Father's Day to some is a bitter sweet day of remembrance. When your father is no longer around you would give anything for one more day.  I recall many fishing trips with my father as a child, most were on Dale Hollow Lake, but one in particular was a farm pond on a warm Sunday morning on father’s day before church. My father had hoped that together we could catch enough catfish, (or whisker fish as he called them) to have a fish fry for Sunday dinner.  The day has been relived in my mind many times since that early morning in June a Sunday and I will share with you now.      


   My father’s bait of choice for catfish was old stinky rotten chicken liver, and I have to admit that to this day I have never fished for cats with better bait.  On this particular morning the warm morning air made the liver even more disgusting than usual. I became ill after baiting the first hook. I didn’t want to say anything and spoil the time with my dad on father’s day, and I certainly did not want to appear to be weak in his eyes. So I held my breath and held in my breakfast each time I had to get the slimy liver out of the container to bait another hook.     


  It did not take long until we had harvested enough of the larger fiddlers (young catfish) to make a meal for the family to have a nice father’s day fish fry after church.  When we got home, my brothers and sister were just getting up and getting ready for church. Still feeling nauseous I thought that I too should get ready for church. Just as I headed off to my room, my dad said, “Before you get cleaned up, come help me fillet these fish then we’ll get ready.” 

   And with that he and I headed to the back yard. As the sharp Rapala fillet knife split the first catfish open, my mind or my stomach decided that was all I could take. Needless to say my breakfast decided to revisit me.  And my father looked over the top of his glasses and asked me if I was finished.  The he said, “Get in the house and get ready for church.”     

  By the time I was dressed I was running late and my father asked me if I was ready for church. I looked up at him and said, “…as ready as I will ever be.” He stopped right there and began a lecture of how I should always be ready for church, that he prayed that when I was his age I would have made the right choices and was prepared spiritually for eternity.  His “father’s day” sermon to me echoed in my mind for many years to come. However as a teenager, I took a different path and one that lead far away from his values, that is until just before my nineteenth birthday.     


 While fishing alone at sunrise one particular Sunday morning, my life changed. I cast out what seemed to be a million times without so much as a nibble. I heard the approaching cry of a bald eagle as his shadow covered me. He flew over me so close the wind from his wings chilled me to the bone, as the eagle spread his wings, opened his talons and snatched what appeared to be a three to four pound smallmouth bass from the water of Dale Hollow right before my eyes. 

  I broke in humility at that sight. Dropping to my knees and actually believed for the first time that there was someone out there that made all things, and they were in control. Fishing has always reminded me of that day, and how I changed. I also think of my father often on the water and how he did a great job helping me to set my priorities. There is nothing better than a father and his son (or daughter ) fishing together.


 My father left this world at the age of 74, and I was soon blessed with Donna's father, who was a great father-in-law, Tommy Mullins, who also passed away this year. Donna and her father were close, and with fathers day coming soon it has been a time of memories. He taught her well as an angler and as a good person. These two men influenced us in a way that neither of them ever realized. Not only in our fishing, but in how we live our life. I only hope that our children one day look back and realize that we did everything we could to help them prepare for life’s choices even in moments of weakness and trial. Things that they may never understand but were what was best for them. 



  Once I became a father, trying my best to teach my children right from wrong, I realized what a struggle my father, Billy Bilbrey, must have had with five children staggered in age as we were. My son Tony and daughter Carrie are both grown now and I am proud to say that both of them headed down the right path at early ages and I am proud of both of them more than they will ever know. Being a father is not an easy job, but worth every second of the struggle.  

Happy Fishing and Happy Father's Day!