Baseball, Flyfishing, and the Piano

By John Pearson

In our family baseball, flyfishing, and the piano were not just activities we enjoyed frequently; they were life itself. Our lives were lived in them, through them and the trail they wove held our love, understanding of one another and our sense of trust in an unbreakable bond. Years later as time moved on and was in some ways unkind and our bond was tested, no storm of life, no trial, no error could ever weaken or cause us to turn away from one another. No matter the miles between us a phone call or a handwritten letter would bring us back to those yesterdays on the rivers and lakes, at the ballpark or sitting at the piano singing an old hymn or trying our best to sound like Frank Sinatra and Nat King Cole.
This is our family story and hopefully it will entertain and amuse you as you read but also, I hope that it will bring you to a state of reminisce and back to a bygone time that has slipped away into the abyss that is our modern culture.
 We all dream. We all hold to a memory that is fleeting in real time but slows to a crawl in our hearts and minds, clinging with weakened fingers that grasp in a vain hope that those memories can be rebuilt and lived once more as in our youth. 
 All is passing, nothing remains forever but what is in our hearts

• Language: English
• Publisher: New Harbor Press
• Release date: Jul 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223753346

Book preview

Baseball, Fly Fishing, and the Piano

Introduction:

Baseball, fly fishing and playing the piano are wonderful things. Rhythm, poetry, grace, and dexterity of not only the body but of the mind weave an intricate if somewhat confusing and inconsistent trail through all three of these art forms. The preparation, determination, hours of practice and patience to become adept at any of these endeavors, is alone, a feat equal to John Henry’s defeat of the amazing steam drill or Babe Ruth’s called shot. Both mythical and awe-inspiring, yet sewn with a thread of truth in the annals of American lore and legend.

In our family these three endeavors were not just activities we enjoyed frequently; they were life itself. Our lives were lived in them, through them and the trail they wove held our love, understanding of one another and our sense of trust in an unbreakable bond. Years later as time moved on and was in some ways unkind and our bond was tested, no storm of life, no trial, no error could ever weaken or cause us to turn away from one another. No matter the miles between us a phone call or a handwritten letter would bring us back to those yesterdays on the rivers and lakes, at the ballpark or sitting at the piano singing an old hymn or trying our best to sound like Frank Sinatra and Nat King Cole.

The peaceful quiet of the field after the game, the serene whisper of a stream chuckling over the rocks of the ancient bed, the soft tones of a gentle hand on the keys of an antique Boston made upright piano all speak in hushed tones of a quieter time, a requiem of solace and grace.

Nothing can ever replace the sound of a ball off a bat, the passing sight of a large trout rising to take a fly in the bright crisp colors of autumn and the light dance of the fingers on the keyboard as the snow falls and the carols fill the air above our heads.

So, the story I will tell is our family story and hopefully it will entertain and amuse you as you read but also, I hope that it will bring you to a state of reminisce and back to a bygone time that has slipped away into the abyss that is our modern culture.

We all dream. We all hold to a memory that is fleeting in real time but slows to a crawl in our hearts and minds, clinging with weakened fingers that grasp in a vain hope that those memories can be rebuilt and lived once more as in our youth.

All is passing, nothing remains forever but what is in our hearts.

Preface:

Alight, yet brisk breeze danced down the canyon, moving the leaves on the aspen trees and causing some to loosen themselves and begin their slow and erratic descent to the ground from which they sprang, thus joining their brothers, cloaked in golden and red colors that had already made the same journey. The breeze touched my cheek like a gentle kiss, but the coolness gave a small bite. I had found a pristine, crystal-clear pool that was preceded by a small fall of water, wrapping itself around a large granite boulder. Here in the deep bottom, the water almost stopped flowing and I could see the rocks and tell what color they were. The aspens overhung this hole, intermingled with the tall and spectacular lodge pole pine and blue spruce. Brown trout heaven if ever I had seen it. I had to fight down the urge to approach the spot and rush a cast. To scare the monster trout, I knew resided here would be a near tragedy, and hence would bring on jeers and catcalls from my two sons, who were nearby scouting their own honey holes.

I smiled as I took a deep breath and prepared a cast. I flipped my rod tip and stripped out some line. I brought my rod tip up and proceeded to work the dry-fly ten o’clock to two o’clock letting the fly glide over the water and gently come to rest. A couple of seconds and suddenly an explosion of sound and sight caused my heart to jump into my throat. The calm serenity of the pool’s surface was shattered by a golden behemoth. I set the fly firmly into the corner of the trout’s mouth and the epic battle began.

Chapter 1:  The Things That Matter

In our home, there were five days during the calendar year, which were special to us, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s Day, Easter, and the opening day of baseball season. We are a church attending family, so Christmas was, of course, especially important to our faith. Thanksgiving was a day of counting our blessings, watching football, and overeating. New Year’s Day was set aside to looking forward to and planning for a fresh fishing season and was a day to enjoy college football, the only sport that we held anywhere as close to our hearts as our favorite sport, baseball. Easter was, obviously, particularly important because Jesus’ death and resurrection gives us hope and forgiveness, which is the foundation of our faith. But Easter also meant the weather was beginning to warm and we would soon be hiking the high mountain streams and lakes looking for solitude, fresh air, and large, wild trout. On the opening day of the baseball season, I would miss work and allow my sons to miss school so that we could tune in the radio to listen to our heroes play on distant fields far to the east and on the west coast. Baseball and fishing were life to us, and these things were bound together with music, especially music that involved the piano.

Nothing sounded as good as Duke Ellington’s band, Dave Brubeck’s quartet or the ragtime classics of Scott Joplin. Throw in some honky-tonk and mix in the old hymns of my childhood and it was a simmering pot of musical stew that warmed us, fed us, made us smile and left feeling fulfilled. Many times, I remember walking the banks of a snowmelt fed high stream, near timberline, humming Amazing Grace and Nearer My God to Thee, basking in the beauty and untouched innocence of our Lord’s creation. Music was so dear to all of us. The hours spent around the piano while one of us strummed a guitar and another played the mandolin or autoharp were many. Coffee was always on for the adults and hot chocolate was there for the kids. Many times, our neighbors would spend the evening with us, or family would travel for miles around to our home to sing, fellowship and laugh together. Many were the times that my cousins and I spent reminiscing of our childhood and our innumerable adventures late into the night over coffee and cake or a homemade pie. These were magical times, memories to live forever in our hearts.

We lived in snow country, high in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado. The summers were pleasant. Not too hot but sunny and warm. Spring was windy and cold, and fall was beautiful, and the air was brisk, but the fishing was best when the trees started to change. Winter could be bitter, and temperatures would remain in the teens through the day and dip well below zero at night. Many nights I recall the temperature dipping as low as forty below zero. The winter months were spent indoors, and these were the evenings spent around the piano, in front of the fireplace, at the bench tying flies or telling stories and jokes and planning fishing excursions or trips to the ball field for batting and fielding practice.

We had a code that we as a family lived by: Never be late for church, dinner, or fishing. Respect others and they will respect you. You do not deserve respect or trust, you earn them. Take personal responsibility for your actions, do not lie or cheat others. Integrity is important, do not throw it away for personal gain. Do not discredit the family name. Respect your family, your elders, each other, your peers, fishing, baseball, music, the mountains, the church and last but certainly not least, respect and fear God.

God was the sun in our universe. All other aspects of life were the planets in that universe. All things rotated around our love for our savior and our knowledge that all we were and all we had were because of Him. Thus, God was the center of our lives.

We had two sons and no daughters and