JackRabbit Cafe: A River Runs Through It.

When New Year's Eve 1965 turned into New Year's Day 1966 at our house, we didn't celebrate.

My father had a heart attack and died. He was 49 years old.

I was six, and the memories I think I have may really just be sweet dreams.

All I think I recall is Jackie Gleason on a black and white TV, a small fish, saved in the freezer, and a dropped, broken jar of peanut butter that Dad cleaned up before Mom came home.

If those are real memories, they are sweet, indeed.

I turn 49 today, and I've thought about this day, this number, all my life.

When I was young, I'm sure I mocked it, with a punk's sense of invincibility. As it's approached, I've sometimes dared it, and now that it's here, I respect it.

I don't know enough about my father to write much about him, but I know just enough to know that if I work at it, I might be able to someday be as kind and as loving as I've been told he was. If I can grab just a little bit of that, I will forever thank my lucky stars.

He was a gentle man who loved his family, and felt most himself, I guess, when it was just between him and the trout. He was a fisherman--a solitary endeavor--and he kept journals about his days in those streams. He loved baseball, too, and I wish I'd have had the chance to throw him the side-arm screwball I threw when my arm was rubber, and I begged anybody to play pitch-and-catch with me, from sunrise to sunset.