Fish Mural

Most of the men in my family are or were avid fly fishermen. Before I knew how to write my name, or ride my bike, I knew the zing of a line flying out over the water, the ripples of the water on the clear glass surface after a fish jump, and the wriggle of the trout landing on the sand. Even though, I have a thousand memories of growing up on the riverbank, I never LOVED fishing. I loved my dad, so if he was going to the water, so was I. I loved sitting in the dirt arranging his tackle box. I’d spill out the jumble of lines, flies, spinners, baubles and hooks and put it all back in the box, nice and neat. I’d make designs in the river sand with a stick, or maybe rocks. Or I’d gather wild flowers or just sit on boulders and watch my dad wade in the water up to his waist, casting out, reeling in. I never got tired of going to the river.

The days after my parents’ death are a blur to me. I remember being in their house once while all the stuff was being prepped for the estate sale. I walked out the back door and saw my dad’s fishing gear leaned up against the back porch. I grabbed up the army green tackle box that had been a staple of my childhood and his ancient electric blue rod and headed straight to my car. I drove about a block and then pulled over because the tears made it impossible to drive. I opened the box once and it was just as messy as it always was, but instead of straightening it, I just shut the lid, keeping it just like my dad left it.

Probably because there was plenty of good fishing around town, we never fished downriver at all, so last year when I started riding my bike on the Pueblo river trail, I was surprised at all the fly fishing opportunities. It’s like a poem watching someone in the water, flicking the line over their head, drawing a trout up and out. I spent hours during the pandemic on that trail watching the fishing, and examining the old art left on the levee and under the bridges. My love of street art was born on the levee. As a child, every time we drove to the Valley, I’d lean up against the car window to take in as much of the paintings as I could. Maybe it was just graffiti, but to me it was art. It was bright and bold and told stories. That’s the kind of art I wanted to do, so it was sad for me to see it all gone.

In June, I took my first trip on the riverwalk since last fall and I noticed right away the new murals on the levee. When I got home, I got on the internet and noticed that there was a movement to repaint the levee. It’s not just spray painting names and logos this time though, there is an application process and a selection committee. My mind went to all my memories of Pueblo and so many involved my family. Like going up the University with my dad when he registered for class and got his books at the bookstore. Or driving out to Blende for tamales. Or stopping by for chili and beans and Sunday football at my cousins on the East side. I remember when my dad took my brother and me to City Park and we rode the rides until we were falling asleep on the merry go round. I wanted my painting to honor my family, but also be “Pueblo.” All the love and memories of growing up manifested into a sketch of a fisherman and a fish flying out of the water. The colors aren’t quite accurate, but more vibrant and joyful to celebrate the energy of the city. The committee accepted my design.

I start painting this weekend. It’s a huge honor for me. It will be the largest painting I have ever done by myself and thousands of people will see it. I’m not getting paid and the committee suggested doing some fundraising. At first, I was thinking I could probably figure out the expenses myself and I don’t like handouts. I do have some paint and brushes and some of the equipment to suspend me on the 40 degree incline over a rushing river, but I might need more paint and there is the travel and food and more than likely fifty things that I’m not thinking about yet, so I included a donate stripe. No pressure, just an opportunity to support my work.

I am sure my mother would have been proud, even if the river absolutely terrified her. My dad would have hung out, bringing me food wrapped up in tinfoil. Maybe he’d have taken his pole along and cast into the water, keeping one eye on me the whole time. But since my parents can’t be there, I’m hoping my friends and family will take in the art on the river and know that each piece has a story. I hope the stories last for years to come.