Pappa Z Fishing at Creve Coeur Lake...

Oil on canvas. Copyright 2009 by Terry Ziegelman.

Dad loves fishing. Just always has. I think he wishes that I loved it as much as he does, but it just never caught on with me. He'd take us on fishing excursions at Family Weekends at Camp Sabra, Trout Lodge and a whole host of other retreats. Perhaps it was the whole worm thing. Having to precisely thread the hook under the skin of the worm, lengthwise while the helpless creature writhes in your hand isn't a fun time for me. It's far too easy for kids to give inanimate objects personalities. The stuffed toy with a separation anxiety; the lonely raindrop on the passenger window looking for his family that just headed south. A worm? Fuggedabout it.

Nonetheless, I have always found it an admirable trait for my father. After a lifetime of fitting shoes on restless, crying kids in his shoestore, fishing is about as Zen as it gets. Man and nature at it's most serene. Perhaps that's why I like painting outside. En plein air to be precise. It's my version of fishing. I get to enjoy the outdoors, glory in all that's before me, and hope that I can just capture a modicum of what I see and hopefully, feel. The search for the poetic in painting. That is my goal, but more realistically, I want to spend some quality time with my Dad.

I hope my Dad doesn't mind sharing that he has/had his share of health issues. You name it, yup, he's got it covered. He specializes in heart-related ailments, but has moonlighted with diabetes, arthritis, strokes, etc. He has passed enough kidney stones to design a nice bracelet. So coming in for the Jewish Holidays to spend some quality time with my parents this year was an easy choice for me.

As a kid, I used to watch the TV show, "In Search of". It was an addicting show, with Leonard Nemoy narrating every episode. There were always cool topics. In search of Noah's Ark, in search of the Garden of Eden, in search of life after death. The life after death episode, I remember, had patients discussing their eerie visions they had when they were close to death, and then miraculously, coming back to life. Each person saw something different, but many experienced a long tunnel, the inexplicable pull towards the light, and the sounds of long lost love ones in the distance.

A few years ago, my Dad was in the hospital and his heart stopped beating. He likes to describe it as being "clinically dead." Luckily, there were hospital personnel nearby to begin shocking him with paddles. Every time the electrical volt was administered to him, he thought he was being punched and took a swing at the doctors. I love the irony that the people that were saving his life had to duck away from his punches. I asked him if he had any visions when his heart stopped. Where there any tunnels? Any shadowy silhouettes with familiar voices? No, he said. Instead, he found himself on a small boat, drifting in the water, fishing pole in his hand. Behind him in the boat was some of his worldly belongings. In my mind, I like to add in some long reeds in the distance, the morning sun just starting to illuminate the low lying lake fog, and some random fish causing concentric circles in the otherwise placid water. As far as what the hereafter holds, that image is not so bad.

Tuesday was too beautiful a day to pass up. My last full day before flying back to Los Angeles. The sun was out, and the air was slightly crisp, especially by the lake. My Dad and I went out two days previously to Forest Park, but I made poor choices in my selection of composition for my painting. I intended to learn from my previous mistakes. Instead of simply having my Dad be in my painting, I wanted my painting to be about my father. Focal point and simple composition.

I had only just begun throwing some paint around on canvas when two gentleman appeared over my shoulder. My peripheral vision alerted me that these two strangers would be trouble. Frankly, they were too well dressed to be at a lake. Dress shirts and slacks, to walk around Creve Coeur Lake? I half expected them to be handing me the newest issue of the Watch Tower any minute now. Don't get me wrong, it could be worse, I always enjoyed the cover art on that periodical. Who knew that Jesus could be portrayed in so many ways?

"Mind if I take your photo," the Post Dispatch photographer asked.

This is always a loaded question, but let me say that if you ever want to take a photo of someone, this is the way to do it. Far too many times I have experienced someone taking a photo of me painting without asking. Very rude. However, at the beginning of a painting for me can be a tenuous time. All I ever want when I paint is to be absorbed in the moment, focus on what is before me, and paint. Someone snapping shots from all angles of me and my father is hard on the concentration. But how many times in your life does a reporter from the paper want to take your photo? Assuming, of course, that you are not involved in a major murder investigation or a reality TV show with multiple siblings...

"Sure. Feel free."

My Dad loves to brag about his kids. What father doesn't? This was where he really poured on the heat.
"Terry is a great painter. Well accomplished. He's also in the animation industry. Do you know Ice Age? He's done those. Horton Hear's a Who? Yup, that too. His latest is in the theaters now. Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs."

To my Dad's credit, he pretty much got most of the facts right. Close enough for government work anyway. He can be downright charming to strangers actually. I played the antisocial artist looking for some peace and quiet. After a few more random clicks on his digital camera, the two made their exit. My Dad and I laughed about the idea of how slow a news day it must be in St. Louis for us to be "picture-worthy as human interest", but experiencing an odd event together made the day even more special.

The fish were biting pretty well that day. My Dad had gotten quite a few nibbles on the two fishing poles he brought from home. He felt another nibble and jerked the pole, attempting to hook his prey, and it finally paid off. You can tell from the extreme bend of the pole, it was a big one too. Within no time, the fish had surfaced and was close to shore.

"Terry, come over here. Scoop this fish up with my net."

I stopped painting to enjoy the look on my Dad's face when he saw the size of the fish. It was a gar, at least two feet long, and flopping from side-to-side near the edge where the water met the shore. He handed me a net which looked better suited to scoop up goldfish or monarch butterflies, than this crazed fish. I don't know how many are familiar with the gar family of fish, but close-up I couldn't help but notice that they have long prehistoric muzzles with what appeared to be razor sharp teeth. Teeth that were too close to my hands for my liking. Trying to scoop up this fish with the inadequate net reminded me of videos I had seen of people trying to catch a greased pig. Tail first into the net didn't work because he was thrashing about too much, and headfirst didn't work because the the taut fishing line into his mouth was blocking my way. Not to mention that those teeth were getting still closer to my hands. Thankfully, the fishing line snapped around the time my Dad's laughter was reaching a crescendo. His laughter was joined with mine, at my own ineptitude with the fish.

"I paint Dad. I don't fish!" More accurately would have been, " I paint Dad, so I don't HAVE to fish!"

"That's ok, son. I wasn't going to keep it anyway." Whew.

I hope and pray that my father lives to be a hundred and twenty. He's just stubborn enough to do it too. Perhaps not so oddly, I find it reassuring that to my Dad, his idea of heaven is fishing. And when the day comes that I face the great hereafter, I can only hope that I find myself painting, while my father happily fishes. Now if I can only keep his boat from moving too much...