and pull her curly hair in elementary school. Finally, he gained the courage to ask her if she’d go get a milkshake with him. The rest was history.
He shared that, if it were up to her, she would’ve had twelve kids. However, the doctor cut her short after she had five back-to-back. He is both a proud grandfather and great-grandfather.
We took a pause as I felt a tug on my rod. He coached me through it as I jerked the rod up and reeled in what felt like a cat that fell in a bathtub. Surprisingly enough, it was a bullhead catfish.
We continued talking as he grabbed a blue microfiber towel to grip the irritated fish. He showed me where the venomous parts were, and I ducked down close to him as he used pliers to remove the hook. He could sense my nerves and assured me the fish would be okay.
He shared that he also has a daughter who couldn’t hurt a fly. He said he could see how much I loved and feared fishing. He grabbed another worm from his cup and hooked it on accordion style.
My next question was, “Sixty years is impressive. What’s your best advice for the rest of us?”
He said, “I know it may sound cliché, but it’s true. Never go to bed mad.” He said to kiss, make up, and move on. Let every day be a fresh start to move forward. He followed with, “You never know what the next day may bring.”
It made me think about all the times I’ve done exactly that. Times I’ve gone to bed angry with my husband, let the frustration sit overnight, and woken up unsure of how to find our way back to each other.
His second piece of advice was to retire early if you can. His biggest regret was waiting until 78 to retire from his business, which he eventually passed down to his sons. He shared that at 85, after losing his wife, he wished he had taken more time to travel and live life together at a slower, more beautiful pace.
I thought about the conversations I’ve had with my husband — me dreaming about retiring early, him reminding me to plan responsibly.
The difference is, right now, I have the luxury of tomorrow.
Jim was sitting across from me in grief knowing that there are moments he can never get back.
As the afternoon went on, the conversation wandered into the deeper stories of our lives. I shared our family’s story and my husband’s service. We talked about raising kids, working full time, and the hard parts of life. He shared that he was a Vietnam War vet, and I told him how much respect I had for him.
He said being drafted was a part of his life he hated to talk about.
“I don’t like talking about ‘Nam. I had no business being there. I was a farm boy. I didn’t wanna fight.”
He shared that the only things that got him through Vietnam were marijuana and warm beer.
But I had a feeling he wanted someone to listen. So I did. He told me about basic training, where they went down the line asking what everyone knew how to do.
“Anybody have medical experience?”
A few hands went up.
“Anybody know how to handle a gun?”
More hands.
He laughed as he remembered sitting there thinking, What the hell am I going to contribute here?
Then came the question that changed everything.
“Anybody ever drive a tractor?”
His hand shot into the air.
We both burst out laughing.
Except when he got to Vietnam, he wasn’t driving a tractor anymore. He was driving a bulldozer, clearing miles of jungle around roads, trails, and military bases so there were fewer places for the enemy to hide.
He shook his head. And then he repeated what he had said earlier,
“I was just a farm boy,” he said. “I had no business being there.”
He had complicated feelings about his time there. He was grateful he didn’t suffer from PTSD like many of his friends, but he didn’t want to revisit those memories.
The conversation paused perfectly when yet another tug came on my line. I reeled in a beautiful perch. After each fish I catch, I like to take a picture of it. So millennial of me, but there’s something about documenting each one of these accomplishments. I asked him if his kids do this, and he said not his kids, but his grandkids.
I asked Jim if we could take a picture together, considering it was “our fish.” He told me absolutely not — it was my fish — but of course he’d take a picture with me. He laughed and said his kids would get a real kick out of these pictures.
I heard a golf cart zoom into the lot.
“Mom!”
I looked up and saw my kids and my husband pop out. They saw the fish and came running over. I introduced everyone to Jim and referred to him as our new uncle. He laughed.
He went to add another worm to my hook, but I stopped him. I remembered he had mentioned he hadn’t eaten lunch yet, and it was already 3:00 p.m.
“I think it’s time for you to go take care of yourself and grab a bite to eat,” I said.
He nodded and packed up.
I told him that I hoped our paths crossed again, and he agreed. I watched him slowly walk back to his car.
Two knee braces. An American flag hat. Sunglasses. Fishing rod in hand.
Earlier that afternoon, I had walked onto that dock disappointed that someone else was sitting on "my" spot. I wanted quiet. I wanted an hour where nobody needed anything from me.
Instead, I found Jim.
And to my surprise, the thing I thought was interrupting my solitude filled my cup in the most beautiful way.
I came looking for alone time, an empty dock. I left holding the stories of an 85-year-old farmer, Vietnam vet, fisherman, husband, father, grandfather, great-grandfather, and storyteller.
He reminded me to slow down. To listen. To notice the stories that are sitting right beside me.
Because the stories are everywhere if we’re willing to stay long enough to hear them.
Thanks for being here. I hope you find your own unexpected dock conversation soon.
And next week, we’ll get back to some fun fashion content. I live in waves of multitudes.
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Jfc another tearjerker on substack this morning!!!! This was so lovely, Traci. Thank you for sharing.
You’re so good at making me cry, Traci. This was beautiful. I’m just like you, and I probably would’ve sighed inside if I’d found someone else sitting in my quiet spot. But this is a great reminder that it’s sometimes the people you find there that are the ones who teach you something meaningful.