Like the Prime Minister and Governor General I am delighted at the news of the royal birth. My first born was a son and I saw in him my father and myself. Becoming a parent is a shift. Concern for self becomes concern for family. What wouldn’t we do for our children?

I was reading some of the news coverage of the birth and was interested in the celebrations. There will be a 62 gun salute outside the Tower of London to mark the arrival. I couldn’t help but think of the thousands who died protecting the monarchy with a “one gun salute.” Those individuals don’t sell papers they merely gave their lives so we could have Freedom of the Press.

I was comforted to learn that all other parents and children who share the same birthday as the royal child will receive a commemorative penny in a pink or blue pouch. Isn’t that the royal way? Everyone else receives pennies while the royal pouch overflows with jewels.

I have no resentment to an innocent child but I don’t recognize his blood as any different. To my way of thinking each generation weakens this so called royal blood. If someone is indeed different; royal, each child they have is only half royal. This blood we pledge to, defend and pay for is only a slight fraction of whatever significance royal blood had in the beginning. If I lay with a poet my child does not burp a limerick.

I am on the edge of my seat waiting to learn this child’s name. I haven’t a clue if Dick sounds more royal than Don but with all the fuss what choice is there outside of Jesus?

You can honour or pledge to “what’s his name” or you can do the same for the guy with the scars on His hands. He can’t wave and he may not have even been handsome but He was important not for the blood in His veins but for the drops that touched the earth.

I usually fish alone and am quite adept at “landing” a fish in a canoe. I have few worries and many thoughts when I fish.

On Saturday evening I paddled to my favourite fishing hole on Lake Huron with one of my nieces. It is an oasis of boulders and rocks. It was nice to have a paddler in front to make short order of the journey. We anchored in waves that were at the upper edge of what I might normally expose myself to. My niece seemed unconcerned and I longed for some good fishing. I ran the paddle and anchor as we moved about the shoal having decent luck. I say luck because it was my inexperienced 11 year old niece who was landing fish. I lost one mid-fight which she countered with a 3 pound smallmouth. I netted it and placed it over the side on the stringer which was where my lure ended up after my beautiful bass tangled beneath the canoe. I don’t recall if it was when I had to strip most of my old tangled line from my reel or the third time I pierced a finger with a lure that I started to pray. I’m sure it wasn’t a curse as “shit” was “sugar” for the evening.

The next two fish were as big as or bigger than the first. They were both caught on “her” lure her father gave me. By ten o’clock at night it was reclaimed by that side of the family. The fish on the stringer were not only larger than many I catch but also more numerous than my individual catch limit. My niece is my new lucky lure and she paddles so I might take her out again. She might read this but if she doesn’t I will tell her it is only for the extra fish but I need her. That’s the beauty of family. We do better together.

I’m sitting here with a sore thumb from the hook it met but it’s good. It reminds me of the fun we had. I was more excited by any one of her fish than most I have landed myself. She was giddy in her success and sent the odd questionably humourous remark my way. I maybe shouldn’t have tormented her on the water. I was adamant that no one would see me point at any as being hers. (Note to niece…your uncle has more in his belly so in all honesty, who ended up with more fish?)

I caught one Bass on what were rough seas. Most of the weekend on Lake Huron was not a Bass fisherman’s dream. It’s interesting though the different ways it can be viewed. I could tell you the time I invested and on some level agree that it was a failure. I could look back on better days and it would explain why no pictures were taken. But if I was to ask the other fishermen in my midst they would exclaim at the wonder of my fish. If I took inventory of my canoe we could all be convinced of the victory.

I guess the ambiguity arises at the present location of said fish. It sits in a freezer waiting for enough company to be worthy of a family meal. Were it in our stomachs its merit would rise from the depths like its scaly form did.

Time and place can be most influential on pessimism and optimism.