My boss, Sporting Classics’ Editorial Director, Scott E. Mayer, had inquired about us going fishing on a Friday after work, a few weeks back. He added that we would be doing so at a pond located in the backyard of our Publisher, Duncan Grant. I humbly accepted. What a fruitful blessing.
“Whhooop!,” Scott exhaled alertly, his forearms and torso whipping in backward motion. Just as quick as something hit the tip of his line, we heard his hook whiz between both of our heads. Landing in the water on the opposite side of the boat.
“Damn,” Scott suspired, “that’s two.” And just as quick as the line and hook darted between our heads, we saw the line tighten from beneath the surface of the water.
“He still on there?!,” Scott inquired.
“Can’t be,” I said, somewhat bewildered, “between the two of us, one would have seen him in the air.”
“He’s still on there!,” Scott exclaimed. “How the hell did we not see him?”
“We may be dumb, but we’re not blind,” I said.
Scott reeled in the nothin’ to write home about (but fruitful enough for Sporting Classics Daily) bass. He removed the hook from its mouth and threw all of its – maybe – three pounds back into the pond. Perhaps the reason we didn’t see it fly through was due to hardly being anything there to see.
I’m no sportsman yet but, I sure did appreciate the company and experience Scott provided. The place Duncan provided. The day God provided.
My boss, Sporting Classics’ Editorial Director, Scott E. Mayer, had inquired about us going fishing on a Friday after work, a few weeks back. He added that we would be doing so on at a pond located in the backyard of our Publisher, Duncan Grant; we’d be using his boat. I humbly accepted.
Our initial plans were aborted after some heavy rain passed through mid-week. Set our sights on the next Friday. Weather pending.
The next week came and went. Friday arrived. Clear skies. 84 degrees — a subtle breeze. Faint augurs of autumn in the trees.
“Well, I’m old,” Scott said, “so I have an excuse not seeing a fish come within kissing distance. You on the other hand….”
“It wasn’t on there,” I said. “Couldn’t have been. Think another hopped on the opportunity when your worm hit the water on the other side of the boat?”
“I dunno,” Scott said. “Pretty quick, but possible. Like I said, I’m old.”
We had been on the water for little over an hour when the phantom fish flew by our cheeks. Some bites. Couple catches. Nothing big.
It is here our flawed good intentions can be redeemed. There’s an orderly path that must be followed, it is ineluctable. There is a right way to tend your garden — and countless wrong ways that feel right.
Over the course of the little excursion there was something tugging at my thoughts. Couldn’t wrap any words around it. I knew I was experiencing some sort of — blessing, and my parents instilled in me to make explicit the lessons in, and of, my blessings. Understand, I’m not one who is under the impression that I have more blessings than any other. I don’t believe it’s a case of having more or less blessings. Everyone seems to have the same amount, just different blessings suited to different purposes; each of us imbued with idiosyncratic blessings serving some telos. When we use them vulgarly, they become less fruitful; vain misuse of our blessings results in those blessings suffering a diminished fecundity; like an old body incapable of what came so easily in the summer of youth, the ever-spring of the soul becomes imprisoned in a perpetually wintered corporeal form through misuse of God-given ability.
Doesn’t matter your age, if you’re utilizing your blessings inappropriately they experience a diminution of potency. Seems to be a rule of the human condition, decreed so due to its fallen state.
I’ve heard you’re a true sportsman when you surpass the four other stages: Shooting stage, Limiting-Out stage, Trophy stage, Method stage. The Sportsman stage is when the totality of experience is paramount; appreciation of the outdoors, the animals being hunted, the process of the hunt and the companionship of others. I’m no sportsman yet but, I sure did appreciate the company and experience Scott provided. The place Duncan provided. The day God provided. I got a taste of the total experience. Just took a little while to synthesize it all. Will be good to hone my blessings towards, and eventually within, such total immersion.
There’s this scene in The Godfather where Michael Corleone and his father, Vito, are sitting in the backyard garden. When the transition to the scene occurs, it cuts into their conversation mid-way. Vito is talking to Michael about the next meeting. Michael reveals that Vito is repeating himself, asking questions he already posed before the audience got to the scene. Michael inquires, “what’s the matter, Pop?” Vito replies, “I’m drinking more these days.” Marlon Brando, as Vito, subtly raises his eyebrow, studying his glass and then repeats, “Anyway, I’m drinking more.” He then says Michael cannot be careless. That men do not possess this luxury. “Women and children can afford to be careless, but not men,” Vito says. He then proceeds to tell Michael that whoever shows up to the next meeting is a traitor.
If you aim to contend with nature, or the nature of things, you better follow the rules.
I always wondered what this scene was about. It seemed strictly expository: father losing power, struggling to relinquish it; son obtaining power, struggling to command it. Came off as simply setting up the next scene. But years later I found myself watching the film again and it emerged in me what was actually happening: dawning on Vito was an understanding that wisdom cannot be transmitted, particularly to the young. It can only emerge in someone — for wisdom is, and of, the divine. Any attempt to transmit wisdom merely comes out as information. And information can be misused, misinterpreted or dismissed entirely. That’s what this whole scene is about. And after watching all three films you learn this is the crux of the entire trilogy. Vito is grokking that his entire life trying to fine-tune everything, organize the world (his profession being “organized crime”) has been a failure. The very son Vito invested all his intellectual and creative energy in to making sure he didn’t get absorbed in the family business of organizing crime is now the figurehead of criminal organization. If you aim to contend with nature, or the nature of things, you better follow the rules. All of Vito’s blessings were misused; thus, his world became steeped in irony.
This is what was tugging at my thoughts: Will old, for me, be a fruitful blessing or a misused one?
In Dante’s Inferno, the final ring of hell is for the betrayers; betrayers of God, the soul, divine order. It is not a place of fire and brimstone, but a place of ice. The reason for this is due to the wings of Satan as he eternally attempts to escape hell. Every flap contributes to the frigid atmosphere. Hell is the place where precisely the opposite of all of your good intentions manifest. There’s no redemption there, only your own impotent will sundered from God. Once you’re in it, no attempt to reconnect with God will be fruitful. Redemption is only achieved in this life. It is here our flawed good intentions can be redeemed. There’s an orderly path that must be followed, it is ineluctable.
There is a right way to tend your garden — and countless wrong ways that feel right. Vito is realizing that despite all his good intentions and codes of honor, all his fatherly providing merely paved a path to hell, or simply led him down one of the oh-so many paths headed to hades. He now watches his son go down the same path to perdition, and he can’t do anything to stop it. This is what happens when a man tries to play God the Father; hence the title of the series, The Godfather; Puzo (author of the books) and Coppola (director of the films) are, through a play on words, illustrating a bastardization of the term. Believing, and thus behaving, as though you can tweak the world into your submission is an endeavor doomed to fruitless tragedy. It’s no coincidence in the proceeding scene Vito dies in that very garden. What you sow you will certainly reap.
This is what was tugging at my thoughts: Will old, for me, be a fruitful blessing or a misused one?
While outlining this dispatch, our Book Editor, Chuck Wechsler, came to the door of my office and asked, somewhat diffidently, “why do people have to get old?” I laughed, thinking he was setting me up for a joke. Come to find he had just gotten off the phone with a dear friend who isn’t doing well. He was being sincere. Had I the presence of mind I could have told him what came to me mere moments after he walked out of the building, his shoulders a little more hunched than usual:
“So if we get to heaven, we can appreciate eternal youth.”
Whether it was the same fish or another seizing on an opportunity, there was more than just three pounds of some aquatic creature dangling on the end of that hook. Some little revelation of nature in waiting. A fruitful blessing, if I can see it.
Thank you, Sporting Classics readers for supporting us. Thank you, Duncan, for this publication and revealing the ingress to your garden — backyard and business. Thank you, Wayne, for the hospitality. Thank you, Scott, for the guidance. Thank you all for welcoming me on this little stretch where, however many years down the road they actually reside, heaven’s gates remain radiantly in sight; where the gate is the lodestar orienting my blessings most fruitfully.
In this collection of stories, John takes us along the creeks and rivers of his native Laurens Country, South Carolina to shoot mallards and wood ducks. He also tells of unusual yet successful methods of taking white-tailed bucks on his farm in Union County, South Carolina. We’ll Do It Tomorrow is more than a book of tales about hunting and fishing, these stories are about the joys and sorrows of life. They will linger in your heart and leave you wishing for more. Filled with 15 stories and 30 illustrations We’ll Do It Tomorrow is definitely a keeper. Buy Now
