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This is story #16 in Tammi Pitzen’s series of 30 stories from her 30 years working in child welfare.
You can read all the stories here.
This series is a reflection over a 30 plus year career in child abuse interventions. Some are stories that help to understand real life impacts of
that career and vicarious trauma. Some stories are just that. Stories of pivotal moments in that career that propelled me to continue the
work even when it seemed impossible.
If you’ve read this blog before, you know I was raised in the Deep South in a family that lived with very limited resources. I wouldn’t say we were poor, but money was often tight. My parents did a remarkable job protecting my siblings and me from those realities, and it wasn’t until adulthood, really only a few years ago, that I fully understood the financial challenges they navigated.
One reason I never felt deprived was because we were always busy, surrounded by family, and making memories. Looking back, many of my favorite childhood memories involve my dad.
The very best of them took place on Lake Vernon, where my dad and I spent countless hours together in a bass boat. Anyone who knows me today knows that I love to talk. That was true back then, too. In fact, I’m pretty sure my dad would tell you that I scared away every fish within a mile of us.
Those fishing trips started before sunrise and lasted all day. We packed peanut butter sandwiches for lunch and used worms or crickets for bait, though I never had to touch either one. My dad patiently baited my hook every single time. I had a light green fishing pole with a closed-face reel, and I was perfectly content to spend the day sitting on those hot vinyl seats, eating sandwiches and talking nonstop to my dad.
One trip stands out in particular. I was probably four years old, and somehow I caught more fish than my dad. I was thrilled and made sure everyone I met heard about it. My dad let me brag without correction. Looking back, I realize the reason I caught more fish was probably because my line spent a lot more time in the water than his did. He was too busy baiting hooks, untangling lines, and helping me cast again.
They taught me that, as long as I had a fishing pole—and could eventually bring myself to put worms on the hook—I would never go hungry. At the end of every trip, we brought home fish to cook. Maybe fishing was part of how my parents stretched the grocery budget. If it was, I never knew. I only knew it felt like an adventure.
I learned patience. Fishing taught me that not everything happens on my timeline. Sometimes you have to sit quietly and wait. Sometimes the answers come when you stop chasing them.
I learned that I didn’t always have to be in motion, making things happen. There is value in stillness. There is wisdom in waiting for the answers to come to you.
I learned that nature has a way of restoring the soul. To this day, when life feels overwhelming, I find myself drawn back to the same things that brought me peace as a child—the trees, the water, the sunshine, and the quiet.
This Father’s Day, I find myself especially grateful for those days on the lake and for a dad who gave me far more than fishing lessons. He taught me resilience, patience, gratitude, and the ability to find joy in simple things.
The fish were nice, but the lessons have lasted a lifetime.
And we recognize the profound impact your presence can have in the life of a child. The time, encouragement, and care you give help shape confident, resilient, and healthy young people.
And to my own dad—a special thank you for showing me what it means to show up for the children in your life. Your example taught me that being a parent is about more than biology; it’s about being present, invested, and willing to make a difference. I am grateful for the lessons, the memories, and the love you have given so freely.
Happy Father’s Day.
