Barnwood Sign

Hurricane Fran took the roof off of the barn back in 1996. For days after that we wondered around our swampy property and the nearby area picking up debris. Because we had used the barn as a storage place, our belongings had become airborne and had subsequently been deposited over much of the countryside.

My dad and I drove the tractor down lane after lane searching for familiar objects. Unfortunately, our neighbors were doing the same thing; there was a regular beehive of slow moving rural traffic all around the county. Among the missing items was a collection of our fishing gear. I think Dad was upset about the missing tackle, but he never let on much.

My father was a military man, even after he retired from the service. Everything was in order around our house including the fishing gear. Over the old metal bench in the barn my dad had hung his favorite rods and reels; freshwater gear was separated from saltwater gear and so forth. Between the two sets of rods, hung an old sign; I think he bought it at an auction; but, nonetheless, it was a sign of his retirement pastime. He carved his initials in the corner of the old splintered wood. The only time the sign was moved from its lofty perch was when he headed for the river, and then he would hang the sign on the barn door. It simply read, “Gone Fishing.”

Near a local tree nursery we found several pieces of that old bench, including a couple of bent up fishing poles. But, we never found many whole pieces or the rest of our fishing equipment. My guess is, based on some semi scientific evidence—I knew from which direction the wind came—that most of our stuff ended up in the river.

Dad started getting sick not long after that, had a stroke, and kind of began a downward spiral. He would linger another six years until he joined Mama in the Lord’s kingdom.

Not long ago a cousin and I ventured into an antique store near where we live. As we were poking through the collection of dusty memorabilia I spotted an old “Gone Fishing” sign. No, it was not my father’s sign, though I originally though it might be. And when I asked the shopkeeper about the price, she quoted me a sum that would make my banker blush. It was, I suppose, an antique. I mentioned to her my interest in the fishing sign, and she suggested I check her storeroom—as she said, “There’s a lot of broken junk back there." Her late husband had picked up a bunch of stuff after hurricanes.

I pushed through cobwebs and though an old door into a room of chair legs and cracked benches. Leaning across a corner of the room was a slat of wood, the bottom of what was once a sign. It was full of worm holes, and white and bowed because of water damage. But, what caught my eye more than anything were the remains of carving in the corner of the piece. I carried the board to the front of the store. “How much?”

She looked at the weathered board, “You can have it; it’s just a broken board.”

I took it home and took a piece of old barn wood, then re-created and tacked the sign back together. Then painted above my dad’s initials, “Gone Fishing.” I took that sign to where my father rests today, and hung it over the corner of the stone.