An Ode to My Grandfather.

*My grandfather, Raymond Stejskal* (originally published in 2016, after his passing).

In the late 90’s, when Radiohead had released Ok Computer and Oasis was still a thing, I took a trip to Wisconsin’s Northwoods. The reason? Ten days of demolition work on my grandfather’s cabin. Our goal was to completely remove a bedroom, and board up the hole before a massive extension could be built. I was the first one into the project, just like I was the first grandson.

It was early fall, the sky azure, a light wind singing in the red pine along the shoreline. This was Wisconsin’s famous lake country, and Little St. German Lake was one of the stars. My grandfather had purchase the land long ago, a wise investment financially and for family unity. What better place to keep family close than a cabin on a lake?

My grandfather was perhaps the most handsome man I’ve ever known: broad shoulders, a powerful jaw line, and intense blue eyes. He stood tall even among the red pine and birch trees surrounding his cabin.

The work was not easy. We had to tear down walls stuffed with ancient fiberglass insulation, rip out plumbing, and make sure we weren’t littering the entire Northwoods in the process. The air quality in that bedroom was not good. Particles of who-knows-what filled the air, and we coughed and swore a lot.

I remember getting electrocuted by a drill with a chunck missing from the cord. I had to lay on the couch for a half hour to recover. My grandfather teased me, asked if he needed to call an ambulance.

That was his way.

“Get tough kid”, was his motto.

It wasn’t a bad one.

Amidst the endless demolition, cleanup, and configurations there were petty arguments. I told him we would’ve been done two days ago if we didn’t need to bag up and keep half the stuff we were destroying. But that was his system. And now, I have my system when it comes to writing. I understand him now more than ever.

My grandfather couldn’t cook for shit, and neither can I. I got that from him. I also got his shoulders and eyes. I was lucky.

We spent a lot of time at the tiny local grocery store, Camp’s Red Owl. I loved the place, loved the quaintness of downtown St. German. It always felt like home, a better high than anything you could get from drugs.

We spent our afternoon and evening breaks eating fried chicken, Cole slaw, and potato fries on the deck. We ate quietly as osprey and bald eagles ghosted silently above the red pine canopy. Sometimes, passerby’s on pontoon boats or fishing boats waved at us to and from the local resorts. But mostly, we kept to ourselves.

I didn’t always get along with my grandfather. He was a guy who liked to get things done, an alpha male in a world losing them. I got that from him, too. He didn’t care for my creative tinkering, and sometimes I didn’t care for his buy-the-book philosophy. But either way, we complemented each other.

My grandfather was a Korean War veteran, probably the thing he was most proud of other than my beautiful grandmother. And when they named Highway 51, the “Korean Veteran’s Memorial Highway”, he loved it.

Of all the people in my life, he probably had the biggest influence. He brought me to the Northwoods time and time again, instilling a hard core outdoor lifestyle that involved days spent on scenic lakes rather than sitting on a couch.

I was hooked, and eventually made my outdoor way from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan (where The Puller takes place) to Missoula, Montana. His leadership and direction was a massive influence on books like The Puller and The Invasive. This cannot be emphasized enough.

Besides his brilliant carpentry and metal-shaping skills, he was a master fisherman. I have yet to see someone as disciplined or as keen, and he taught me well. He was not a clumsy man. He taught me how to fly fish, even bought me expensive Sage rods to get me going. Even at the age of 21.

During those ten days, we did not fish. There was just too much work to be done. But when we finally boarded up the huge hole in the cabin and walked towards our cars to head back to Illinois, my grandfather stopped in the gravel drive and glanced back at what we’d just done:

“I changed my mind,” he said with a grin.

I busted out laughing, and we got into our cars and left the Northwoods.

My grandfather passed away on August 25th, 2016.

I heard the news while crossing Lookout Pass on the Montana/Idaho border. Below me swept thousands of acres of the Bitterroot National Forest. My girlfriend saw my face after I put the phone down, and took my hand. I drove for the next two hours to Missoula in complete silence. I could not breathe, my chest was tight and everything numb.

But I think my grandfather would be proud that I ended up in Montana, a place we often talked about fly fishing together….but never happened. However, many good things DID happen, and those are what I think about, of musky fishing expeditions in his 16 foot aluminum boat, outrunning storms like fools, of bailing out the boat, the pleasant smell of the Northwoods after a summer rain.

My grandfather was the kind of guy who kept and used a beat-up aluminum fishing boat for himself, and a new pontoon boat for everyone else. Shiny things didn’t mean all that much to him, after what he’d seen. He didn’t live beyond his means, he didn’t brag, he didn’t gossip or backstab.

He was a man.

When I was eleven, I was fishing in that same boat with him, staring down at lily pads in East Bay on Little. St. Germain Lake. I was buzzed on the delicious breakfast of pancakes, eggs, and bacon my grandmother had made in the cabin. So wired on syrup I’d fouled up my fishing line on my spinning rod. My grandfather, in that warm Wisconsin sun looked down at me and smiled. “You’ll learn,” he said.

I did, Grandpa.

Thank you.