Publisher's Point Of View
Robert Allan Hooftallen

A day I can still recall was occupying my mind Wednesday morning during the weekday routine of venturing from the prairie of my home's shrinking safety into the growing social wilderness beyond.

I reached for the rearview mirror and wrenched it hard left and down and rolled my eyes toward its new position. My right eye and shoulder were reflected in that part of the mirror that was betrayed by its own positioning. And on the other side was beauty's envy; perfection in a beholder's eye.

His broad smile displayed his edgy beauty, giving way to his tiny, perfect teeth and exposing the shiny white scar tissue on his bottom lip, a healed gash from a nasty fall.

He sensed the intrusion into his back-seat-booster-seat world. The game was up. Dad wasn't magic. It was mirrors.

"I see you, too, daddy," he said, making it clear to me, intended or not, that he knew why I was moving the mirror.

My pretty-soon-to-be-three son was on his way to work with me. I felt like we should steal a day from our routines and spend some time together. He was up for it and I knew that those kinds of days get fewer with every one you don't take.

His presence was powerful on the 17-mile ride to this place. I asked if I could play music. I reached around and pinched his knee when he didn't answer my questions or respond to my comments. I was like a high school boy on his first date, trying like crazy to keep the attention of my passenger.

Instead, he watched the chopping shadows cast by the bare trees cut across the day the way railroad timbers flash under a train.

We traveled nearly due south and the sun's eastern position tormented his left eye. He cupped it with his little hand and complained that it was "shining him."

He thought he saw grass in the sky as we passed an evergreen stand.

I was miniature in this world around him and then the day I can still recall was again occupying my mind.

It was a warm, rainy morning sometime beyond the first of May. It was a week day and Dad had to nearly begged me to skip school to go fishing with him. I am ashamed to admit that. I was 16.

The details of the day I can still recall aren't before me in perfection, but the message of its fading memory are today.

Its story comes through in waves of imagery and metaphors, fleeting thoughts tied to timeless truths and popular proverbs.

I gave way to dad's prodding and went fishing.

He was particularly excited because of the conditions- slightly high, murky water in the stream; and warm, overcast weather- perfect for minnow fishermen.

The day I can still recall was far from ordinary.

Dad was an excited child. I was a preoccupied kid.

He was working to earn my undivided attention. And as we fished, he did. He'd roll a trout and then give the hole to me so I could catch it. I caught about 20 that day and it was a riot.

And before long, everything was quiet and I was only thinking about the fishing, not the puppy love and tomfoolery I had skipped out on.

The day I can still recall was 20 years ago and yet only three days ago.

Wednesday was a day Jacob won't recall, but that's okay. It was what it was meant to be- another block in the foundation of the relationship that he'll never forget.