Gaylon and Gordon Marty, ca. 1941. Photo by Viola Marty.
Uncle Gaylon and my dad loved to fish. Their dad and uncle loved to fish, and so did their mother. My theory is that Grampa and Gramma's marriage was decided on a row boat on a Minnesota lake, maybe on a rainy day because that's when farmers generally got to go fishing. This sunny photo was almost certainly taken on a holiday picnic and outing. Is it Rush Lake? I would love to know.
As he got older, Uncle's love of the outdoors only seemed to get stronger. It was fishing in particular that gave him joy. By the end of his life, his house contained several trophy fish.
I didn't end up to be much of a fisher. My idea of a good time is to sit in a boat and read a book while somebody else fishes.
On the day Uncle Gaylon left this world, I was coming home from a trip to Michigan on a Northwest flight routed around the north end of a storm. It was an unusual path, coming down out of the clouds south of Duluth. Beneath me I recognized Mille Lacs lake, then the adjoining twin lobes of Rush Lake. I picked out our farm and the winding trail of woods that marked the creek flowing out of it to the east. To the left of the plane was the St. Croix River. There was Goose Lake, and Fish Lake, and Horseshoe Lake—the first lake where I remember catching fish with Daddy and Uncle on an interminable overcast afternoon.
There I was, aloft in a red and white craft, its familiar markings that I first learned on trips to the airport with Uncle Gaylon and Auntie Lou, just to see planes take off and land. From his army days, he liked to keep up with the airplane models. Now I was doing as he'd taught me, traveling, flying. Looking down on our landscape of fields and forests and lakes.
It was perfect, that descent. As I returned to earth, his spirit soared.