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Wishing My Father Well: A Memoir of Fathers, Sons and Fly-Fishing
An avid fly fisher shares his memoirs, beginning with the inspiration he felt while reading his late father's diary, through his efforts to learn about the sport, to his fly fishing adventures with his own son and second wife. 15,000 first printing.
160 pages, Hardcover
First published May 1, 2000
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Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews
April 12, 2017
I selected this book because I wanted to try a new genre and it seemed like an interesting read. Although it seemed like an interesting read it turned out to be pretty boring/bland. Essentially the story was about the narrator's father and his love for fishing. After his father's death the narrator begins to enjoy fishing even more and meet people and learn about his father through fishing. The good thing about this book, was that it was a down to earth pretty easy to follow story by what seems like a fairly average guy, which made it relatable. On the flip side, the book was pretty bland. It was very dry at times and for someone like myself who doesn't like fishing it was rather tough to get into at times. I would maybe recommend this book to someone who likes fishing or memoirs but other than that I probably wouldn't tell my friends about this one.
February 17, 2020
The times that my father took me fishing were rare. I really can’t blame him because, looking back, I didn’t appreciate those excursions with the intensity they deserved. Not until my own son came of fishing age did I remember the moments my father spent streamside with me with a new respect. And that was only recently.
A man of many capabilities, my father didn’t solicit his wisdom. He had to be approached to extract his knowledge; asked to exploit his direction. Fishing with him was like business, you set your goals and reached them or, failing that, beat yourself down trying to reach them. I was far less goal-oriented on those infrequent expeditions, often willing to abandon my rod in pursuit of crayfish, salamanders and rope swings.
Not until my father passed away last Forth of July did I realize that I had lost a valuable resource. Not only had an unparalleled father been extracted from my life, but a close friend who was constantly researching and gaining knowledge to share for the asking was gone. I had lost a living flyfishing reference.
A few days ago I turned to the last page of a definitive book on fathers and sons and flyfishing. Wishing My Father Well by William Plummer (Overlook Press, 2000) is a short read that echoes the relationship between my father and myself in some ways while offering solid distinctions that made me appreciate our unique relationship more than I had.
Penned by an editor of People magazine, Wishing My Father Well is often Hemingwayesque in its brevity. Plummer stylishly packs each sentence with emotions ranging from measures of regret toward his departed father to hopeful moments concerning his own dysfunctional family.
Flyfishing was the common bond between Plummer and his father, although the author didn’t come to the sport until he discovered his father’s fishing journal not long after his father’s funeral.
Wishing My Father Well follows Plummer’s chronological exploration of the diary, which becomes a sort of sacred map into his father’s life. A life that Plummer had not scratched the surface of while his father lived it. The diary provides the middle-aged son with glimpses into his old man’s boyhood, strengths, fallibles, fatherhood and fishing secrets. Along the journey, Plummer not only learns to flyfish and love it, but he extracts other crucial truths from his father’s clipped longhand that help him begin to repair a fractured relationship with his own son.
Not long after closing the cover on Wishing My Father Well I began keeping a fishing diary. I usually steer well clear of the sentimental side of flyfishing, avoiding clocks embedded in old reels and such, but the results Plummer achieved after discovering his Dad’s journal couldn’t help but make me recall my father and his goals.
My father didn’t just fish toward a goal but his life’s goals were periodically summed up on sheets of yellow legal paper and he often attempted to get me to do the same. I rarely did and don’t now. Even today, when I go fishing, my goal is more about relaxing than tricking a trout. Most of my life goals now concern my children who will, hopefully in the distant future, find a small book in the spare reel pocket of a tattered old vest and learn something about their old man that will help them.
Wishing My Father Well is a moving story littered with memorable musings (“The absence of pain is like the color white, which is not a color at all, but which, after a steady diet of black, can seem like a color. At least it can for a while.”) and happily cluttered with measured moments (“Mistakes are fees for learning.”). There are pools of dramatic, triumphant and witty moments in this short book that are worth discovering for yourself. And, like a good trout pool, if you don’t find them productive you’ll at least find them endearing.
A man of many capabilities, my father didn’t solicit his wisdom. He had to be approached to extract his knowledge; asked to exploit his direction. Fishing with him was like business, you set your goals and reached them or, failing that, beat yourself down trying to reach them. I was far less goal-oriented on those infrequent expeditions, often willing to abandon my rod in pursuit of crayfish, salamanders and rope swings.
Not until my father passed away last Forth of July did I realize that I had lost a valuable resource. Not only had an unparalleled father been extracted from my life, but a close friend who was constantly researching and gaining knowledge to share for the asking was gone. I had lost a living flyfishing reference.
A few days ago I turned to the last page of a definitive book on fathers and sons and flyfishing. Wishing My Father Well by William Plummer (Overlook Press, 2000) is a short read that echoes the relationship between my father and myself in some ways while offering solid distinctions that made me appreciate our unique relationship more than I had.
Penned by an editor of People magazine, Wishing My Father Well is often Hemingwayesque in its brevity. Plummer stylishly packs each sentence with emotions ranging from measures of regret toward his departed father to hopeful moments concerning his own dysfunctional family.
Flyfishing was the common bond between Plummer and his father, although the author didn’t come to the sport until he discovered his father’s fishing journal not long after his father’s funeral.
Wishing My Father Well follows Plummer’s chronological exploration of the diary, which becomes a sort of sacred map into his father’s life. A life that Plummer had not scratched the surface of while his father lived it. The diary provides the middle-aged son with glimpses into his old man’s boyhood, strengths, fallibles, fatherhood and fishing secrets. Along the journey, Plummer not only learns to flyfish and love it, but he extracts other crucial truths from his father’s clipped longhand that help him begin to repair a fractured relationship with his own son.
Not long after closing the cover on Wishing My Father Well I began keeping a fishing diary. I usually steer well clear of the sentimental side of flyfishing, avoiding clocks embedded in old reels and such, but the results Plummer achieved after discovering his Dad’s journal couldn’t help but make me recall my father and his goals.
My father didn’t just fish toward a goal but his life’s goals were periodically summed up on sheets of yellow legal paper and he often attempted to get me to do the same. I rarely did and don’t now. Even today, when I go fishing, my goal is more about relaxing than tricking a trout. Most of my life goals now concern my children who will, hopefully in the distant future, find a small book in the spare reel pocket of a tattered old vest and learn something about their old man that will help them.
Wishing My Father Well is a moving story littered with memorable musings (“The absence of pain is like the color white, which is not a color at all, but which, after a steady diet of black, can seem like a color. At least it can for a while.”) and happily cluttered with measured moments (“Mistakes are fees for learning.”). There are pools of dramatic, triumphant and witty moments in this short book that are worth discovering for yourself. And, like a good trout pool, if you don’t find them productive you’ll at least find them endearing.
January 18, 2008
When I read this book, I knew I was connecting with my own dead father. An inspiration.
Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews