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Mark Freeman Commentary Fishing trip with son best gift of all ASHLAND � The boy and his father sat quietly in a boat anchored a few yards away from a grove of willows half sunken into Emigrant Lake, their worms cast strategically into the bluegills� watery den. The willows were alive with feeding bluegill, one of which was about to turn the young boy into a fisherman. Our silence was broken by the four words few fathers hear their sons say. "Daddy," he said, "where�s my lipstick?" OK, so my son Ben doesn�t know the difference between LIP-stick and CHAP-stick just yet. Give him a break, I muttered to myself. He�s only 2 years old. But the lipstick slip doesn�t chap me nearly as much as Ben�s insistence that he use the little girl�s pink fishing rod he found hidden in the garage. I always pictured our first father-son fishing experience as something majestic, something right out of "A River Runs Through It." Instead, it was beginning to look a lot like "Tootsie." But even pink rods and talk of lipstick couldn�t shake the feeling that this Father�s Day would turn into one well worth remembering. I didn�t know what to expect, really, except that I always figured this would happen a bit later than a week shy of his third birthday. I always wanted this whole fish-with-Dad thing to be positive from the start, so I avoided this trip until I felt reasonably sure he would enjoy it. But he steadfastly and loudly has refused to wear his life jacket, and the rule is no fishing without the jacket. But I sensed he might be ready last Sunday to accept wearing the jacket without having a meltdown. My wife gently urged me to make this the day for a real father-son outing, leaving her and our 3-month-old daughter, Maggie, at home. By the way Ben�s face surged into a 50,000-watt smile when I asked him if he wanted to go, I knew it was time. As I hastily gathered rods and tackle and tossed them in the boat, Ben found the pink fishing rod that was meant one day for Maggie, not for him. But Ben found the pink rod intriguing. At times, it was a baseball bat, or a light saber, a harpoon or a shovel. So the pink rod, sans reel, ended up in the boat, and we drove toward Emigrant Lake in search of that elusive first fish. As we headed down Interstate 5, I couldn�t help but think of how my dad used to take me fishing when I was a kid, but that I never really fished with him. A college engineering professor, he had no interest in fishing and would sit and correct papers for hours just so I could drown worms in a city pond. I didn�t think about that very long. Every 500 feet or so, Ben would bellow nine more weird words among men in the angling world. "I want to use the pink fishing pole, Daddy,�� he said � and said and said. The real test came after we launched our boat off the lake�s muddy western shore � the donning of the life jacket. Kids� life jackets have a strap through the crotch, so it cinches up like some puffy thong. So Ben got thonged. Still, he just smiled. He was ready. As we made our way to the willows, Ben sat in the passenger seat, happily flailing the pink rod in the air. It was cute in a wear-mom�s-shoes-into-the-living-room way, so I didn�t tell him to stop. We anchored and started prospecting for bluegills. I�d take his rod and cast the worm. Ben would put down the pink light saber, take the rod from my hands and immediately reel it in proclaiming, "No fish, Daddy." With help from a bag of Doritos and that silly pink rod, he never completely lost interest nor demanded we go home after a half-hour of this exercise. Finally, his rod tip, the one loaded with the submerged worm, began to wiggle. Ben jammed a Dorito into his mouth, dropped the pink rod and grabbed the real one, which then doubled over. I helped him hold the handle, while he cranked the reel until he had winched the booty out of the willows and into the boat. Never did a scrawny bluegill mean so much to one person. Never did one seem so big and so important. Never did a simple fish spark a larger smile or a fuller heart than those five inches of fins and scales. And Ben was pretty excited, too. "I caught a fish, Daddy," he boomed across the lake. "I�m a good fisherman." I snapped his picture, then we unhooked the bluegill and together sent it finning back to the sunken trees. Ben jumped and clapped and waved his pink light saber in the sun, delighted at what he had accomplished but clueless as to what he had done. If anybody was watching, I�ll say it was the sun that made me squint so tightly. And those were thick beads of sweat dribbling down my cheeks. In that moment, I realized that Ben may grow up disinterested in my passion for fishing. He may prefer we spend Saturday mornings on soccer fields, in skateboard parks or at dance recitals. And all that would be OK. No matter how much parents want their kids to grow up loving and appreciating what they love and appreciate, all kids deserve a chance to be themselves. Even if it�s with chapstick or lipstick. He gave me the one Father�s Day I had always wanted. Future sunny Sundays will all be up to him. "I want to catch some more fishes, Daddy," he said. "Please?" "If you want to, we will, " I told him. "We will." (Staff writer Mark Freeman covers the outdoors for the Mail Tribune. 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