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  • Writer's pictureClarke Wallace


It’s Father’s Day. I like to think of it as Sons’ Day. I have two

of them, Marc Patrick Wallace whose mother took him back

to England when he was two years old.

Then there’s Nathaniel Clarke Wallace IV. Imagine having

a handle like that! Then again we call him Nat. Others call him

Nathan. One mighty joy to behold.

He and I have camped a lot over the years. In Algonquin Park

in northern Ontario. I can see him, me looking back on it.

I’d wake having slept on the solid, hard ground. Sitting up took

a moment. Getting to my feet even longer.

I’d smell smoke from the campfire Nathaniel had already built.

Along with the sound of bacon and eggs sizzling over it in

the greased-up fry pan.

My son grinning at me. “Breakfast’s ready, Pop. Sunny side up.”

We had a green canvas-covered canoe. A beauty. We ‘d

bring along a third paddle should we lose one.

I like to think I taught him to fish.

As I remember it was Nathaniel who caught one fish

after another. Leaving me to drown worms on the end

of my hook.

Author’s comment: I miss those times. We still have the

the same canoe brought back to life over the years. I’d like

to think we’d go camping once more. Though I’m not sure

my knees wouldn’t object to it.

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